Tag Archives: Travel

Day Eleven … On The Road And With The Poem

Uh oh.  I’m falling way behind.  It’s the morning [now afternoon] of Day Thirteen and I’m trying to remember Day Eleven.  I’ll do my best.

I left the home of Isabelle and Bruce and headed west towards Banff National Park, then north on the Banff-Jasper Highway, west from Jasper into BC, and north to my home-away-from-home: McBride.  Gosh, that was a lot of driving.

I was stuck in a traffic jam on the freeway approaching Banff.  How can this be?  I’m surrounded by picturesque foothills and towering cliffs.  Out in the middle of nowhere breathing in exhaust.  Once we got going again, several sights beckoned me.  First was this multi-coloured van with a black and white peace sign on the hood.  The back end and the left side were festooned with words and paintings that were extremely … sexual.  Since this is a family show, I won’t give you the details but it was astonishing to see.  Whoever the driver was, I’m sure that his or her mom won’t be riding in that van anytime soon.

Then there were the wire fences – six feet tall.  The divided highway was a corridor through all those trees, with the fences blocking animals from crossing.  All this to serve human beings?  It was eerie to drive through.  Every ten kilometres or so, I’d approach twin tunnels over the road.  The route above them dipped down in the middle and was covered with trees.  It wasn’t an intersecting road for cars.  This was for deer and moose and bears to get where they were going.  Okay.  Far better than not accessing the other half of their world.

I passed beside glaciers shining in the sun, wide river flats boasting the most exquisite aquamarine waters, and an infinite number of Jody’s trees, mostly coniferous folks reaching for the sky.  But it felt strange.  I stopped when there was a cool view to take pictures.  But I felt like an ordinary tourist, driving forever, stopping for a photo and then driving forever again.  No context.  No real relationship to what I was seeing, no walking in the trees … sort of empty.  Oh well.

Before leaving Isabelle and Bruce, we sat down for breakfast.  As we were sipping our coffee, Isabelle pulled out a book.  “I have a poem for you, because you’re a traveller.”  I’d like to share it with you.  It speaks to me as I wander from human being to human being.  Thank you, Isabelle.

To Bless The Space Between Us

Every time you leave home
Another road takes you
Into a world you were never in

New strangers on other paths await
New places that have never seen you
Will startle a little at your entry
Old places that know you well
Will pretend nothing
Changed since your last visit

When you travel, you find yourself
Alone in a different way
More attentive now
To the self you bring along
Your more subtle eye watching
You abroad; and how what meets you
Touches that part of the heart
That lies low at home

How you unexpectedly attune
To the timbre in some voice
Opening a conversation
You want to take in
To where your longing
Has pressed hard enough
Inward, on some unsaid dark
To create a crystal of insight
You could not have known
You needed
To illuminate
Your way

When you travel
A new silence
Goes with you
And if you listen
You will hear
What your heart would
Love to say

A journey can become a sacred thing
Make sure, before you go
To take the time
To bless your going forth
To free your heart of ballast
So that the compass of your soul
Might direct you toward
The territories of spirit
Where you will discover
More of your hidden life
And the urgencies
That deserve to claim you

May you travel in an awakened way
Gathered wisely into your inner ground
That you may not waste the invitations
Which wait along the way to transform you

May your travel safely, arrive refreshed
And live your time away to its fullest
Return home more enriched, and free
To balance the gift of days which call you

Day Ten … Mr. Spock, Isabelle and Bruce

It was goodbye Lethbridge and hello Calgary yesterday.  I had so much fun talking that I didn’t get a blog post written.  I hope you didn’t think I was caput.  I’m alive and happy.

The main route to Calgary goes through Fort Macleod and Claresholm.  A fellow I was talking to in Wendy’s said that I’d save some time by going through Vulcan instead.  Sure, sounds good to me.  Hmm … Vulcan.  That’s where they have the Star Trek display in honour of Mr. Spock, a pointy-eared Vulcan if ever there was one.  I’m there!

