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I spent years in the Rockies, hiking the trails above treeline and others deep in forests.  Long views were everywhere.  I had room to move, rather than some of my employment situations, where it felt like I was wearing a large cardboard box over my head.

Lately, my room to roam has been walking the fairways of Tarandowah, the golf course I love.  So sweet to be immersed in that world.  But are there other possibilities in Southern Ontario?

Heading west from Belmont today, I was imagining another golfing journey.  I know my route – south on Belmont Road, east on Yorke Line, cross Dorchester Road, cross Imperial Road, cross Whittaker Road.  But today I found myself turning left on the gravel of Whittaker, just to see what was there.

Well, I knew that further on was Lake Whittaker Conservation Area.  Jody and I had been years ago, but I couldn’t remember what it was like.  Lakeshore trail, I guessed.  Woods, meadows.  As I approached the park gate, I was pretty blasé.  Guess I’ll go for a walk.

But then …

Past some bushes, the lakeshore was revealed, as well as a hundred Canada geese floating serenely.  And their calls echoed above the trees.  I paused.

Then the woods.  Corridors of fir trees, with the late afternoon light slanting through.  I gasped.

Later, waist high grass in the fields, escorted by golden larch trees.  Everything shining.  I simply stopped.

My mind was large
My heart was open
My world was free

Kids Again

Earlier today, I was sitting comfy-like in the Belmont Library, a happy ten minute walk from my condo.  How marvelous that I can walk to all these places – the Belmont Town Restaurant, the Dairystore convenience store, my massage therapist, Jody’s bench at the post office, the Belmont Diner, the gorgeous village park with pond and fountain, and the Barking Cat pub.  Wow!

But today was the library.  I wrote a blog post and was tickled pink to send it into the cyber universe.  As I revelled in my deed, a boy walked in, seeking a book on hold.  I looked at him.  I thought he was young enough to be going to South Dorchester Elementary School, where I’m hoping to volunteer.

Do I leave him alone or ask him the question?  Feeling fairly intrusive, I asked if he went to South Dorchester.  Yes.  “Do you like your school?”  Yes again.  And the conversation evolved.  Just him and me talking level – nothing about adult and child.  He told me there were no men at the school and that he hoped I’ll show up there.  Me too.

The young man communicated beautifully, and my love of conversation with kids flooded back.  He spoke with soul, so wondrous coming from a young person.  One of his comments, however, sounded like a stereotype and I mentioned that.  In response, he didn’t grump – he listened.  So fine.

I’m happy.  I get to be with kids again.  Maybe I can set up a floor hockey league.  Maybe I can help them with their reading and math.  But the content doesn’t matter.  The context does.

Be with

 

 

 

Missing Kids

I’m a retired teacher.  Jody and I didn’t have any children.  I miss kids.

In May, when I knew I was moving to Belmont, I imagined myself volunteering at the  elementary school in town.  Except there isn’t one.  Some local human, sitting with me around the Diner lunch counter, told me that Belmont kids go to school at South Dorchester Elementary, on a country road a few kilometres south of the village.

Six months later, I hadn’t made any move towards being a presence at the school.  And still I was missing kids.  So yesterday I ventured along the beauty of Crossley-Hunter Line.  And there on my left was my beige brick destination.  It was lunch recess.

As I walked into the office, I sure hoped the principal would welcome another volunteer.  I talked to the secretary (Trish?) for a few minutes.  She seemed nice.  And then I asked to speak to the principal.  Lynn told me a bit about the school.  It was a small place – just 200 students.  Perfect.  She said I’d have to go through a police check at the station in nearby St. Thomas.  Did I know where it was?  In the spirit of winning friends and influencing people, I said “Oh yes.  I’ve made use of their luxurious accommodations many a time.”  Lynn smiled.

As we wandered through Lynn’s “ten cent tour”, I asked if the staff were intelligent (or maybe if they were nice people).  All this within earshot of two teachers chatting near their classrooms.  “Definitely.”  More smiles.

I suppose I should have been more discreet on first meeting, given that I wanted to become a part of the school.  Oh well.  Discretion is not my middle name.

Up next was the OPP station (Ontario Provincial Police).  Fill in the form, sit down and wait for the response.  And it was “You need to be fingerprinted.”  Ouch.  I’ve done lots of fingerpainting but never the printing stuff.  I’m pretty sure I’m not a hardened criminal.  But that’s okay.  My ink session is next Thursday.

