Kids At Work

I went to a silent movie festival last night in St. Thomas, Ontario, with some early “talkies” thrown in.  The evening was to celebrate the life of Dell Henderson, a St. Thomas native who starred in many pioneering films.  It was wondrous!  Especially a five-year-old girl in 1912’s Sunbeam.  Our host told us that the wee actress died in her 40’s.  So I was looking at a darling ball of energy who’s been dead for 65 years.  Wow.  That stops me in my tracks.

I’ll call her Mary.  She lives in an apartment upstairs with her mom.  In the first scene, it appears that mother dies in bed, with the little one sitting beside her.  Mary looks to be in shock.  As the movie progresses, she befriends a depressed single lady who live in an apartment on the first floor.  The woman tries to shoo Mary away until the child gently takes her hand.  Then their eyes meet.  Then the woman melts.

Across the hall is a harried single fellow, caught up in the stress of life.  Mary walks right into his apartment.  He’s aghast at her intrusion and tries shoving her out the door.  But Mary works her magic again and soon he too is putty in her hands.

Older friends of Mary post a “Scarlet Fever” sign on the gentleman’s door.  Somehow Mary gets the lady to check on the apparently ill fellow.  Then the police come and quarantine the three of them in his apartment.  Mary holds hands with both of them and soon the adults are looking into each other’s eyes.

Once Mary’s dead mother is discovered upstairs, the young man and young woman, through the magic of non-verbal communication, launch a plan to wed and adopt Mary.

Not a sophisticated film, but so what?  A very sentimental effort, but again so what?  Look what a five-year-old girl can do.  I volunteer with twenty-seven 12-year-olds.  I sense they’re just as powerful.

***

And then there was Choo Choo, made in 1932.  Here’s a review:

“Without a doubt, Choo Choo has to be one of the finest Little Rascals films ever made.  [The kids were also known as “Our Gang”.]  During a stopover, some orphans convince the gang to take their place on the train that’s taking them to their new home.  The gang manages to make the train ride a living hell for the prissy, child-hating Mr. Henderson, (played by Dell Henderson) who is assigned the unenviable task of shepherding the “orphans” to their final destination.  There is enough mayhem here to rival any Three Stooges short – perhaps this was inspired by the Stooges themselves who were as popular during this period.  There is not one wasted performance here – Wheezer, Stymie, Sherwood and Breezy, and of course Spanky, who steals the show without a single word of dialogue, socking Henderson in the nose.  Henderson’s response (“Nice boys don’t do that!”) earns him another bop in the face.  The mayhem accelerates as a drunken novelty salesman passes out noisemakers to the gang in the sleeper car.  Things then go from bad to worse when Stymie and a monkey in the freight car release a menagerie of animals into the sleeper section of the train.  One can tell that everyone involved in the making of Choo Choo must have had a great time doing it – and it shows.”

So … a somewhat different display of kid power.  I sure don’t condone hitting people in the face, but oh, was it funny!  The adults had no chance against the cunning of children.  Makes me want to be one again (maybe for a day).  I wonder what mischief I could get up to.  And as for Sunbeam, what kindness could I send to sad adults?

This Can’t Be True

What if nothing matters?  And I don’t mean some hopeless attitude, such as “Nothing I do, or nothing that happens, will make me happy.”  Instead, what if my happiness is there already, at a most deep level?  That the events of the world don’t impact that wellspring at all?

“Get a life, Bruce.  You’re being nutty again.”

Well … maybe.  But I wonder.  Let’s look at some things.  Here’s what I usually tell myself:

1.  I need to walk – from my condo, along Main Street, to the Diner; down the fairways of Tarandowah; and on the paths of the Archie Coulter Conservation Area.

Maybe not.  Perhaps I don’t even need to see my lovely golf course again.  After all, it’s in my mind.

2.  I need to meditate and go on silent retreats.

Actually, no.  What if my brain becomes a jumble and I never see Massachusetts again?  I sense that there’d still be a little smile on my face, that some current of energy would still be saying hello.

3.  I need to have a loving partner in life, to share the wonders.

Hmm.  I don’t know about that.  I could feel love for all the folks that come my way each day, even if they don’t go home with me.  When there’s love, can I really say that the version aimed at Deborah is more profound than the type flowing to Rob?

4.  I need to be with people.

On one level, yes.  But there are other levels.  It’s possible that the rest of my life could be a solitary retreat, where I hole up in my condo and just come out for essentials.  I could send love outwards, through walls and across the land, and never see the folks that it touches.

