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Make Some Noise … Listen to the Quiet

I went to a hockey game last night.  The London Knights (ages 16-20) were playing Niagara.  I didn’t handle it very well.  The announcer regularly yelled out “Make Some Noise”, accompanied by flashing red lights.  A noise meter calculated the crowd’s response.  Sigh.  I just didn’t want to.  Then there were the fights.  One time, a London player slugged a Niagara player so that he dropped to one knee.  Some unnecessary portion of the fan base squealed with delight.  I just didn’t want to.  And I shouldn’t omit the work of the referees.  The fellow beside me favoured section 113 with many calls to arms, such as “Hey, ref!  You suck.”  I truly didn’t want to join in.

I guess I’m a queer duck.  What I most enjoyed during the evening was singing “O Canada”, watching some sublime passing plays by the Knights, and walking through the concourse between periods, silently sending “I wish you well” messages to the people I saw.

As for the game, my zip was zapped.  Other times, I would stand up and cheer when the Knights scored.  Not last night.  And that could have been me dancing in the aisle during a stoppage in play.  Another evening, that is.  I just need quiet now, as I deal with Jody’s death.

And the quiet was today.  I went for a walk on the classic old golf course that’s around the corner from me.  It’s snowed a lot lately but I didn’t think that would be any big deal.  I was wearing my heavy boots.  I wanted to find my way to the back holes, the ones with tree-lined fairways far from the road.

I discovered that the snow was shin deep, and sometimes to my knees.  But amid all that I was surrounded by silence.  An occasional crow cawed.  The seagulls, however, flew over my head with nary a peep.  Yes please.  I talked to Jody when I stopped making footprints in the snow.  I stood and cried for my dear wife.  I sang her “Annie’s Song” and I almost made it all the way through.

The crunching continued and I started to poop out.  Looking through my sunglasses, I realized that I didn’t have very good depth perception out there.  If the drift ahead of me was climbing to the right, I couldn’t tell, and then suddenly I was knee deep in fatigue.  The seeing was complicated by my little friends the floaters, who sure move around my field of vision a lot.  And as I pulled my feet out of holes, I started worrying that if I fell down I might not be able to get up again.

As I rounded one corner on a fairway at the back of the course, I looked way ahead and saw a human being, sort of.  Actually it was a snowman.  It became a talisman for me … Get to the snowman.  And I did, minutes later, and quite heavy of foot.  I said hi and shook his little stick hand.  He was the only one around, and I was pretty sure he didn’t think I was crazy.  It was comforting to chat for a few minutes.  Then we said goodbye to each other and I plodded onward.

A long hill, complete with a few sections that touched my knees, had me thinking about mortality.  I had to stop every twenty steps or so to get my breath.  It reminded me of mountaineering movies I’ve seen where the climbers were making such slow and painful progress at high altitudes.  The St. Thomas Golf and Country Club is not exactly Everest, but I could relate.

I was exhausted, and Jody was there to help.  “You’re doing great, Bruce.  I’m proud of you.”  Thank you, my wife.  I plotted a route where I wouldn’t lose elevation as I aimed for the clubhouse parking lot.  Slow, slow, slow.  And then I saw some angels – footprints in the deep snow.  When I got to them, I noticed that the person’s boot size was pretty close to mine.  Yay.  And so I stumbled from hole to hole, thanking my newfound and currently absent friend for his or her generosity.

I made it.  Solid asphalt.  The winding road took me to the course entrance gate and back to civilization.  Thank you, Jodiette.  Thank you, the silence.  Thank you, winter wonderland.  You’re where I need to be.

Walking in Port

Port Stanley is a cute village on the shores of Lake Erie, about four kilometres south of where I live in Union.  It was time to do a bit of strolling.  Pretty cold with a fair wind sweeping across the lake.  But the sun shone bright all day!  Toque and mitts well placed, I set off from the downtown.

Gosh, it felt good to move the legs.  I’ve done so little of that since Jody died.  I wanted to walk the long cement pier on the west side of Kettle Creek.  The snow had drifted high, and footprints stumbled unevenly along the way.  The flecks of diamond were in every drift.  I crunched along, trying to stay in the human holes, but I was jostled this way and that.  And I loved it.    Actually putting out some physical effort.  Yes.  Where oh where had my body gone?  Well, I know the answer to that.