I’m hoping that by the first of December I’ll be accepted sufficiently at South Dorchester to do my usual Christmas schtick … reciting Twas The Night Before Christmas.  I love doing that.

Yesterday evening I went to a fish fry at the Belmont Arena.  The girl plunking a bun on my plate looked to be elementary-aged.  So I asked her about the school and she said the teachers are great.  Yay!  A character reference.  Later I asked three other kids the same question.  Their mom smiled and the children pondered.  They like it, and I got that their responses were genuine, not just mouthing stuff that would please an adult.

So … my educational future beckons.  May there be a place for me.

 

Not Necessarily So

Tonight I went to hear Archie Fisher, a British singer-songwriter, at the Cuckoo’s Nest Folk Club in London.  Here’s what I know:

1. It’s important to get there early.
1a. I got there at the last minute.

2. It’s important to sit near the front.
2a. I sat in the back row, virtually the only seat left.

3. It’s important to see the performer.
3a. I could see the back of Archie’s head.

4. It’s important to hear every word.
4a. I couldn’t understand a lot of the lyrics.

5. It’s important to remember the words and Archie’s comments that I loved.
5a. I’m sitting here not remembering any of them.

***

I loved the concert.  Archie’s spirit filled the room.  We laughed, again and again.  Occasionally I was close to tears.

I watched the people in front of me.  A man’s hand over his wife’s shoulder.  A young fellow singing along.

I bugged a woman in the next row and to the right.  “Would you please move?  You’re blocking the wall.”  She chuckled.

***

A standing ovation
Smiles all around
All is well

Fallen

 

What’s with all these injury posts?  Maybe I’m just seeking attention.

My friend Adele and I went out to dinner tonight at Boston Pizza on one of those cozy and rainy evenings.  I’m marginally addicted to their cheesesteak nachos.  Adele is in a wheelchair and after we maneuvered ourselves to a booth I looked for a staff member to tell me where to park our vehicle.  Katie saw my situation and took me to a spot just inside the front door.  Using my best parallel parking skills, the deed was done.

I was heading back to our booth just as a couple was leaving.  I twisted my wet shoe to avoid them … and down I went.  I cushioned the fall with my right arm but my head found its way to the floor.  I stayed in a slump for a bit, taking in my confusing surroundings.  I looked up to see a whole bunch of people standing sideways.  Well, perhaps I was the sideways guy.  “Stay down, ” someone said.  “Should we call 911?”  “No,” I said.  In my best John Wayne rendition, I told everyone that I was okay.

In a fit of inspiration, I asked the gathering “Was I graceful?”  I don’t know what they said in reply.  I sat up.  My knee hurt.  My head hurt a bit.  But I was fine, I assured myself.  I got up and returned to Adele.

Do I share my story with her?  Of course.  She was super concerned.

A bit later, Katie came by.  “How are you feeling?  I know first aid.”  Such a sweet person.  Then she brought me chamomile tea for my headache.  Thank you, Katie.

A couple of hours later, I have a wee touch of head pain but you’ll be happy to know that the combination for my new padlock is 36-38-32.  (See yesterday’s post for an explanation of this apparently strange comment.)

The human body is a resilient little piece of protoplasm.  I will live to fall another day.

 

Gone In The Brain

Somewhere in my sheath of WordPress posts is one that detailed a memory loss.  I couldn’t remember what year it was, how old I was and where my new condo was.  It happened after I worked out on the elliptical at Wellington Fitness.  The doctor said something like “transient short-term amnesia”.  I actually can’t remember the term.

Well … here we go again.  Maybe I should just copy the earlier post.

Another elliptical afternoon, after a long absence due to surgery.  I rode the horse for an hour and did quite well for an out-of-shape human.  I was tired at the end but nothing extreme.  I tried to remember my friend at the front desk.  What a lovely human being – so full of life.  But what was her name?  After a few false starts, “Karisa” finally came to me but I wasn’t sure of the spelling.  And let me tell you, Bruce does spelling.

I’m still struggling with the name of another friend at the desk.  I think it’s Tracy.  Oh my.  Where oh where has my lovely brain gone?

After my elliptical session, I went back to my locker to get my yoga mat.  Couldn’t remember the combination.  I’ve had that lock for twenty years or so but no correct number came.  I spun and spun.  And now, hours later at home, I still can’t remember it.  Finally, Marcin, my trainer, cut my old friend off.  Later I went to Canadian Tire to get a new one and you’ll be happy to know that its combination is 36-38-32.