5.  I need to be pain free.

That’s a tough one.  How could I ever cope with a constant 8 on the scale of 10?  It might be, though, that I could be happy even within the press of chronic pain.  Maybe I could be present with the physical sensation without adding the “Ain’t it awful” emotion.

6.  I need to travel.

Gosh, I’ve been to lots of places, and the best part of those adventures was the people I met along the way.  Many of their life experiences were way different than mine but I can find folks like that at the Barking Cat Pub, less than half-an-hour’s walk from my front door.

7.  I need to dance.

I love dancing but all those rhythms have taken up permanent residence in my head.  Plus I play a mean set of thigh drums.

8.  I need to golf.

I love the game but I don’t have to walk those fairways.  I see the curling putts and the drives hit with a slight draw.  I am intimate with the undulating greens, the fescue rough and the deep pot bunkers.

9.  I need to have sex.

Sometimes I’m flooded with love, and what skin against skin can match that?  I like physical sensations as much as anyone but my mind cranks out some cool stuff too.  And the eyes are my favourite body part.

10.  I need to be revered.

Wait a minute.  If I have this reservoir of well-being inside me, then no other person’s words or actions can dampen that fullness.  Praise and blame could just be two sides of a lovely coin.

***

Well, well, well
This has been a strange turn of the brain
I wonder if more strangeness is just up ahead
I’d be okay with that

Shrek and Allie

I saw a musical tonight, performed by the Grade 8 students of St. Mary Choir School.  Twice I taught a blind student there, each time for three years.  But now I don’t know any of the kids and they don’t know me.  What an eerie feeling that is, so familiar with the school, it being part of my history, but now I’m a stranger.

The kids were magnificent in their acting, singing and dancing.  The ogre Shrek seems to be rejected by nearly everybody.  Just a big green “ugly” fellow.  The beautiful princess has eyes only for the lord of the land, someone who hopefully will sweep her off her feet.  Alas, she harbours a terrible secret – a spell turns her into a disfigured green maiden every night at sunset.  How could the prince love a girl like that?

Only a kiss from her true love will transform the princess into eternal beauty.  And finally she sees that Shrek is that love.  His kiss, however, doesn’t return her to Hollywood loveliness.  She remains green but is changed within.  True beauty.

It was such a sweet story.  Let’s all be ourselves and celebrate each person’s uniqueness.

***

There’s a Part Two to my evening.  Before the show, as I was seeking my seat, I saw a girl who four years ago was a classmate of the blind child I worked with.  I’ll call her Allie.  As our eyes met, she smiled and said “Mr. Kerr”.  We hugged.  And I couldn’t remember her name.  I remembered how alive she was back then, so spontaneous, but no name came to me.  I decided to admit to her that I’d forgotten.  Maybe I shouldn’t have done that.  As resilient as I guessed she was now, it’s hard to be forgotten.  She said it was okay, I found out how high school life was for her, and we wished each other well.

As I watched the play, I was sad.  “Do no harm, Bruce.”  And I never intend to.  I’ve prided myself for a long time in remembering people’s names but lately it’s been a struggle.  As with you, Allie.

At the end, I wanted to find her, to apologize, to tell her how she had made me smile so often back then.  After talking to an old friend for a few minutes, I went in search.  Allie wasn’t in the theatre.  She wasn’t in the lobby.  On a whim, I returned to the theatre.  Nope.  Oh well, I hope you got that I meant no harm.

Time to go.  Back through the lobby … and there she was standing with her friends.  We saw each other.  We smiled again.

“I’m so sorry that I forgot your name.  I remember your zest for life, and I’m sure you still have it.”  My eyes were watering.

“It’s not important.  There were a lot of us.”

“It is important.  It’s your name.”

Two final smiles and then the latest intersection of our lives was gone.  Fare thee well, young woman.

Fuzzy

My head has been swimming most of the day.  I know I’m not physically sick but I have some theories about what’s wrong with me.

***

I rode my bike hard yesterday for over an hour.  It’s been a long time since ta-pocketa and I have done that.  I have a cool cycling computer from Polar that records stuff like speed, calories burned and heart rate.  As well, it gives me my “recovery status”, showing the amount of stress I put on my body and how many days I should wait until I ride again.  The results?  “Extreme” and “3 days and 3 hours”.  Ouch.  That’s a long time.