When I stopped in the sun to look across the harbour, all was silent.  Even the wind was quiet.  Coming towards me on the path was a tiny human.  I thought I saw a dog beside, but a minute of walking towards each other proved that to be a mirage.  This was the only person I had seen so far … and I had an apparently strange thought.  “Make a contribution to his life, Bruce.”  When we reached each other, we both stopped and smiled.  And talked for five minutes – about the sketchy footing, the sun on our faces, the beauty of Port Stanley, and his home, Port Dover.  Just ordinary chat, but I knew that the contribution was made, in both directions.

When I got a clear view of the lake, I saw that the ice was all tumbled up, especially at the horizon.  Four little specks of humanity were way out there, frolicking on the white sculptures.  Now the wind was blasting hard.  Although I had thoughts of an heroic shoreline amble, my face turned itself onto a street that parallels the beach, where buildings would protect me from the breeze.  Ahh.  Heat those bones, Mr. Sun!

I walked by GT’s on the Beach, a roadhouse with a large patio facing the water.  Jody and I had sat on that patio many times over the years, watching the seagulls, watching the volleyball players, watching each other.  I was stopped by my sorrow.  A tree overhung the table where we often sat.  And Jody spoke.  “Yes, Bruce, I am this tree too, and I want you to sit under it again come the summer, hopefully with friends.  I’ll be there too, husband.”  I’m sure you will, my dear wife.  I’ll do as you ask.

At the end of the street was a dipsy doodle path that wound between tiny cottages before emerging onto another road, one with grand old homes.  And on I went.  After climbing an asphalt hill and turning right, I came upon a back alley that Jody and I had often enjoyed.  Some backyards faced me, and some front ones, as the alley led me on within the wonders of silence.  A wooded hill to my right showed me patterns of sun and shadow among the trees, where Jody welcomed me over and over again.

Eventually I emerged from my reverie into the moving cars of downtown.  Cold it was, which suggested the need for hot chocolate.  So I sat in a café as my hostess melted chocolate and added whipped cream and cinnamon.  What a worthy conclusion to an afternoon out in the world.

Silence, crunchy snow, wind in my face, sun in my soul.   I liked them all.

Shimmering Humans

Jade, Andy and Cole
Claude and Denise
Hieu and Rick
Kelsey and Michelle
Fulya and Katie
Zach, Kristi and Alexa
Dorelys, Aldinai and Jumi
Alberto
Daniel
Kendra and Matt
Dan
Loriane
Juan Carlos and Patricia
Savia
Crystyna and Nadia
Richard
Keija and Laures
Michaela, Kylie and Julie
Pierre and Helene
Nadia, Pascal, Alison and William
Pola, Andrei, Nancy and Madelaine
Marija and Devin
Helen and John
Barb and Arden
Ian and Tabitha
Liz, Luc, Amy, Angel, Tristan, Kaden, Chantale and Joanne
John
Sammy and Amanda
Kendra
Pilar and Sylvia
Louise and Rejeanne
Josh
Colette and Paul

These are folks I met in Cuba in December.  I was looking through random pieces of paper today, and I came across this list.  It sat on my hotel room desk for the whole two weeks.  Every day I’d add the names of people I talked to.  Good conversations all.

A few of these fine men, women and children are crystal clear in my mind right now.  Most are not.  I can’t remember their faces.  I can’t remember what they said.  But I can remember how very happy I was when I was with them.  We made contact.  We laughed.  A few grieved with me about Jody.  And now they’re gone, as I am gone for them.

I remember you down deep, dear ones.  Go well in the world.  Smile at someone else now.

Circle of Feet

At Jody’s Celebration of Life on Saturday, I had a lovely image projected on the screen as people came in, and throughout the ceremony.  Maybe twenty African boys, just about naked, were sitting on the ground in a circle, with their feet touching.  A whole bunch of brown soles ringed the grassy centre.  A friend of mine said that she’d seen the photo before.  Yesterday, she e-mailed me the story behind the picture.

An anthropologist proposed a game to the kids in an African tribe.  He put a basket full of fruit near a tree and told the kids that whoever got there first won the sweet fruits. When he told them to run, they all took each other’s hands and ran together, then sat together enjoying their treats.  When he asked them why they had run like that, as one could have had all the fruit for himself, they said: “UBUNTU, how can one of us be happy if all the other ones are sad?”  UBUNTU in Xhosa culture means “I am because we are”.

