That Time

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Thinking about Jasper. 

Shedding some tears. 

I love that corner of the world. It's special. Nestled in Canada's Rocky Mountains, reports say the wildfires destroyed almost 30% of the town yesterday, a one-of-a-kind community so beloved to Albertans and visitors from around the world. And it's still burning. 

It's probably insensitive to say I know how Jasper's residents are feeling, because I've never lost a home and community to fire, but there are a growing number of Albertans who have been terrorized by wildfires, me included.  

A few Junes ago, I recall taking video of everything in our home before we flew to a celebration in Montreal. Why? For insurance purposes, I needed a video record of our dwelling contents; there was a definite possibility our home could be ash when we returned. Then we packed our most important keepsakes into our vehicle and drove it to another community to park in a friend's yard, outside the evacuation alert zone.

Amongst all your cherished possessions (knowing you cannot take them all), contemplate having a few hours to decide which ones were the most important to save.  Which ones would you be okay with never seeing again? 

That was a tough month. Unlike many Albertans now, we were spared. That time. 

Our family has collected so many happy memories visiting Jasper. It's difficult to summarize why they are so special, so I won't try. If you'd like to read about a few of them click here, or here, or here, or here. 

But one other memory keeps bubbling up, one I didn't write about. It brings tears; it shouldn't but it does. After skiing all day, just the four of us visited Jasper's movie theatre. The crowd was small and our kids were a little young for Blades of Glory but happy-tired from all the fresh air and mountain scenery, we settled in with popcorn and candy like that movie was made for us. It was. We laughed the loudest and longest, all at the same time. We were that family. That hilarity filled us to the brim and we watched until the very end of the credits, basking in the "Iron Lotus" induced endorphins, bahahahlalahaha. Remember that film?! "Spandex. Glitter. Egos. Ice blows." Clever satire, top tier improv, and goofy characters.   

I don't know why but this memory feels so poignant today. It doesn't make sense. But what does in a world where one of the four seasons is now fire season? 

And where next?

Things one should never outgrow:

a large dipped cone from Dairy Queen (especially when the temp is 36 degrees). 

Wordfuse

(adj) foofaraw + awesome = appreciation heaped on what some might deem no big deal, but said deal totally does it for me

My examples?
1. random bagpipes
2. a really good orange
3. my chocolate-chip cookies (small cookies are stupid)
4. children's drawings
5. taking off my socks
6. my own bed
7. grandchildren grins
8. feeling healthy

9. flat caps

10. making up dorky words

Dates or Days?

I once remembered important dates with ease, especially birthdays. Nowadays, I forget a few here and there. Some dates are burned in my memory, oddly unexpected ones. Does anyone else remember their driver's test? 

I can recall almost everything that occured during that hour on Thursday, June 3 the year I finally turned 16. It seems my pea-brain decided to scan the driver's test details along with the date and file that information in forever. But why store this memory?

The answer is anxiety, or as I refer to it, my inner narrator's default mode. He and I disagree on how to perceive any situation: where he (typically) sees a horror movie, I (attempt to) find the comedy. If you've struggled with anxiety, you know what I mean: THREATS are EVERYWHERE; I MUST PROTECT YOU FROM IMMINENT DEATH while rational reality begs to differ. Yup, my inner narrator is a drama queen. I have known this forever. But my (unreliable) inner narrator does not give a rat's pizza about what I think, some days. He can be soothed, but the process is fraught and he rarely leaves the building.  

For example, during my road test—I can recall this with absolute clarity—while I waited to turn left at a red light, a pedestrian began to cross the street, but not just any pedestrian MY GRANDFATHER OMG IT'S MY GRANDFATHER PLEASE DON'T NOTICE ME PLEASE DON'T NOTICE when he noticed me in the driver's seat he stopped, smiled, and waved frantically. I remained (externally) calm, barely nodded, and waited for him to continue, THE LASER EYES OF THE DRIVER TRAINER BURNING INTO THE SIDE OF MY HEAD. When the light turned green, I casually proceeded left INTO AN ABYSS OF WORRY AND SHAME AND IRONY OR COINCIDENCE OR SOMETHING WRONG WRONG WRONG AND HOW IS THIS MY LIFE? Soon after, I parallel-parked perfectly, but by then I was convinced I HAD FAILED THE TEST and would never get my license, plus ALL MY FRIENDS WOULD LAUGH AT ME AND NO ONE WOULD EVER DATE ME, but in reality the outcome was decidedly neutral: I passed. And later, my grandpa laughed until he had a coughing fit. 

