Just in case...

you didn't get a valentine today, don't worry: the kids at the post office love us all.

#thereislotsofloveintheworld
#mostdays
#rememberthat
#rememberthistoo

Things that deserve the stink-eye:

#candysticksmyass
#presmoking
#notsosubliminaladvertising
#sponsoredbytobaccocompaniesperhaps?
#yum

This is my hood.

Kye, Mac & Ellie, Pond Skating in Canada's backyard.
Click me: Boxing Day, 2011

"I don't trust any country that looks around a continent and says, 'Hey, I'll take the frozen part.'" ~Jon Stewart

Jon Stewart may have trust issues but I don't.

I miss when...

It doesn't look like much but I painted this for my son years ago one Christmas. It's him on the little snowmobile my Dad bought for him. He loves winter and all thing outdoors.

In the close-up below you might be able to discern a snowmobile and the orange helmet he wore then.

I miss when he was little and his head was little and life was just little things everyday, little moments, little challenges and little problems and Little House on the Prairie and Little Drummer Boy and little league and little Johnny jokes and The Little Engine that Could and Little Red Riding Hood and Little Tikes and little tricycles and little voices.

"When I grow up (as everyone does) what will become of the ME I was?" 

-from the book Always Wondering by poet Aileen Fisher

The Walk Between

I can't stop thinking about Terrence Malick's film The Tree of Life.

Apparently this film polarizes people. I can see why. It's probably a love it or hate it experience. No meh. I think I loved it. It's so beautiful. It's so strange too. But it immersed me, even absorbed me at times. I can't recall a film that was such an intrapersonal experience for me. The film is so...fraught.

Maybe it was timing but I couldn't stop thinking about my deceased father, my childhood, my personal struggle to be a good father. Moreover, I couldn't stop thinking about my own combination of grace and nature, the concepts on which the film seems hinged. In Mrs. O'Brien's words:

"The nuns taught us there were two ways through life--the way of nature and the way of grace. You have to choose which one you'll follow. Grace doesn't try to please itself. Accepts being slighted, forgotten, disliked. Accepts insults and injuries. Nature only wants to please itself. Get others to please it too. Likes to lord it over them. To have its own way. It finds reasons to be unhappy when all the world is shining around it. And love smiling through all things."

There were several scenes and one recurring image that captured me. First the image: water. Water uncontained and water contained, such as early in the film when Mr. O'Brien kinks the water-hose. In one scene, a dining room chair seems to move on its own. In another scene Mr. O'Brien does repairs underneath a car so very precariously perched on a jack while his son stalks back and forth. That silent scene terrified me. So did the scene where Jack's mother ministers to the criminals. And I still wonder what was going on in the attic?

There's also a tender scene where one brother kisses his kid brother's arm seeking forgiveness for cruelty. His brother wipes his saliva away. He kisses his arm again. Again, it's wiped away.

For me, this scene represents the film's clearest meaning. Humanity. Our inhumanity. Our isolation. Our inter-connectness. And the timeless wayward sad line we all walk in life between tenderness and ruthlessness.

Things one should never outgrow:

That line is his bum-chin.

hand faces!

Caption ideas?

Sometimes

Get help.

My Uncle Perry always smelled funny.

And when he banged on our door late some evenings I would always turn off the TV to watch him. Not because I wanted to. I had to. He was his own TV show. Not a sit-com though, not a comedy at all. Yet I laughed. And so did my parents, but I noticed my Dad shake his head and stare at the floor sometimes. I guess I learned from my Uncle Perry that sometimes people laugh because there's nothing else we can do.

Uncle Perry was loud. And big. He liked to slap his hands on his knees. Sometimes he would want to dance with my mother. They would waltz around the kitchen and my Dad would drink his coffee and open and close his fist. I felt sorry for my Mom turning in circles and circles, her brown curls bouncing, her chin pushed toward him, a smile painted on her face. When it was over she would reach for her cigarettes while Uncle Perry sat with his elbows on our kitchen table, his head hanging down like something almost unhinged, like a flower long past blooming and about to drop from the stem.