And so I am.  Saturday was certainly a celebration of Jody’s life, but just as much it shone a light on our shared humanity.  Retired people, young kids, pretty women, handsome men, ordinary-looking folks, outgoing humans, shy humans, husbands and wives, fathers and daughters … smiling, crying, laughing, joining in song, nodding in agreement as someone talked about Jody.  All of it.  All of us.  To be celebrated.

Jody lives.  She’s with me right now.  And she’s entered the bloodstream of many folks, reminding them of love and fun and kindness, so that they can take their loved ones’ hands and run towards the shared prize.

Let’s keep doing that, shall we?

Celebrating, Ending and Celebrating Again

Dear companions on the journey,

I’m feeling sad.  I’m feeling nostalgic.  I’m feeling thankful.

For those of you who have been reading my e-mails about Jody since November, 2013, this will be the last message you’ll receive.  It’s time to bring this particular written journey to a close.  The love I have for my dear wife will never end.  It grows every day, and so, it seems, do my tears.  Jody wants me to smile and show the world my true colours.  I’m trying to do that.  But it’s hard.  I love my wife quadruple oodles.

At last count, my e-mails are going out to 322 addresses.  Thank you for being here with Jody and me.  Thank you for praying for us, sending us love, sending us positive thoughts … whatever you have been doing.  I’m clear that your love allowed Jodiette to spend her last seven months at home – enjoying our home, enjoying her garden, enjoying little trips here and there, and enjoying me.

With the completion of today’s e-mail, I now turn towards Jodiette: My Lovely Wife, the book I’m writing about my dear one.  I hope that the folks at Blurb, a self-publishing website, will be a big help as I navigate the unknown waters of content and design.  The book will mostly be a compilation of all those e-mails, plus some posts I created about Jody on my website, as well as a little section I’m calling “My Surprising Wife”.

The goal is to have Jody’s book in my hands by April.  When it’s ready, I’ll send you one brief e-mail, asking you to respond if you’d like a copy.  I’m giving it to whomever wants it.  It’s a love story, you know.

Many of you reading these words are not among the 322.  You’ve been reading posts on my website – brucearcherkerr.com.  If some of you e-mail recipients would like to continue hearing what I have to say, tune in there.  I love writing, and except for periods of meditation retreats, I intend to put fingertips to keys every second day or so.

***

I loved Saturday.  About eighty of us were at the Bellamere Winery to celebrate Jody’s life.  Folks came from near and far, with the far including Collingwood, Brantford and Toronto.  Lots of smiles and lots of tears.  Many wonderful people came to the front of the room and spoke – Jody’s teenage friend and maid of honour, co-workers and friends from Parkwood Hospital, family members of fellow cancer patients at Victoria Hospital, my colleagues.  Marvelous.  One woman told the group “I don’t know what to say, but I want to say something.”  Lovely.

One friend from Parkwood said that she loved watching Jody and me leave the hospital at the end of the day, holding hands.  A friend from Victoria Hospital, a single mom, mentioned that someday she hopes to have the quality of love that Jody and I share.  May it be so.  Someone told us how Jody glowed when she talked about me.  And then there were her funky clothes, including all those pastel pants.  Oh, my wife.  How you are loved!

I shared some of the great words that have flowed from my wife’s lips:

Jody:  Where are we going, Bruce?

Bruce:  Disney World!

Jody:  No, Bruce, we’re going to Playa del Carmen, Mexico.

***

Stop, Bruce!  We’re here.  (The Pantages Theatre on Yonge St. in Toronto, the site of “Phantom of the Opera”)

***

Brucio, Brucio. Wherefore are thou, Brucio?  (at an open house in Lethbridge, as Jody looked down at me from the second floor)

***

I talked about how Jody dressed up in a sparkly black top and a funky green hat for my retirement speech last May.  She wasn’t strong enough to go to the London Convention Centre but she followed all the action via Skype.  Jody was so proud of me.  I talked about the bread that Jody baked me every Christmas, and how last September she coached one of our personal support workers in how to make it, sensing that she wouldn’t be alive in December.  I made copies of the recipe (in Jody’s handwriting) for the guests at Bellamere.  Many were thrilled to receive it and will no doubt pass on Jody’s love to their family.