Before the big cutoff, in a pique of sadness and panic, I went to the front desk and talked to Karisa.  She had heard my story before.  She encouraged me although I don’t remember what she said.

Back to my locker to try a new combo.  Nope.  Then back to a bench near the front desk.  Karisa came out to sit beside me.  She encouraged me again, but again I can’t remember what she said.  But she’s my friend and that’s what matters.  I told her that this was a very special moment.  To be present when my brain couldn’t remember details.  To feel the sadness and let it be there.  To know that in the grand scheme of things, I’m okay.

When this happened to me in the summer, I was planning to go to Michigan the next day to watch a women’s golf tournament.  But my passport was in the safe and who knew what the combination was?  I woke up the next morning with 99-72-36 on my lips.

Now the next morning is tomorrow.  I already remember 99-72-36.  It’s the dead padlock combo that escapes me.  Maybe my pillow will provide as the sun rises.

Hey, this writing is pretty good so I must have intact brain cells.  I’ll take what I’m given.  And how very humbling this life is.

 

 

Dive Deep

I met a woman today, plus her daughter, son-in-law and granddaughter.  I won’t give you details except that she had dancing eyes and a lovely smile.

Afterwards I watched myself create future worlds, centred on the dubious possibility of happily-ever-after.  I’m such a funny duck (not sure if it’s funny ha-ha or funny ooo).  But really I don’t mind my own company.  My mind seems to have a mind of its own and I’ve decided to give it free rein.

I want to be with a woman who’s spontaneous and giddy with life, and if I can’t find such a one then I’ll go with a man like that …me!  With those standards, am I willing to be alone if no one of such ilk comes my way?  Yes.

I can’t control how other folks respond to me but I can choose what I put out into the known universe.  So …

Bye bye shy
Bye bye grumpy
Bye bye woe

There.  That feels better

Boogie through my days
Welcome the yays and nays
See who stays

Joyful On The Drums

Well, it was four nights out in a row – the art gallery and then three concerts.  Yesterday evening I listened to Nagata Shachu, seven performers from Toronto showing us the art and passion of Japanese drumming.  Years ago, I’d heard a similar group blast the skies above the Sunfest music festival.  This time, though, the beat would be within the confines of Aeolian Hall, renowned for its acoustics.  Ear plugs or not?  I decided no.

Most of the artists were young adults and one in particular drew me in.  She had long black hair tied at the back, and a lovely face.  She’d crouch behind her barrel drum, hold the sticks high and then smash them down on the horizontal skin in a flurry of strokes.  One by one, her feet would lift off the floor.  But the best was that face: it burst out in ecstasy.  Shine on, my dear.

I was enthralled.  The other drummers had their own excellent energy, and one guy even donned a cheek-revealing loincloth for one of the pieces, but all paled before my girl.  (Hmm.  Guess I shouldn’t be quite so possessive.)

What are you seeing, Bruce?  Something that teaches.  And not just about music.  What if I lived my life that way, virtually all of the time?  Gosh, that would be astonishing.  To be so “out there” that I would:

Say whatever I felt like saying, knowing that I wouldn’t hurt people
Joke around if I sensed the person was happy to play
Wear a silly costume for Halloween
Sing “Do Wa Diddy Diddy Dum Diddy Doo” at the drop of a hat
Dance down the sidewalk with my loved one
Paint my kitchen red

Oh, bliss
To be thoroughly me
To be thoroughly happy

The Body Speaks

I was back to Hugh’s Room last night, this time to hear Sean McCann, formerly of Great Big Sea, a very cool Canadian music group.

One great thing about Hugh’s Room is that you can have a drink and a meal in the cozy venue.  My choices were a McCauslan draft beer and squid, more tenderly known as calamari.  It was delicious … for awhile.

As Sean rolled through his first set, and I was moving and grooving with him, I became aware of gooey teeth.  It’s one thing to have a healthy piece of spinach caught in there but squid was another matter.  I rolled my tongue over the offending spots but no go for the supreme release.  Discreetly, or perhaps not, I shoved my right hand inside and grinded away.  Nyet.  At the break, I talked to my server Lina about the angst of octopus teeth and she kindly brought me a shot glass full of toothpicks.  Over the next half hour, I used about ten of them.  The epitome of reserve, I retreated to a stall in the men’s washroom and commenced my day surgery.  Goo remained.