Maybe he was crying?

How would I know? This was thirty years ago. I was just a kid sitting in the living room hoping he wouldn't come in there. Sometimes I think I still am.

This is my hood.

Look who followed my brother home to have breakfast with us this morning.

Born very recently (perhaps yesterday) and apparently much too late in the season, it seems this tiny runt of a deer was abandoned. My brother found it standing on the road and when he reached out the fawn ran right over to him. He waited for the doe but she did not appear.

Starving and trembling but otherwise seemingly uninjured, it roused after a bottle of milk and took a tentative walk in his farmyard and then up onto his deck with its impossibly dainty legs. Suddenly it seemed to remember it was wild and attempted to bolt, so my brother returned it to the spot where he found it.

Yup. It's just another day on a farm in Saskatchewan.

Zoetic (Random Chalker Edition)

Thanks random sidewalk chalk kid. I needed that.
Maybe you need a reminder too?

Very First Movie

More than just the ticket.

I love movies. I can't remember a time when I didn't. I blame it on my parents. They bought their first TV when I was a toddler. They also took me to see my very first movie. I will never forget it.

Are you thinking some adorable Walt Disney Classic? Some imagination-infused movie-going delight like Fantasia? Maybe The Aristocats? And was it an experience so formative that it kick-started my love for the Arts?

YES! (And no.)

The first movie my parents took me to see in a theatre was Walking Tall, the original. I was about seven. If you're not familiar, here's my innocent version of the basic plot:
1. The good guy is nearly beaten to death and the authorities ignore it.
2. The good guy becomes the sheriff.
3. The good guy (?) beats bad guys with big pieces of wood.
4. The bad guys repeatedly shoot the sheriff and his wife. (It was at this point that I remember weeping a little while I asked my Mom, "That blood? It's all just ketchup, right Mom?")
5. Social services barged into the theatre to take me away. Naw. This part is fabricated.
6. The good guy sheriff blasts some holes in the bad guys.
7. I remember a fire too?

Yeah. So that was my first film.

Apparently my parents deemed the rating system merely a suggestion so they didn't stop there. Several other movies followed within the next two years: The Towering Inferno. Earthquake. Airport 1975. The Godfather, Part II. Race with the Devil. And of course, why not throw in that terror classic: Blazing Saddles.

By the time I was nine or so, I sure had witnessed a lot of people die horribly: by club, by fire, by jumping to their deaths, by suicide, by airplane crash, by point-blank execution, by human sacrifice in a Satanic cult and of course a classic fart scene (which could have been deadly considering the campfire in the middle of those bean-loving cowboys.)

As I said these films had a formative effect on me. Somewhat negative: I, uh, had a minor pyromaniac phase one summer. And yet also positive: those films BLEW MY MIND. Although I recall only fragments, I clearly remember how they made me feel. Before then, I had only begun to fathom through books that "art enables us to find ourselves and lose ourselves at the same time [Thomas Merton]." I was simultaneously transfixed and transported. And in the process, those films hooked up some of my dendrites in ways that if you knew me, would probably explain a lot.

And that is why I love movies AND movie-makers because clearly movie-makers then and now are NUTS in the best possible ways. Take the most recent movies for example. Just think about Black Swan. And 127 Hours. Remember that seriously creepy baby-doll in Toy Story 3. The climax of Winter's Bone alone. Every single scene of Inception took nuts to another level, maybe 7 in fact (?). What about that cabin scene in True Grit?! Nuts! Deliciously nuts. All of them.

Movies build in me a reverie. For those of you who can relate, enjoy the Oscars peeps.

Thomas

Today I met Thomas.
Total strangers, we shared a chair lift to the top of Whispering Pines Ski Hill this afternoon and in the mere minutes I spent with him, this 7ish year-old-boy left a strong impression.