Love moved in all directions on Saturday.  Our friend Neal stayed with our friend Carole as she waited and waited in her wheelchair to be picked up by a transportation service after the celebration.  I told the folks about Etienne, the husband of one of the speakers, who rode with me towards the end of a cycling trip when I was exhausted, making sure I got home safe.  I saw the love coming from a dad to his daughter, also in a wheelchair, and the returning gladness in her eyes.  And then there were all those who reached for a Kleenex during our time together.

Music!  There was lots of it.  Here are few of my favourite lines, aimed so dearly at you, Jodiette:

Free in the Harbour:  They broach and they spout and they lift their flukes out.

True Colors:  (From Jody to us)  If this world makes you crazy and you’ve taken all you can bear, you call me up because you know I’ll be there.

For You:  Just to know that you’re never really far away …  Just to know that you’re here in my heart to stay.

Annie’s Song:  Let me always be with you.  Come let me love you.  Come love me again.

The Irish Blessing:  And until we meet again, may God hold you in the palm of His hand.

In the Arms of an Angel:  Fly away from here … from this dark cold hotel room …  You’re in the arms of an angel.  May you find some comfort here.

Jody helped me sing Annie’s Song to the group.  When I couldn’t go on halfway through the second verse, the people facing me starting singing.  Strengthened by my wife’s love, and theirs, I began to sing again.  I invited the audience to sing the last verse with me.  They did.  Thank you all.

During the YouTube videos and the DVDs,  I’d often lift my eyes from the screen and look at the photo of my lovely wife on the mantel.  Such love in Jody’s eyes.  Before the ceremony, I had been fiddling with the placement of the photo, trying to reduce the glare coming from the track lights.  But I couldn’t get rid of it.  After Jody’s celebration was complete, I looked again, and saw a little whitish spot in the middle of my wife’s lips.  And I smiled.  Every night before getting into bed, I stand in front of Jodiette, moisten the tip of my right index finger, and press it to her lips.  A kiss that stays.

Finally, folks came up to give me a hug as they got ready to leave.  They had lovely things to say:  “Thank you for sharing Jody with us.”  Of course.  Diamonds need to be seen.  “Thank you for showing us such a vivid love today.”  You’re very welcome.  Pass it on.  And in the guest book:  “Honour Jody with your life now.”  Yes, I will.  “We love how you honour Jody’s memory with your stories.”  Thank you.  “Celebrating an everlasting love”  Indeed it is.  “Celebrating life”  All of us.

On a table, I had placed a number of objects that were important to Jody and me.  And I put out a little sign:  “Please touch and open.”  As I was packing up, I looked at that sign, and thought of us touching the people in our world, opening our hearts to them.  It’s what Jody wants us to do.

I also looked at a book of Jody’s I had put on the table:  Your Happy Healthy Pet: Cavalier King Charles Spaniel.  She had so much wanted to get a dog when she retired.  It wasn’t to be.  But an image came flooding into my head …  Jody running in the meadow with her doggie, laughing with her canine friend.  “Are you with your doggie, Jodiette?”  “I am, Bruce.”

I didn’t want to go home.  I wanted to be with human beings.  So I drove to the Byron Library and plunked myself down in a cozy chair, near a few newspaper readers.  I looked through a wall of windows, to trees near and far.  And thought of Jodiette:  “I am all trees, Bruce.  I welcome you everywhere.”

I read my book a bit but Jody wanted to talk, and so did I.  She let me go first.

“I love you, my dear wife.  There was so much love in the room, Jodiette.  People laughed.  People smiled.  People cried.  You touched them.  I touched them.  We touched them.  It was good.”

Jody’s turn:

“Thank you, Bruce, for such a lovely day.  All those people who love me and love you.  And so many people were brave enough to speak!  I saw it all, Bruce.  Thank you for making it happen.  Thank you for loving me so very much.”

You’re welcome, my dear.  You deserve great kindness.

I still wasn’t ready to go home so I headed to the Cineplex Odeon Cinema to see “Selma”.  First I went to their lounge and had a key lime smoothie and nachos.  Yum.  In the theatre, I moved over so that two fellows could sit together.  The guy next to me was so thankful.  We talked about kindness until Martin Luther King appeared on the screen.  After the film, we stayed in our seats while the others got up to leave.  We talked about King and Gandhi and JFK.  As they stood, we shook hands.  And the gentleman who had been two chairs away from me said, “Take care of the ones you love.”