As I approached the ordinary-looking prairie town,  I figured I better ask where the Star Trek stuff was, so I pulled off the highway and walked into a restaurant.  An Oriental hostess greeted me warmly but clearly wasn’t a Trekkie.  She didn’t know anything about the Star Trek display.  Then a huge “Ah hah!” look exploded on her face.  She rushed to the window and pointed across the street.  And there stood the Starship Enterprise.  Perhaps I should scan my horizons more completely.

Off I went, taking photos of all things Trek, starting with a big board that featured the crew of the original Star Trek, plus Captain Janeway.  You could undo the head piece from behind, shove your head through and be Kirk, Worf, Spock and other celestial heroes.  There were plaques on the Enterprise monument, including a message written in Klingon.  Across a parking lot stood the Vulcan Tourist Information Centre, a white building that looked suspiciously like an outpost on the planet Xerox.  Inside a friendly lady said hello.  I was trying to greet her with Spock’s “Live long and prosper” salute, but I couldn’t get my fingers going right.  My guide had me close my eyes.  She held my hand for a bit and asked me to relax.  “Focus on your second and third finger and spread them apart … gently.  (Pause)  Now open your eyes.”  It worked.  My first and second fingers stayed magically glued together, as did my third and fourth.  I’m all set to be an extra in the next Star Trek film.

And then Calgary.  I was visiting Isabelle (70) and her husband Bruce (71).  Isabelle and I met a few weeks ago on the steps of the Church of the Holy Trinity in Toronto.  We were waiting for the doors to open for a session of Sanskrit chanting led by Krishna Das.  He chants the names of God and we in the pews sing each line back to him.  It was very moving.  Isabelle, her daughter Elizabeth and I had a great time talking before and after.  After I mentioned that I was travelling west, Isabelle invited me to visit her in Calgary.  And here I am.

Both husband and wife are remarkable.  Bruce decided at age 65 that he wanted to play the piano.  So he started taking lessons and last night played us a tender rendition of “Pachelbel Canon”.  Such an entrancing melody.  Bruce missed a few notes but, hey, life is a work in progress.  Good for him to commit himself to something brand new.  He’s also a fine storyteller.  He’s had a history of picking up things at garage sales, and reselling the items for a profit.  One day, he showed up in the driveway with his truck and asked his teenaged kids to see what was inside.  Little did they suspect … 180 rakes and hoes and tons of spades.  Those poor children were dumbfounded into silence.  I was as well when Bruce told the story.  He resold the implements the next day.

Isabelle decided recently that it was time for singing lessons.  And so she began, with a very important audience in mind – her grandchildren.  She also worked up a routine for Yuk Yuk’s and presented it.  So gutsy.  Isabelle loves volunteering at a hospice and especially likes “the grumpy ones” because they need the most love.

As you can tell, I’ve met two fine human beings.  And that’s what this trip is for me – being with people.  Because they’re the best.  I love the mountains and the lakes, the forest and the fields, but they pale in comparison with the communion of souls.

There.  I’m sort of caught up, except I haven’t said anything about today.  Tomorrow.

Day Six … Scenes From The Plains

I wound my way from Weyburn, Saskatchewan to Lethbridge, Alberta yesterday … and so did Scarlet.  We saw magical things, and some less so.

1.  A line of power poles stretching to the horizon, unobstructed by trees, the wires dipping gracefully between each

2.  Oxbow creeks, where the stream winds back and forth in tight curves, like a ribbon lying on a table.  No hurry to get anywhere.

3.  Coming over a rise and looking deep down into the river valley, enjoying at least 200 brown cows spread over the meadow beyond and the hills above

4.  Passing old weathered barns and homes of grey boards, some listing to the left or right and others with rooves about to collapse in the middle

5.  Newly painted yellow lines down the middle of my two-lane roads, often smeared by drivers of questionable consciousness.  Sadly, I thought weeks ago that such displays were the marks of inconsiderate Ontarians only, to discover that Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta have their share of people wanting to be noticed.