Thomas: (ascending in the chair lift) Put the bar down. Put it down. NOW. We don't wanna fall out. (I secure the bar then he extends his mitten-covered hand.) Hello. I'm Thomas. (We shake hands.)
Me: Hello Thomas. I like your name.
Thomas: Thanks. I do too. It's my name. Some people don't say my name right. I'm Thomas with an H. Some people say my name Th-omas, like "thhh" (rolling his eyes, shaking his head).
Me: (smiling, shaking my head too) I like your name with an H. I think that's the best way. Say Thomas, do you know what your name means?
Thomas: I am named after a famous actor: Thomas Allan Eldwood (?) Did you know that he does all his own stunts? We watched a show. There was a show. On TV. We watched it and (shaking his head like a tired old man) he went flying over the trees in his motorbike, (pointing) look at these trees. Some of them are like 20 feet tall. Look. I bet those ones over there are 30 feet tall. LOOK!
Me: (looking) I see. Thomas, what grade are you in?
Thomas: I'm in Grade 2. He flew so high but you know what? He didn't make it. He fell. But he didn't even hurt himself. I'm like him. I don't get hurt. But mostly I don't get hurt 'cause I'm careful.
Me: He didn't get hurt? Wow. I'm glad you're careful Thomas. Are you going to be a stunt-man someday?
Thomas: Yes (like he just realized it), I am. (Barely a pause) No, (rethinking) I'm not. Stunt men are crazy. What does my name mean?
Me: It means twin. Cool, eh?
Thomas: Twin?
Me: Do you have a twin brother or sister?
Thomas: No. But a kid in my class has a twin. But I'M NOT a twin. I think you're mistaken.
Me: (chuckling at his word-choice) Well, oh I know. Is your Dad's name Thomas too? Are you named after your Dad? Maybe you're like his twin?
Thomas: NO! MY name is Thomas, (like I'm an idiot) I'M THOMAS. That's my name. My Dad's name is Calvin. (Approaching the end of the chair lift) Put the bar up. Put it up. We have to get off now (wiping snot across his face). Now don't forget. I'M Thomas. And tips up. (pointing at my skis) TIPS UP. Be careful out there, will ya?
Me: (chuckling) Thanks for the advice. It was nice to meet you Thomas.
Thomas: You too.

Albert Schweitzer said, "In everyone's life, at some time, our inner fire goes out. It is then burst into flame by an encounter with another human being." Thanks Albert, for introducing me to Thomas. And peeps: be careful out there, will ya?

Wordfuse (Hormone Edition)

strestrogen (noun): stress + estrogen = uh, what men experience when the women they love are having their lady problems. 




(Ladies: I begin with an apology because yes indeed, we men experience nothing in comparison to what you slog through and I can imagine you are thinking what the hell do our feelings even matter regarding this situation but I mean, I ask you to uh, I hope you can see our point of view, er, uh we do experience a little "collateral damage" from the whole PMS thing and uh, when I write PMS in uppercase it's not because anyone is yelling, I assure you no one is yelling at you and uh yeah, so there's a bit of stress and stuff and I'm sorta afraid to write anymore so I'll just stop there because I don't want things to "strescalate"....)

*This post is a bit of a tribute to my mother's patience. During my clueless tween years I noticed some mood swings and such and so daily, for years, I would ask her, repeatedly, "are you grumpy today Mom?" Older, somewhat wiser, and as empathetic as any guy really can be regarding this, I am truly amazed she did not snap my head off like a spear of asparagus. 

Eep.