Yes

Muddled

Jody’s Celebration of Life is on Saturday, two days from now.  And my brain is messed up.  I still cry for Jody every day.  That’s a blessing for me, not a mess at all.  It’s all the other stuff that intrudes.

I want lots of people to come.  But I have no control over that.  It could be 50.  It could be 200.  I’m trying to let go of the numbers.  I know what’s true is that there will be a lot of love in the room.  That’s what’s important.  Love for Jody.  Love for me.  Love for the loved ones of the loved ones attending.  It’s going to be a Celebration of Life … Jody’s life, of course, but also of life itself.  What a precious gift we’ve been given to be on this planet, to contribute to the lives of others.

I want to laugh a lot on Saturday.  I have some funny stories about my lovely wife and I hope that I’m rolling in the aisles as I listen to her friends talk about Jody’s smile and fun spirit.  But I will cry too.  And I worry about crying all the way through the ceremony as I gaze out at Jody’s friends and think of her.  Then I worry about not crying at all, of suppressing myself, both the joy and the sorrow, as I wallow in the stress of the day.  But there doesn’t need to be stress.  How about if I let things unfold exactly as they do, and trust that our time together will be good for our souls?  Yes, that’s a good idea.

I’m playing four songs for Jody – two YouTube videos and two from DVDs.  I played them at my darling’s funeral too, and struggled with the technology.  What if that happens again?  Well, at the funeral, people were wonderfully understanding of my imperfections.  Nice folks will be coming on Saturday too.  We’re all in this together.

There was a fifth song in November, and it will also appear this Saturday … me singing “Annie’s Song”.  Back then, I only got a line or two into it before my sorrow ground me to a halt.  Friends and family picked up the tune and sang it for me.  It’s okay, Bruce, if the words won’t come again.  The choir will respond.

I think about the food that will be available after Jody’s celebration.  I had to order enough for 150 to get the room.  If only 50 people show up, health regulations would prevent me from donating the excess to the Men’s Mission downtown.  If there are 200 guests, there won’t be much for each person to eat.

Oh, what a tangled web I weave!  Let it all go, Bruce.  As the Desiderata said, “The universe is unfolding as it should.”  Let it do its dance on Saturday.

I’ll let you know early next week how the moments blessed us all.

Fifty Years After – Part 2

As Cam and I wandered the halls of Lawrence Park, looking at the photos of former classmates on the walls, we came across five girls sitting on the floor.  They all smiled when I said hi, which was lovely.  “We went here fifty years ago.”  Shock and, I think, curiosity.  “Do you still have school dances in the gym?”  Yes, a few.  I proceeded to tell them the ritual of the day:  girls sitting on one side of the gym, boys on the other.  I would walk across the floor, ask a girl to dance, and usually she would say no.  So … there I was, plodding back to the boys’ side, with everybody in the room knowing what had just happened.  Owwie.

The girls seemed to hang on every word.  I then launched into the topic of acne, since my young face had been covered with it.  Smiles of recognition.  And friendly goodbyes as we moved on.

We walked into the auditorium, where I’d attended countless assemblies, and performed in many concerts.  I was floating in my memories when I decided to turn around and face the back of the hall.  There on the wall were the missing plaques.  Under 1967, I was indeed there, resplendent in yellow calligraphy.  I just stared.  Who was this young man?  How much of him is with me now?  Lots.

I wanted to see the orchestra room, where I had practiced the cello for the five years of high school.  Being an orchestra member, playing concerts featuring symphonies from famous composers, had helped me rise above my acne and become a fuller human being.  There was a Vocal class going on as Cam and I passed the open door so we decided to come back at the end of the period

As the old kids were filing out, we walked into a room which was the site of one of the most traumatic moments of my life.  The Vocal teacher (also the orchestra and band teacher) welcomed us, and after hearing our story, invited us to listen to a few songs from the new group of students.  Sounded good to us.