6.  Being lulled by the straight roads only to snap alert when a lake to my right seemed to rise up in gentle folds.  Huh?  Turns out it was a blue field of flax.  For a moment there I thought I’d been transported into an alternative universe.

7.  Seeking out the traditional wooden grain elevators that I used to know and love.  They’re tall rectangles, usually with what looks like a small house growing out of the top.  And always the name of the community proudly displayed on the side.  Now it’s mostly vertical cylinders of cement stuck together with some lattice work of metal on top, reaching for the sky.  (Sigh)  I love tradition.

8.  Bugs splattered all day on my windshield, effectively neutralizing the quality cleaning job I had done in Weyburn.  Just part of the landscape.

9.  Fingers of grey reaching down from the background blue, tempting the earth with rain

10.  Giant shredded wheats scattered  far and wide in the fields, making me long for a late breakfast

And then … after Medicine Hat I started scouring the horizon for my beloved mountains.  “But, Bruce, you can’t see mountains from this far away.”  Well, hope springs eternal.  I used to be good at telling the difference between mountains and clouds, but I seemed to have lost my touch yesterday.  Closer to Lethbridge, I gazed at the downward progression of the sun slightly to my right.  I was so looking forward to the sunset.  Go, sun, go!  Near Taber, I glanced to the left, and there they were … I even recognized Mount Cleveland and Chief Mountain!  “Hello, dear ones.  I’m back.”

I rolled into the yard of Ray and Joy Doram around 9:00.  Ray is Jody’s uncle and he showed my lovely wife great kindness when she was younger.  Another reunion.  I’ll tell you about our cozy conversations tomorrow.

Day Four … Rows And Flows Of Angel Hair

“And ice cream castles in the air.”  So said Joni Mitchell, a Canadian singer-songwriter.  And that was my life behind the wheel yesterday as I crossed a lot of prairie on my way to Weyburn, Saskatchewan.  The flatness of the land embraced the vastness of the sky.  Clouds billowed.  Others wisped their way across my windshield.  I was enthralled.  Sometimes, as I was rocking and rolling to my tunes, a shaft of sunlight burst through a break in the clouds to say hi.  “Pay attention, Bruce.  The songs are nice, the lyrics and melodies transforming, but look past your nose to the beauty of the world.”  So I did.

Then all those clouds would just go poof, and I was left with an empty blue sky.  Maybe somebody had called for a celestial coffee break.  First of all I was disappointed but then the blueness seeped inside. and I got to see another vastness … of the soul, of all our souls.  Compared to our daily routine of tasks and responsibilities, there’s a silence of love that falls upon us all.  The sky didn’t have little flecks of darker blue activity in it.  It was all one.

I also loved sloughs yesterday.  They’re pronounced “slew” … little ponds ringed with tall grasses and usually populated by small ducks, or so my prairie memory told me.  I started seeing the waters in southwestern Manitoba but there weren’t any birdies.  I was sad.  Where were the ducks?  And then … “There’s one!”  Happily, their numbers multiplied as Scarlet floated west.  I was happy.  I’ve been in some environments where it seems that the wildness, and all its creatures, have been squeezed out.  Not yesterday.

Then there’s the world of pumpjacks, the devices that pump oil from the ground.  They look like the mechanical beasts  from The War Of The Worlds.  Their elongated heads continually dip down towards the earth.  At one point, there was a slight rise to my right, and two of the pumpjacks were silhouetted on the horizon.  I could just imagine what was going on over there – assorted Saskatchewanians being devoured by the aliens.  Horrifying!

Did I mention yellow?   The greens and browns are usually muted on the Prairies but once in awhile a mass of canola blasts my brain.  So bright.  Another time I passed at least two miles of sunflowers, stretching to the ends of the earth.  They were all lifting their happy sunflowery faces, welcoming me to their land.  I nodded back.

***

Okay, how about a pleasant interlude?  I’m staying with my friends Henry and Louise in Weyburn.  It’s morning and I’m sipping my coffee.  Here comes Louise.