Fusion horror-comedies can be stressful, so whatever, inner narrator, I passed. Neener neener. 

Anyway, this (finally) leads to my question: do dates matter? Thanks to anxiety, sometimes dates are useless brain storage. We can get stuck by dates, especially those dates that challenged us, or those that commemorate something painful: regret, loss, grief. So in the grand sublime scope of our lives, which is more consequential, more meaningful, more precious: dates or days? 

Friends, I choose days.  

Decades ago, my wife and I got engaged on a sunny, warm Spring day in April. We visited a glass conservatory with a wishing pond situated among a sea of Easter lilies and tulips. We made a wish, she opened the box and there was no ring inside. I tricked her; she looked up at me and laughed so I pulled the chain out of my shirt and there it was, a marquis diamond ring we chose together. It was a very happy day for both of us. Later, when people asked us if there was any significance to the date, we explained that no, it was just the right time and the right place. Curious though, I looked up the date's history: the anniversary of the sinking of the Titanic. 

Even my anxy inner narrator had to laugh at that. 

Whatever the Sport May Be

My oldest grand-
daughter, M. 

Maybe keep this on the downlow, but I'm not a hockey fan. As a Canadian, it's a controversial declaration. Feel free to judge me if so inclined, but it isn't just hockey: I have no allegiance to any sport or sports tribe. Okay, one exception: I love Scottish Highland Games. Fight me. (And my kilt.) 

So this begs the question, why am I currently obsessed with the Edmonton Oilers?

If you are a long-term fan in these last days of June, 2024, YOU KNOW WHY but it's not just that they are finally in the Stanley Cup Finals; it's that they are continually on the PRECIPICE OF DEFEAT and yet continue to RISE AGAIN, LIKE PHOENIXES, which is probably the name of some other hockey team, I have no idea, but anyway. THIS TEAM. THEIR DOGGEDNESS. After losing the first three games, it's like they had a much-needed Rosa Parks moment: no, I belong here! (This is definitely a false comparison logic fallacy because Rosa Parks is way more important than these bearded, bleeding millionaire-dudes chasing a puck around, but as I said, when it comes to hockey I don't know what I'm talking about, okay?) One hardcore fan told me the Edmonton Oilers often impress, then shit the bed, but these last two games?! Let's just say that despite their history of stench, they are currently quite a lively clean-up crew. I have such high hopes for them and I am glued to my seat...okay, let's be honest: I read a novel while watching game 4 and in fact, I didn't watch Game 5, just nervously googled the score, my Grinch-heart sizing-up each time I did. Truthfully, I have no idea when the next game is scheduled, but I can't wait. 

Why?

Lots of reasons. Sure, I love an underdog story but I'm just happy that my Albertan/Canadian friends and neighbours are surprised how joyful they feel. Kids everywhere are proud to wear their jerseys, including my grandkids who mimic their parents' excitement although distracted by snacks and Lego. I love seeing Oilers flags on vehicles everywhere. They are such a sight for my sorry eyes after years of seeing various other flags protesting issues inspired by Fox News propaganda. I encounter strangers wearing Oilers t-shirts and we chat, both revved up on optimism, finding common ground. This hasn't happened much since 2020, has it? Right now, I can't recall my last positive culturally-collective experience. Can you? 

This tired old world needs a few wins, doesn't it? The odds are still against the Oilers: apparently, the current scenario hasn't been successful for the underdog since 1942. It's likely they will be unable to deliver the win, yet they are reminding anxious old me to still hope for better things to come for us all, whatever the "sport" may be. 