I asked the gentleman if I could say a few words to the kids.  Of course.  I told them of our presence here fifty years ago.  I also told them about November 22, 1963.  It was ten minutes into our morning Grade 10 String class.  We were tuned up and ready to go, but our teacher, Miss Kuzmich, was nowhere to be found.  How strange.

In 2015, I pointed to the door and said, “Suddenly, that door smashed open and Miss Kuzmich fell through the opening, tears pouring down her cheeks.  ‘Kennedy’s been shot!’  And the shock raced through the String room.  I was immobile.  Terrified.  No body parts worked.  It was a moment that will never leave me.  At lunchtime, I raced home to watch TV with my mom, and found out that the president was dead.”

The kids listened and, I believe, gulped.  They too were silent.

We heard two lovely songs from the group.  So skilled.  So expressive.  We applauded.  Then I asked the teacher if I could sing a song.  Seems to me that Cam’s face dropped a bit right then.  But what the heck.  Time to sing.  Was it “Imagine” by John Lennon that flowed from my mouth?  How about a little opera from Verdi?  Naw … it was “Give a cheer for the good old gold and blue.”  The students smiled.

Just before we left the room, I said,  “Lawrence has meant a lot to me.  Fifty years from now, I hope that you look back on your days at LPCI with joy, that you reminisce about how your time here contributed to your life.”  We all waved goodbye.

It was a precious day in the hallways of my youth.  Thanks, young Bruce, for being there.  Thanks, young classmates, for giving me so much.  Thanks, young teens of 2015, for listening.

 

Fifty Years After – Part 1

Cam and I went to visit Lawrence Park Collegiate Institute in Toronto yesterday … our high school.  I had dropped in once as an adult, probably twenty years ago, but that had been a very brief peek at what had been.  Yesterday was the full meal deal.

After parking, we could have gone in the main entrance or the one by the auditorium.  Since as a teenager I was never allowed enter the school by the main one, I decided that as an adult I would stay consistent.  Besides, I used to hang out by the auditorium, sitting on a low wall next to the lawn.  In 2015, a wheelchair ramp was right up against the wall, making it impossible to sit in my spot.  Sigh.

As we walked inside, I looked at the left wall in the foyer for the many plaques which had featured the names of Lawrence award winners over the decades.  I was especially looking for one certain plaque from 1967 which included “Bruce Kerr” in yellow calligraphy on dark brown wood.  But the wall was blank.  Double sigh.  “No!  They can’t have gotten rid of us.  It’s my history.”

Cam and I slouched down the hallway to the office, where we explained our ancient status and asked permission to look around.  The secretary was most obliging and gave us guest badges to wear around our necks.  Before leaving the office, I did what any normal person would have done – I sang Lawrence’s school song:

Give a cheer for the good old gold and blue
Our sons will be always strong and true
We’ll go in fighting and get a victory
Our foes we’ll soon subdue
For Lawrence is going out to win
We’ll fight through our foes through thick and thin
Give a cheer for the team that’s out to win that game
And make that cheer a victory cry
Let’s go – we won’t stop until it’s victory
For the gang at LPCI

Victory, victory is our cry
V-I-C-T-O-R-Y
Are we champions?  Well, I guess
Can we beat ’em?  Yes, yes, yes!

Two secretaries smiled big time.  They told me that most of those words had been scrapped a long time ago.  Politically incorrect, you know.  Guess it was hard to fit in “Our sons and daughters will be always strong and true”.  Plus “fighting”, “subdue” and “fight through our foes” were just a mite too violent.  So today’s kids don’t know the song.  Triple sigh.

So began three hours of exploring our youth in the halls and classrooms of Lawrence Park.  The best was yet to come.

Only Birds and Deer Need Apply

I’m visiting my friends Cam and Ann in Richmond Hill, north of Toronto.  Although most of the town seems to be dominated by huge, tall homes that fill nearly all of the lot, I’m sitting in an oasis of peace.  Cam and Ann live in a small house that’s 150 years old.  It’s part of a huge property that her uncle used to own.  He’s donated a small lake, with its surrounding wooded slopes, to the Province of Ontario, with one stipulation: no people will be allowed in this newly created conservation area.  Uncle holds the vision of a sanctuary for wildlife, untroubled by the purposeful activities of mankind.  Ann and other family members will be allowed to walk on the land until they move away from the property.  When they’re gone, no human beings will touch this earth … forever.