Today is Day One of those three and my body feels heavy, like my internal organs have gravitated southward.  No exercise today, thank you.

***

I’m in the midst of weaning myself off sleeping pills, something I’ve wanted to do for years.  This week and next, I’m taking half a pill every day instead of a full one.  Sleep has been short and interrupted.  This morning, it felt like my brain was on a slow-motion treadmill.  Conversations seemed to have big spaces in them.  This afternoon I tried meditating (Good luck!) and then slipped beneath the covers for an hour.  I was just as vacant upon arising.

***

I asked a woman to be my girlfriend last night, and she’ll answer when she’s ready to do so.  Take your time, my friend.  Many years ago, Jody told me that sometimes people would get curious about her, and visit her spiritually when everybody was sleeping.  And later I noticed that, after I had done something unusual, my head would often get hot and sleep wouldn’t come.  Well, last night felt pretty unusual and my head’s been hot.  Could it be that I’ve had a few visitors?

***

So the mind is warm, absent and plodding.  And so what?  More seasons are on their way.

 

On The Bike Again … Part Two

I get nervous every time I start cycling again.  And it had been many months since my bum was glued to the saddle.  I have clipless pedals, meaning that my shoes are attached to the pedals.  When I need to stop, the idea is that I jerk my left foot leftward and it detaches (from the pedal, not my leg).  Once I’m stopped, I detach my right foot.  If I fall, the impact sets me free so I don’t break an ankle.  Sounds good.

Last Monday, I was afraid that I wouldn’t be able to get my left foot off the pedal since there really wasn’t any lubrication between the metal piece on the sole of my shoe and the pedal.  Being a resourceful type, I poured gobs of chain oil on the offending parts.  I then snuck around to the side of the garage, got astride ta-pocketa and did a clip-and-unclip dance for several minutes.  I hoped that my neighbours weren’t watching.  (John and Sharon, you’re not reading this, are you?)

Appropriately chagrined with my irrational fears, I pushed my dear bike to the roadway.  It was time.  I had a funky cycling jersey on my back (featuring a snarly clown), padded shorts on my rear end, and a red, white and black helmet atop my noggin.  My destination?  South Dorchester School, where I intended to surprise unsuspecting 12-year-olds.

It was 11.9 kilometres and I was painfully gaspy.  I unclipped and reclipped a dozen times before I convinced myself that I hadn’t forgotten everything I’d learned on the bike.  A slight slope became a 20% Tour de France mountain.  I started pooping on myself but then happily gave it a rest.  My fitness is what it is.  Over time, it will be what it will be, i.e. better.

My goal was to roar up to the Grade 6 portable about ten minutes before afternoon recess.  I got there two minutes before the bell.  A boy was opening the door, heading into the school.  He stopped, gaped, and rushed back inside the classroom.  “Mr. Kerr’s here and he’s on his bike!”  I entered the fray and was surrounding by short people staring at my getup, especially at that nasty clown.  Questions, questions, questions, and between pants the occasional answer.

I stayed through recess and for half an hour thereafter, opening myself to curious children.  Then they started working on an assignment and it was time for me to go.  On went my helmet, on went my jacket, and on went my fanny pack.  I waved goodbye and headed outside to get foot reacquainted with bike.  All attached, I heard voices behind.  At least twenty kids were out on the playground, cheering my departure.  Their teacher Tiffany was leaning out a window, recording it all for prosperity.  Thus inspired, I cycled away, feeling like an Olympic hero.

I love volunteering.

Dancing Eyes

My friend Eleanor told me about a local “Dancing With The Stars” competition three weeks ago.  It was to be held in a historic railway station in St. Thomas, Ontario, built in the 1870’s to the tune of 354 feet long and 36 feet wide.  It was fascinating to hear that the seven couples had no ballroom experience but were getting two months of instruction from a skilled teacher.

And then I forgot about the whole thing.

A week ago, I saw Eleanor again and discovered that the show was sold out.  “Strike while the iron is hot” – so said someone from my deep dark past.  No striking from this guy.

For the past few days, I’ve had three folks trying to score me a ticket for last night’s performance.  I phoned the first two and they weren’t successful in their quest.  “Oh well, I don’t need any particular life experience to be happy,” chirped my little Buddhist soul.  But I sure wanted to go!

Thursday evening, just before the big hockey game on TV, here comes a phone call.  Eleanor’s sister-in-law was to go with a friend, but that person’s husband was ill, so she had to cancel.  “Do you know anyone who needs a ticket, Eleanor?”  “Well, I do know this guy named Bruce.”