“I think we have enough milk for cereal.”

(Why not, Bruce?  Go for it.)

“I once put a box of cereal on the floor and stomped on it.  I was arrested for being a cereal killer.”

(Giggles)

***

One cool thing about travelling is that you come across things that jolt you, things that the locals probably don’t even notice.  Such as logging trucks and “Do Not Feed The Bears” signs in northwestern Ontario.  Somewhere east of Weyburn, I saw this billboard:

Do you have a problem getting your casing to the bottom?

Truthfully, I’ve never really thought about the problem.  Things seem to be working fine.  But it’s nice that someone wants to come to my aid about such a delicate personal matter.

Now, Henry and Louise.  Henry and I went to social work school in Ottawa and were roommates.  One evening, he was clearly distraught.  “Bruce, I’m getting old.  [25!]  I need to find a woman.  [Sex is great but I think Henry was especially referring to a life partner.]  I’m going to the lounge at the Chateau Laurier to find someone.”  So he did.  He met Louise that evening and invited her to dance … and so began a waltz that’s lasted 43 years.  Wonderful.  Last night the three of us sat in a restaurant and laughed and laughed.  Love means being able to pick up with friends where you left off … in our case, in 1980.

Quite often, I forget my life.  Someone says I did or said something years ago and I have no memory of it.  For instance, I’m pretty sure that I didn’t walk around Ottawa one day with a roasting pan on my head.  I mean, really.  What fool would do something like that?  Henry told me that I used to say “Go shit” a lot.  Hmm .. that doesn’t sound like me.  Then he added, “No, you were saying ‘Gauche it’ as I was driving, as in ‘Turn left.'”  Okay, it’s coming back.  Louise and Henry also reminded me that I went to a Hallowe’en party in 1972 wearing a sleeping bag over me.  Ahh … I remember, especially the part about having trouble breathing.  My costume was actually an orange mummy bag.  I came dressed as a penis.  Think I called myself The Pumpkin Pecker.  These added details were news last night to my friends.  We laughed.

Today the three of us will see what beckons.  Scarlet gets to rest.  We’ll all have fun.

Day Three … Terry and the Monsoon

I started my travels yesterday with a visit to the Terry Fox Monument near Thunder Bay.  A long and winding road carried me past orange cliffs and stands of birch trees to the top of a hill.  With leafy lawns to the left and right, accented by picnic tables, I walked out into the open, with a 20-foot statue of Terry facing west, hobbling along on his one good leg.  On the walls beneath Terry were lots of writing carved into the stone.  I didn’t read them.  I sat on a low wall and gazed up at the man.  Terry ran about 25 miles a day for 143 days, starting from the east coast of Canada, to raise money for cancer research.  He had to stop near Thunder Bay when the cancer overwhelmed his body.

My eyes were wet behind my sunglasses.  Thank you, Terry.  He was a Companion of the Order of Canada because he wanted to “improve our country”.  And so he did.  And so do we all, with the little kindnesses we show each other, with letting someone else go first, with putting an arm around a friend.

I watched the folks who joined me on the outlook over Lake Superior.  One cyclist took off her sunglasses and wiped her eyes. Some folks, though, didn’t even look at Terry.  They came for the view.  Most people hardly glanced at the statue, but spent minutes reading the various messages.  Only a few lingered with the young man, no doubt imagining his pain and determination.  I wanted everyone to “be with” Terry, to let his humanity touch theirs, but that was not to be.  And it’s okay.

When I want to meet people, and there’s a couple or a group, I’ve discovered a surefire way to do it … ask them if they’d like me to take their picture.  At the monument I asked, and only about half of the people said yes.  I was sad that the others didn’t choose to record their closeness with loved ones.  “I don’t like having my picture taken.”  “No, we don’t need one.”  Okay.

For the folks who said yes, I had to sit on the stone floor to get both them and Terry in the photo.  Several people were amazed that I did this.  I don’t know why.  It just seemed like a natural thing to do.  No one left out.  We had good conversations.  One of the women I met lives three kilometres from me, in Port Stanley.