Yesterday afternoon, we went walking into another world.  On the shoreline, we watched an owl fly silently across the lake, and a few minutes later heard its mournful hooting.  Otherwise … silence.  The lake was frozen and was decorated with tiny animal tracks going across.  The trees were the tallest of guardians.  Some of them were the most exquisite pines – tall trunks of vibrant red topped by small clumps of needles.  Jody was there with me.

We walked to an old boathouse – a berth on the water topped by a large room with windows viewing the lake, topped by a rooftop patio.  Ann told us about the parties she had enjoyed there as a young person.  Looking down from the roof, I saw a dock extending into the lake, with two railings jutting out of the ice, and I was torn.  I imagined happy swimmers hauling themselves out of the water, lots of laughing, and peaceful moments of companionship as twilight settled over the land.

All the history of humans will end soon.  The birds will fly joyfully.  The deer will bound up and down the slopes unhindered.  A sanctuary for them, and not for us.  I was happy.  I was sad.  Life showing me all its colours once more.  Let both sides embrace you, Bruce.

Celebrating Jody

Dear friends,

I hope that you’ll come to Jody’s Celebration of Life on Saturday, January 31 at 11:00 am.  It will be held at the Bellamere Winery in northwest London.  The best way to find Bellamere is to get yourself to the intersection of Wonderland Road North and Gainsborough Road.  The Sherwood Forest Mall is on the southwest corner.  Turn left if you’re coming from the south and head west on Gainsborough.  Keep going past Hyde Park Road and you’ll find Bellamere about a kilometre along on your left.  There’s been major construction on Hyde Park, so I wouldn’t go that way.

From the 401 westbound, take the 402 where it splits off the 401 and exit at Wonderland Road.  Head north for quite awhile until you get to the Sherwood Forest Mall.

There’s free parking at Bellamere.  You’ll see two buildings.  Walk towards the right one.  Under the portico, go in the double doors on your right.  If you’re in a wheelchair, there’s a ramp in front of the single door that’s to the left of the double one.

There!  Directions handled.

Please sign the guest book on the long table as you go in.  After Jody’s celebration, I hope you’ll stay for a light lunch.

May our time together be a marvelous sharing of stories … of Jody’s smile, her humour and her love.  My darling wife touched so many people.  I hope that I’ll be laughing a lot.  Most likely I’ll also be crying a lot.  Both are just fine.

May you have the courage to come to the front and tell us about Jody and you.  We can paint pictures of how Jody moved through life.  I certainly have a few fun experiences to share.  Jody knew fun.  If you can’t imagine speaking in front of potentially a lot of people, please send me an e-mail of what you want to say, and I’ll read it to the group.

No doubt, there will be a lot of love in the room.  There’ll also be a lot of music … some of Jody’s favourite songs.

***

The past few weeks have helped me remember the beauty of my lovely wife that she showed as her life moved towards a close.  In September, Jody wanted to bake me a loaf of French pepper crackling bread, our Christmas tradition, but she wasn’t strong enough to do it.  So she coached Linda, one of our personal support workers, in the baking of this wonder.  There was Jody in her wheelchair, telling Linda this and telling Linda that.  And a couple of hours later … Voila!  My bread awaiteth.  And it was delicious, just as it’s been for twenty years or more.

Only weeks after Jody’s death did I realize that she wanted me to have one more loaf of our love bread, and that she knew she wouldn’t be around at Christmas for this blessed tradition.  Jodiette loved me quadruple oodles, and she still does.

For the last two months of Jody’s life, she wanted to wear all the rings that I had given her … and so she did.  Seven in all.  My favourite is the heart-shaped golden ring, with three little blue stones, that I gave to Jodiette as I asked her to marry me on English Bay Beach in Vancouver.  That was in September, 1986.  So many lovings ago.

My life has been changed by the time I got to spend with Jody Anita Kerr in this lifetime.  She gave me all she had.  Jody made sure I ate well, looked good and was happy.  Her song for me has always been “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You”.

Search your heart and your soul
You can’t tell it’s not worth dying for
I’ll be there
I’d walk the fire for you
I’d die for you

On February 24, Jody and I will be in Budweiser Gardens, listening to Bryan Adams sing to us.  I only bought one ticket.  That’s all we need.  We’ll sing along.

I love you all,

Bruce