And so I got to go, plus I got to sit in the second row, perfect for checking out flying feet.  Thank you, universe, for aligning the CASO Station and me.

Here are my personal highlights:

1.  I sat next to Lora and we laughed all night, ending up with a marriage ceremony planned for next Tuesday at 2:00.

2.  I talked to Bonnie, an old friend from the Port Stanley Community Choir.  I got to renew my zest for sopranos, altos, tenors and basses.  Maybe I’ll have a future back there.

3.  I watched one of the couples swirl across the dance floor with great love in their eyes.  Their bodies moved beautifully but it was the eyes that held me.  Afterwards, I told them how vividly their love shone.

4.  With another couple, the woman’s face was so darn alive.  I didn’t think skin could do all that.  I told her later about the joy I saw.

5.  Another pair were the driving force behind the St. Thomas Performing Arts Series – many years of concerts in a sublime circular sanctuary.  At the end, I thanked him for bringing the Barra MacNeils and many other artists to a small city.

6.  The last dancers included a woman I know well.  She was Jody’s nurse practitioner as my dear wife fell towards death.  I hadn’t seen her since Jodiette went to the hospital for the last few days of her life.  On a break, I walked up to Laura.  We smiled, we hugged, and I thanked her for taking such good care of Jody.

***

Eleanor was the coach for one of the dancing pairs and they won the People’s Choice Award.  She bounced up and down and presented us all with a huge smile.  In the audience, I was smiling pretty widely too.  Lots to be happy about.

On The Bike Again … Part One

It’s been months since I’ve ridden my bicycle.  And I get scared whenever I start up again.  I guess it makes no sense, but I have a history.

“How old were you, Bruce, when you learned to ride a bike?”

(Gulp)  “47.”

I was afraid of lots of things when I was a kid.  I knew I didn’t have the balance or confidence to ride.  My parents never asked me if I wanted a bicycle and I never pursued the matter.  Strangely, even though I guess all my friends had bikes, it never was an issue among us.  When I was around, we just walked everywhere.

My first job was flipping hamburgers at Hanlan’s Point on Toronto Island.  I was 17.  One day, my boss took me to the back of the snack bar, pointed to a bicycle, and told me to take a box of frozen patties to the stand on Centre Island, a few miles away.  And then he was gone.  It was just the offending bike and me, staring at each other.  Had I been wearing a heart rate monitor, it no doubt would have read 225 beats per minute.

I’d never even been astride a bike.  But now I was, with one arm wrapped around the frozen food.  Seems to me that there wasn’t a carrier to put the box in.  My feet found the pedals.  My right hand found the handlebar, and I set off.  Within a second or two, my body found the ground.  I remember lying there, thinking that I was the slimiest human being on the planet.  Oh teenage angst … how I know thee well.

I got up, glanced around to find that I was alone, and ran the bike towards some bushes.  In it went, nicely covered by the foliage.  And then … I ran to Centre.  That’s where the memories stop.  I have no idea how much humiliation I swallowed from my peers.  Maybe that’s a blessing.

Fast forward a few decades.  Jody knows about my bike trauma.  She’s taken me at night to a subdivision under construction in Lethbridge, Alberta.  Street lights, asphalt and bare lots.  She pushed, she ran beside, I pedalled.  And I stayed up for a hundred yards or so.  Was I exhilarated?  No.  I was terrified.  At the end of my trip, Jody rushed up to me, saying “You did it!  You rode a bike.”  My response?  “No, I didn’t.”  To this day, I don’t know what that was about.  How skewed is my brain when drowning in fear and embarrassment.

A few YEARS later, I finally agreed.  I could ride a bike.  Did I mention the 47?

Ramping Down

I think driving is such a metaphor for life, and what someone does on the road is a fair indicator of how they treat their family and friends.

I often take Highway 401 from Belmont into London, Ontario.  It’s a freeway, and I usually go about 110 kilometres per hour (65 miles per hour).  The Wellington Road exit ramp is a long one, maybe half a kilometre.  It blends into a city street, where the maximum speed is 50 kph (30 mph).

When I move onto the ramp, I take my foot off the gas and coast towards the 50 kph sign.  Invariably I’m tailgated and at busy times there are four or five cars bumper to bumper behind me.  I’m curious about this but not really surprised.