Not to be defeated by a sea creature, and feeling a bit queasy, I decided to get some air.  I walked outside to Dundas Street West, turned right, and ducked behind a brick wall, hidden from Hugh’s but open to inspection by the folks walking in the other direction.  A slender piece of wood emerged from my pocket and began its plunging work.  I was a shadowy figure in the shadows, clearly a druggie, or so I imagined people thinking.

Finally … success!  The coast was clear.  Thank God.

Back in the club, Sean was blasting out some anthems to the delight of the packed house.  The woman at the next table was gushing with her remembrance of the lyrics.  She would throw her arms in the air and then clasp her hands to her heart.  Two tables farther, next to the stage, a young woman in red also knew the words.  My angle to her was different – all I could see was the line of her cheek, and the curve was high, suggesting a big, big smile.  And lots of moving parts as the words poured out of her.

Before the break, I was thigh slapping and singing.  Afterwards, something was wrong.  Nausea grew.  I tried letting it be there, like a nice little Buddhist guy would.  Quite something when occasionally I would be all right with the pain.  Even okay with it continuing for as long as it was happy being there.  But then there were all those other times.  “This is bad.  This must end.”

My oomph was gone.  Neighbours rose to their headtops in bliss.  I rolled into a ball.  “Don’t vomit on this nice tablecloth, Bruce.”  Thankfully, I didn’t.  But “this isn’t me.  I’m zestful and vibrant and over the top.”  Except when I’m not.  “Okay.  This is also me.”

The pain eventually led me to drastic action.  Trusting that no one was watching, I pulled up my sweater, undid my belt, let down the fly a bit and replaced my wooly garment.  Ahh.  Or at least a lessening of the pressure.

At the end, folks rose in a standing ovation.  I slumped.  “But you’re always one of the first to stand, Bruce!”  Goodness gracious.  Will you please be quiet?  I’m having a different drummer day.

I feel some better today, just a little sickly.  No more beer for awhile.  And in the spirit of scientific investigation, down with squid and up with salad.  How about that, Bruce body?

 

 

 

Courage

I like the way the French folks say it … koo-rawj’.  I need to be that.

When I was choosing the colours for my new condo in Belmont, Ontario, I don’t remember being brave.  I wanted red, blue, yellow, green, teal, purple and reddish brown walls, and that’s what I got.  Some people love it, some decidedly not.  No problemo.

The inside of the front door, however, gave me pause.  My original plan was cream, to match the baseboards.  But day after day I’d look at that door with unease.  No, cream was not it.  So red lives there now.  And I feel a surge of energy from having leapt out of beigeness.

Last night I went to Hugh’s Room to hear Jez Lowe, a British singer-songwriter.  What a sweet guy, full of stories about coal mining men and women, and usually sung with a twinkle in his eye.  I loved his song “The Bergen”, about a woman waiting back in Norway for her love to return from a sea voyage.  But the Bergen sunk off the coast of Scotland.

Sleep, why wake me with these dreams that you bring?
Dreams came to me where I lay
Deep the melody the wild waves sing
My love is far, far away

 Pity the heart, the wild waves part
My love sails the bonnie barque the Bergen

I tried to remember a song of his that used to thrill me, about a gold rush and the speaker’s partner being swept away in a flood.  Jez told us that he wanted to do one long set rather than have a break.  Hmm.  No opportunity for a request.  Except … right now!

“He’s just finished a song, Bruce.  The applause is fading away.  Ask him!  But nobody else is saying anything.  So what?  Do it.  Okay.”

“Jez, will you sing the one about the gold rush?”

“Gold rush?  I can’t remember.”

“The one where his partner died in a flood.”

(?) … … Oh.  I didn’t write that one.  It’s called “Farewell to the Gold”.

“Yes, that’s it!  Will you sing it anyway?”  (Laughter throughout Hugh’s Room)

The song is such an anthem for us humans who deeply want something but it always seems to elude our grasp.  I’ve never heard it sung live and last night was no exception.  (Sigh)

For it’s only when dreaming that I see you gleaming
Down in the dark, deep underground

A bit later in the evening, Jez introduced a song about a guy who was always a pain in the ass to his friends.  Then he looked at me, smiled, and said “Sort of like this gentleman here.”  I raised my arms in the bliss of acknowledgment.

At the end of the evening, Jez announced his final song.  I loved his music and his spirit so I knew what I was going to do as the last chord hung in the air.  I stood and clapped.  Since I was up front, I couldn’t tell if the folks behind me were joining the standing ovation.  It didn’t matter.  Jez Lowe had captured me and he deserved to be appreciated.

On we go in this life of ours