On the road again.  Somewhere north of Thunder Bay, I saw a storm greeting me in the distance.  I switched Scarlet’s digital display to temperature – 28 degrees Celsius.  Then the rain … intermittent wipers, regular wipers, fast speed wipers.  A logging truck leaned a little on a gentle curve, with the water leaping off the logs.  The temperature gauge started dropping and didn’t stop till it had reached 21.  During all this, I was listening to songs on a CD that a friend gave me years ago, including “Language of the Kiss” by The Indigo Girls.

“Oh the fear I’ve known, that I might reap the praise of strangers and end up on my own.”  Yes, I have felt that.  The wind blew and the wipers frantically swept the rain away.  I was alive, so very much.

As the storm said goodbye, I drove on, fixated on the temperature gauge.  22 … 24 … 26 … 28.  There was something about returning to the previous state of being that I liked.  Actually, the physical world so often offers me symbols that help me live my life.  I’m glad about that.

A dead black bear cub lying on the gravel beside the road.

A fruitless search in countless marshes for a moose sighting.  I know they’re there and maybe that’s good enough.

Slurping a chocolate walnut waffle cone in Vermilion Bay, followed shortly thereafter by a hunk of chocolate walnut fudge.

The corridor of asphalt through stands of welcoming pines near Kenora.

Waiting and waiting for the Prairie to say “Hi” west of Whiteshell Provincial Park in Manitoba.

And then …

A jolt of lightning touched the twilight horizon to the west, turning the length of a horizontal cloud a brilliant orange.  I turned south towards Steinbach as the storm hit.  Wipers on high right away.  Couldn’t see the ditch.  Barely saw the middle yellow line.  Slower and slower. Tailgated by some two-eyed monster.  And I was happy (really).  I was so engaged in life.  I knew that my guardian angels would see me through.  The Frantz Inn was on Highway 62, east of Steinbach.  All I saw ahead was darkness.  Had I passed it already?  I pulled off onto a gravel road and stopped.  A phone call to the hotel revealed that I had a kilometre to go.  And so to the parking lot.  Gas gauge reading = 0.  “There you go, Bruce.  Yesterday’s fantasy came to pass.”  I raced for the lobby and was immediately soaked.  After the paperwork, I ventured back out to get ta-pocketa off the trunk rack and into my room.  Since there was a lull in the liquid action, the task was accomplished sweatlessly.  Thank God.  As I re-emerged from the building to get the rest of my stuff, the hurricane had recommenced.  I threw my body into Scarlet.  And there I sat, for at least half an hour, as the rain threatened to destroy the windshield.  But I was safe.

Whew.  Life in Manitoba is lots of fun.  I mean that.  May I be so vividly alive for the rest of my life.

Day Two … NBD

It was a long day – 12 hours on the road – but miracles beckoned me left and right.  Small, dark blue lakes with expanses of white lilies.  Two Mennonite women riding their bicycles in long flowered skirts, one with a helmet over her bonnet.  Towering slabs of vertical rock, turned pink in the early evening sun.  Life was so big.

And then there was Bruce Mines, a tiny town on the north shore of Lake Huron just east of Sault Ste. Marie.  I thought it was pretty special that they’d named a place after me.  And there’s a sign for Bruce Bay!  Gosh, I’m everywhere.  Even though I couldn’t see any further evidence of Bruceness as I drove through, my rich fantasy life kicked into gear.  What if there’s a Bruce National Bank?  Or “Get your oil changed at Bruce’s!”  Or  Bruce’s Family Restaurant.  I bet they were all hiding just a block off Main St.

Along the north shore of Lake Superior, with its grand vistas and mini-islands, the road swooped, dropped and climbed.  I could feel my body move with Scarlet as we floated along at the speed limit – 90 kph (55 mph).  I got very excited when I looked in the rear view mirror to see a semi-trailer pounding down the slope behind me.  Every 10 kilometres or so, there was a passing lane but meanwhile friendly drivers were on my tail.  I decided to not let them dictate my well-being.  On I went at 90.  Then the passing lane, and the semi would blast up the hill beside me, its huge white mass blocking the entire world to my left.  I loved the power, the speed, the impossibility of that beast roaring past me.  Up and up and up.  I tell you, I just about had an organism!