AND IF THEY DO WIN?! 😂

Dust

My grown son and I enjoy texting our Wordle and Canuckle scores to each other. 

We both love all things words: precision, connotation, word-play, the power of words, etc. If you're wondering about this post's title, it's one of his favourite words and it's an apt choice for the entire narrative that is this particular wordle, including a plot twist.  

If words were people, I'd be polyamorous, but what I truly love is that my son texts me his scores, daily. Hmm, what word describes the feeling this generates? Toast. 

Here's hoping there's someone in your life who surprises you with toast. 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

My son gave me a battery-powered chainsaw for my birthday. I LOVE IT. 

There's just one problem: I MUST CHAINSAW EVERYTHING. IMMEDIATELY. 

Whoa: the dopamine hit from this thing?! *chef's kiss*

I am like that annoying semi-retired superhero next door, sawing sawing sawing while wearing my yardwork Grandpops flat-cap and sketchy hole-in the knees superhero pyjamas, saggy everywhere, except for (of course) my biceps. 

Although I am characteristically a gentle man, pshaw, Chris Hemsworth. 

Anyway, if I am unable to find more things to saw, you should know, dear neighbour, that I will begin chainsaw-light-sabering the most evil force of all: spruce bugs. You're welcome.

Let's be honest:

"They tried to bury me, they did not
realize I was a seed." Sinead O'Connor

If you pay attention, flowers whisper.

I suspect most of you tulip gardeners already had your mesmerizing tulip moments earlier this Spring, but I live in northern Canada so this photo is from Sunday. 

This is my first time growing tulips. My friend provided them for my adult English class. Developed by the good people of The Netherlands and distributed globally, they are named, Peace for Ukraine. 

Ecologist Thomas Berry said it so well: "the universe is a communion of subjects, not a collection of objects." If only the world operated this way, eh? 

What did this flower whisper to me? Lift up your heart. You are not alone. Have courage. 

Point B

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When I was a kid, one of my favourite plot points in the original Star Trek was when they used the transporter: "Beam me up, Scotty." 

That sci-fi technology was a seed-starter in my childhood imagination's soil. Nearly 50 years later, I still yearn for the experience of teleporting from one location to another. Don't we all? It would be so damned convenient and save so much precious time. 

But now, at this oldish man life stage, I think about something else: the disassembling and reassembling aspect of the transporter—the weightless notion that in seconds I could become pixels, disappear, and then reappear in a better future without even a nod to that in-between space—a complete escape. 

Older now, I know this in-between space all too well, this liminal space, this threshold between past and future—it is not weightless and it won't be ignored. Unlike Star Trek, life affords few effortless escapes. A guy can get stuck in between.  

Sure, sometimes we might not even attend to this in-between space, might not even notice it, or conversely, consciously court the in-between to help us live in the present, ignoring past troubles and future worries. But let's be honest: we grown humans struggle to live in the present.  

Unlike Star Trek, between life's point A and point B there is lots of waiting, wishing, and wondering. Transitions can be hell. And what's disassembled at A is never quite reassembled so well by the time we reach B. If you've ever had to put down a pet you know what I mean and there are 100 other just-have-to-get-through-it-experiences. 

Although everyday life has little in common with Star Trek's idealistic transporter, dear friends, please hang on: perhaps Point B is out there, somewhere? 

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

Subtle, Canadian Tire, real subtle.

Canadian Tire stores have served Canadians for over 100 years now, overflowing with any sort of hardware you'd ever need. 

Well, "need" might be inaccurate word-choice. 

So why has Canadian Tire become obsessed with massive display objects and humongous lawn and garden statues? Are people really jonesing for a nearly life-sized lawn dinosaur or say, a garden astronaut? 

Canadian Tire seems to think so. And is spectacle really a lucrative marketing strategy? 

Wait a minute. I took a photo and blogged about it here. I just answered my own question, didn't I? 

*facepalm* As Spongebob would say, "all I know is fine dining and breathing."