Life is full of transitions from one condition to another.  I enjoy blending from the first to the second, instead of jolting.  On the 401, it’s the coasting rather than the slamming of brakes.  At the dinner table, it’s a pause between the main course and dessert, rather than launching into pie as soon as the dinner plate is empty.

Life for sure has its twists and turns but I’ve never been keen on the hairpins.  It seems that my spirit is happiest when I embrace the changes and let myself flow through them.  Abruptness will come my way, such as the morning I woke up with a blood clot in my leg, but overall the transitions feel smooth.  It’s like a dance – and a waltz instead of a frantic disco tune.  A soaring symphony rather than the smashing of a drum.  A film full of love rather than the latest shoot-’em-up thriller.

Am I “right” about this?  Not at all.  It just feels good.

Dish Drainer

The kitchen and I have never been good friends.  Jody was a marvelous chef and created many brilliant meals for me over the years.  As for this entity, I was an incredible dishwasher.  But I’ve never learned to cook.

Since moving into my condo six months ago, I’ve wanted to have friends over for dinner but I’ve been too scared.  What would I feed them?  How would I do this and how would I do that?  You can’t just wash dishes – you have to present the yummies.

Farm Boy has been my frequent rescuer with tasty dinners.  On Wednesday, I walked in there and threw myself on the mercy of the manager.  I was so embarrassed and she was so kind.  “Happens all the time.  Gentlemen who don’t know what to do.  We give good advice.”  Whew.  My heart slowed down a mite.  And I left the store with a plan: mesquite chicken, oven roast potatoes and corn with coriander.  Not to mention a kale salad and something called maple cream pie.

Now it’s yesterday, and I realized in all my months in the condo, I’d never washed a pot.  The dishes from the few little faux meals were gobbled up by my dishwasher.  When I left Jody’s and my home last summer, I got rid of a lot of little things, such as a dish rack.

Here I was, worrying about how to dry pans, how to warm things up in the oven, and where the heck was the corkscrew for the wine.  Goodness.  I ventured forth to the supermarket and found a small white dish rack.  It sat proudly on my counter overnight.  This morning, however, it looked wrong.  (Remember, I’m the professional dishwasher.  I should know this stuff.)  It finally hit me – I didn’t buy the accompanying drain board.  Silly me.  Back to the store.  Unfortunately, the only drain boards they had were black, even though they sold white racks.  Arghh.  To another supermarket I went and now the two white folks sit companionably in the kitchen.

Okay, I’m exhausted.  Dinner is tomorrow at six and somewhere in a celestial realm, Julia Child is cluck-cluck-clucking at me.  (Sigh)

And then my dear wife’s voice to the rescue: “It’s okay, Bruce.  All is well.  Your guests won’t die tomorrow night.  In fact, they’ll enjoy themselves.”  Thank you, Jodiette.  Perhaps I’m overreacting just a tad.

How can I be so confident in some areas of life
and so plastered with sweat in others?
I don’t know
Maybe just a human being being human

Strength

I like myself a lot.  I think I’m kind and compassionate.  I’m working out on the elliptical in the gym and soon with the bike on the road.  So cardiovascular health is coming my way.  But there’s one aspect of life where I’ve always defined myself as “less”: strength.

In 1980 or so, I lost an arm wrestle to my 11-year-old niece Diana.  And yes, I was really trying.  Growing up, I related to that skinny kid on the beach who had sand kicked in his face.  I go the gym now and see the huge weights that some of the men and women are hoisting.  And the “less” starts to grow.

I’ve dabbled in strength training over the past few years, even hired a personal trainer, but I would always find reasons to fritter away my expressed commitment.  During some sessions I was fierce in my determination to do all the reps but then injury or illness always seemed to derail me and my progress returned to zero.

Today I began again.  Light weights but I did my full Day One program.  And oh, it felt good.  I see the opportunity right in front of my nose – to be strong, not with big, blocky muscles, but still, able to grunt my way up hills on the bike, climb stairs with ease twenty years from now, and have my body support my spirit.

One version of spirituality focuses on the sweetness beyond this physical round, on epiphanies of the soul, feeling the depth of the present moment.  Another emphasizes the glory of the senses – the body moving through space, the pleasures of a soft breeze or a fine meal.  But there’s more: the chance to embrace both.

I can be more than my heart and head.  I can include my biceps and quads.  No need for the V-shape but lots of room for a different type of meditation – the intensity of contracting muscles can be in partnership with stillness.

It’s possible that physical fitness can allow me to reach more people with my caring.  I’d like that.