Then there was my bladder.  I had neglected its needs when I stopped at Pancake Bay for a decadent chocolate peanut butter waffle cone.  They had only one size – huge!  Anyway, there I was motoring towards Thunder Bay with a liquid problem – one was building up and the other was running out.  The arrow on my gas gauge was moving towards the E.  Meanwhile I was discreetly pushing my thighs together.

I reckoned in White River that I had lots of gas and could just zoom on through.  The sign said 85 k to Marathon and Scarlet told me I had 107 left.  Piece of cake.  Surely no self-respecting retired person would stop at the station in White River.  C’mon, Bruce … push the envelope.  So I pushed, in one respect, and contracted in another.  Then another sign – 60 (compared to 80).  More squeezing.  Gosh, this was turning into an heroic quest.  Later it was 25 and 40.  I had visions of 10 k left, 5, 1, and even limping into Petro-Canada on my last fumes, with Scarlet coughing to a stop only feet away from the pump, with the nozzle just able to reach the gas tank.  Ahh.  What would I do without fantasy?  The truth was that the digital display read 18 when Marathon and I united.  That’s okay.  I had fun.

I have to admit that my first stop at the station wasn’t for gas.  I stood at the appropriate spot for quite a long time.  It would be indelicate of me to share the details so I don’t think I will.

This morning, I’m visiting the Terry Fox Memorial before winding my way through the woods of northwestern Ontario to emerge on the Prairies at Steinbach, Manitoba.  I’ll let you know all about it tonight or tomorrow morning.  I hope you’re enjoying my journey.  I sure am.

P.S. 1 … Nothing But Driving

P.S. 2 … 83 seconds, while pales in comparison to my 130 seconds achieved just off the I-75 in Michigan in 1990

Day One … Riding On The Wind

I’m off to Western Canada and to all the joys that await me.  I’ll be sitting in the living rooms of many fine people.  But not until Friday.  Before I get to Henry and Louise in Weyburn, Saskatchewan, there’s a big chunk of Ontario to meander through.

I left at 4:15 this morning to give me lots of time to reach the Chi-Cheemaun ferry that runs between Tobermory, Ontario and Manitoulin Island.  My first adventure was in the dark near Lucan.  Two baby raccoons scampered onto the highway, their four eyes shining in my headlights.  They must have been terrified to see those two big white things.  I slammed on the brakes and watched as my sudden friends threw themselves back into the ditch.  Someone behind me in a big vehicle was following too close and came within a couple of feet of crushing my bicycle ta-pocketa, who was hanging from a rack behind Scarlet’s trunk.  Oh my.  Thank you Jody, and other blessed beings for keeping my bike and me safe.

Up the Bruce Peninsula I floated at the speed limit.  Pass me if you need to.  I’m tired of going fast in life.  Such beauty all around me.  More and more coniferous trees until the water revealed itself in Tobermory.  I didn’t get much sleep last night so coffee and breakie was a relief.  And then, in a newly alert state … “Wow.  I’m on a road trip.”  Out and about.  Neither here nor there.  Following my nose, not to mention my map.

As the ferry left the tip of the Bruce Peninsula, I leaned over the railing on the top deck and found myself in a conversation with a lovely woman named Lori.  She and her two kids are on a vacation from Kentucky.  Lori is so hoping that they all get to see the Northern Lights.  Yes, may you see the shimmering green sheets in the sky.  Lori is also determined to get her son and daughter away from their “devices”, to have them gaze in awe at the water, the lights, the meadows and the trees.  To just stop, look and listen.

I told Lori about my wife Jody, about her presence in the trees and about the book I wrote about my dear one.  She was happy to receive a copy, and wiped away a tear or two.  Then it was family lunch time in the cafeteria so we said goodbye.  During the last few minutes of our talk, I became aware of another entity, one that was hovering nearby.  A single seagull followed us on our voyage.  For at least 45 minutes, I didn’t take my eyes off him or her.  The birdacious one sometimes came as close as five feet, checking me out with his right eye,  Then he’d swoop down towards the water.  After that he’d wheel high above the ship, but always returned to be nearby.  There were about 15 people on my high deck and perhaps 30 on the one below, but aside from a kid or two, no one seemed to notice our local acrobat.  Texting, reading, talking … all good things, but the curled wings working the winds was mostly an unseen miracle.  Such a loss of the present moment.

Maybe I’ll be an athlete gull in my next lifetime.  I sure was taken with this virtuoso flier.  It felt like there was a link between the two of us.  I know, you could say that he just wanted food, but I’m sure it became clear after a minute or two that I didn’t have any.  And still the seagull stayed.  I was glad.

Within ten seconds of the announcement asking us to return to our cars, my friend was gone.  Just poof!  Oh, the mysteries of this physical life.

This is fun.  I hope I have Internet access every day during the next six weeks so I can tell you what my eyes see and my heart feels.  Tomorrow I venture along the north shore of Lake Superior, visit the monument to Terry Fox, who fought so hard to run across Canada for cancer research, and finally lay down my head in Thunder Bay.  See you then.

Renato and Me

I’m going to be doing a lot of travelling over the next year-and-a-half, and I’ve wanted to find someone to live in my house while I’m gone.  (Hmm.  I just noticed that I’m okay with calling it “my” house.  Oh, Jody.  It’s still our house, my dear.)

Renato is my man.  He’s an Italian chef who’s been living with his family in England for many years.  And he wants to come to Canada and open an authentic Italian restaurant in London.

This afternoon we sat in my family room and on the deck for three hours, talking about life.  Renato has an accent and I often didn’t get every word in his sentences.  It didn’t matter.  The soul of the man shone through.  In the military, he was a parachutist, and often jumped out of planes with a bazooka-type gun strapped to his side.  Then there were the times that he and his mates shoved jeeps out of the plane, jumped after them, and then drove away minutes later.  Renato fought in the war against terrorism in England and told me of being face-to-face with a man who had murdered many people.  I was terrified just listening to him.

Renato has been a skilled photographer and cinematographer and now he’s an elite chef.  He described being continually harassed by a pizza chef when he was a young employee, and how years later he bought the restaurant, and hired that pizza guy when he was down on his luck.  Forgiveness and reconciliation.

My new friend has had an exciting life.  And so have I.  He’s touched a lot of people.  Me too.  No better or worse in our discussion.

In July, Renato moves in.  Shortly thereafter, I head to Western Canada on a six-week road trip.  Then it’s home for a week before driving to Massachusetts for an 84-day meditation retreat.  Next, six months at home, followed by ten weeks of riding my bicycle across Canada.  After which I’m home for six weeks.  After which I’m back in Massachusetts for three more months of silence.  On January 20, 2017, I’m home again, most likely to stay.

Renato will care for my precious home, hopefully for all of this time.  I already trust him.  He’s a good guy.  And I’m a fortunate fellow.

Toronto – Part 1: To and From

Neal and I set off on Thursday morning on the train from London to Toronto.  A big window to look out of, onto a big world.  As we rolled through downtown, I strained to catch a glimpse of an elementary school I taught at for years, a building that has been the source of much joy for me.  All I caught was the spire of the church next door but I knew that friends and students were in the school at that very instant, staying warm and throwing themselves into the life of the community.  It made me happy to know that this was so.

East of London, fields and woodlots flashed by as we picked up speed.  I thought of Jody’s words to me after her death:  “I am all trees, Bruce.  I welcome you everywhere.”  And Jody most surely did.  Groves of bare deciduous trees, groups of evergreens, a single tree spreading its arms in the middle of a field … Jody was all around.  Her words flooded over me, blessing me with her love.  Mile upon mile of Jody holding out her hands to me.  My wife.  My love.

I watched flags along the way, hoping that they would droop on their poles.  But alas, they remained at almost full flap.  And I was scared.  I was sick, and dreaded four days of deep freeze and major wind chill.  I didn’t think I was strong enough to cope with it all.  I needed to be held and warmed.

I saw kids tobogganing down a hill, dressed in their pastel snowsuits.  Wonderful!  Just what kids need.  And horrible!  It’s far too cold for me to join them.  I saw Canada geese winging their way.  I yearned to see a deer and spent nearly an hour trying to spot one.  Not to be.

I watched the man in the window seat in front of me.  (I was on the aisle.)  For awhile, he frantically jabbed away at his computer, with the screen seeming to change every few seconds.  Half an hour later, his laptop was closed and he was asleep.  I marvelled at the contrast.

Across the aisle and forward one seat, an elderly gentleman spent virtually the whole trip looking at a magazine.  It was full of articles about the military and veterans.  He looked so happy, immersed in something that gave his life meaning.

Eventually, fields faded away, to be replaced by, in singer-songwriter David Francey’s words, “good industrial landscapes”.  Toronto had reached out, consuming a lot of the natural world.  But the factories had their good stories too.

***

Homeward bound this afternoon.  This time, my views were severely restricted by an awkwardly placed window.  Mostly, I saw the tops of trees flowing by, no less Jody for their partialness.  Still a blessing.  Neal was on the lookout for deer, and finally I heard “There!”  I had two seconds to glance to my right, just enough time to see about ten of them, heads down in a field.  Yes.  Another blessing wrapped up in constriction.

Everywhere I looked inside the train, passengers were bent over their iPhones and laptops.  Ear buds abounded.  We were all in our own little worlds, including me with my book.  Part of me wanted to make contact, but I let that go.  I wanted to be home.  I wanted to be warm.  And I wanted to be alone.

Journey done.  Many more to come.

Travelling

Tomorrow morning, my friend Neal and I get on the train in London and head to Toronto.  He’s from B.C. and will likely be going back there in June.  I thought it would be cool to show him the big city before he goes.  I never expected just how cool our visit could be – daytime wind chill tomorrow is supposed to be around -25 degrees Celsius.  Oh my!

These four days will be my treat for Neal.  He deserves my kindness.  He deserves to have his Toronto whims satisfied.  Let’s start with a window seat on the train so he can see Ontario unfold.  Maybe a coffee cart will come rolling by to keep us warm.  Neal will be able to see the secret worlds of backyards and back fields.  He’ll be able to gaze and doze and perhaps dream.

Two hours away is downtown Toronto.  We’re staying at an historic hotel across from the train station – The Royal York.  A grand lobby.  A cozy lounge walled with the darkest wood.  A room with a view.  Even a thick white bathrobe, I hear.

In the evenings, we’re taking the subway to Hugh’s Room, the granddaddy of Canadian folk music clubs.  On Thursday, we’ll listen to Lillebjorn Nilsen, a gentleman who’s apparently a musical icon in his native Denmark.  On Friday, lots of singers and players will favour us with the music of Paul Simon.  And the best may be last.  Saturday night, we get to hear Joanna Chapman-Smith, a Toronto singer-songwriter who fell ill a few years ago and completely lost her voice.  The doctors worried that it would be permanent … but it wasn’t.  Happily for the world, Joanna is singing again.

As for the days, who knows?  We have ideas … the Ontario Science Centre, Ripley’s Aquarium, Allan Gardens (acres of greenhouses) and the Art Gallery of Ontario.  Or maybe sit in the lobby and read a book.  Neal’s call.

Friday is my birthday.  66 seems like a nice round number.  My first birthday without Jodiette.  Except that’s not right.  Jody will be with me every step of the way.  The “I am here, Bruce” is now very calm, as is my smiling nod in response.  There are still lots of tears falling from my eyes but Jodiette is here to share it all.  Even with the absence of her body, I am blessed.