     I have a thing about shaking hands. Another pea-brain thing but nevertheless....
     I still recall the first time I shook someone's hand: Grade 2.
     I had just won a poster contest, sort of a big deal I guess because there was an assembly and a man in a suit presented me with a book and about $25, give or take $25 (that part is not so clear). I could not recall the drawing. I drew so frequently it could have been anything. Nor did I recall entering a contest. Yup peeps. More evidence that I have a history of being clueless.
     Anyway, the suit reached out to shake my hand. I had no idea what he was doing. None. Total discombobulation. It's that innocent kid stage, eh? Reminds me of my cousin Rory who, on the first day of school, knew enough to go stand at the urinals to pee but was still clueless enough to pull his pants down to his ankles before he did.
     Anyway...the suit nodded at me. I looked at the principal and his perplexed face combined with his furious pantomiming indicated I needed to lift the paralyzed stump that was once my arm and somehow interact with the stranger's extended hand. So I reached out with my left hand for his already extended right hand. And for a moment, we stood there, holding hands. FAIL! Despite my blunder, everyone clapped. And the applause felt great. Still though, I wondered, what the heck is going on? (Apparently my drawing skills were significantly more advanced than my social skills. Hmm. Has anything really changed?)
     This was not a negative experience. As an adult, I don't fear shaking people's hands. I did not become Howie Mandel. However, it might explain why I am sensitive to the whole shaking hands experience. To me, it's important. I want to show respect. But the margin for error makes me even more neurotic, if that's possible.
     Example. Think of the last time you shook someone's hand. Whether comfortable or awkward, how would you describe it?

1. The Dead Fish Shake
2. The Crusher
3. The Two-handed Shake
4. The Finger Shake
5. The Sweaty Slide-out
6. The Linger-too-long Shake
7. The Too Feminine or Too Masculine Shake
8. The No-eye-contact Shake
9. The Wipe-on-the-pants-before-I-shake Shake
10. The Dreaded There-is-something-about-this-person-that-makes-me-not-want-to-make-physical-contact-but-I'm-going-to-anyway-and-even-shake-hands-more-assuredly-now-to-overcompensate-for-that-thought Shake  

     Just this morning I had to shake a stranger's hand.  Here's the breakdown, in slo mo. I came around the corner and encountered a stranger at work. I smiled and said, "Good morning." A third party entered. Introductions ensued. No, no, no, I shouldn't shake this person's hand, not right now. Did she see me hesitate? Oh yeah, here comes the hand. What can I do? How can I refuse? I extended my hand. Further, further. Our hands met. It's a good shake, a firm shake, we make eye contact....
     Unfortunately this occured mere seconds after I came out of the bathroom at work. My hand? Still wet. Seriously wet. Just soap and water peeps. Honest. For some reason, I was on air dry. But she didn't know that!
     Eep.
     Now that is a lasting first impression. FAIL!

Dear Grandma,

Thank you for the letter. I had a dream last night about your old farmhouse next to the Papikwan River. It felt exactly the same as it did when I was a kid except in the dream I wasn’t a kid anymore. I did not see you or Grandpa but you were both there. So was Tub, sniffing around, wagging. There was an old bus parked in your yard and I had to move it behind your garage. The little green shed next to the fuel tank was there too, tall summer grass surrounding it. Across from the shed was your garden with long rows of vegetables and one row of gladiolus, white and faded pink, standing there watching and waving.

I felt really proud of myself because I was going to show Grandpa that I could control that old relic of a vehicle. As soon as I pressed on the clutch it started to roll backward and I knew I had made some sort of mistake but Grandpa would know what to do and he wouldn’t mind. But I had done something wrong and suddenly afraid, I woke before I could see Grandpa alive again.

My eyes sting a bit as I recall this dream now. When I was a kid, I was always the happiest at your house. Lying there after the dream I couldn’t sleep so I went for a walk through my memories right into your old farmhouse. I remember your kitchen cupboards, those designs I guess Grandpa used a router to create. I remember the cellar door under the kitchen table and the spot there where Grandpa used to sit and smoke, his bowl of green peppermints nearby. In the living room, next to the book shelf stocked with Readers Digest, sat the organ where I taught myself to play “Love me Tender” and in front of the couch rested that kidney shaped coffee table I always thought was so fancy. Back in the kitchen I think I remember exactly where you stashed the chocolate cupcakes.

So much time has passed since then, hasn’t it? So many changes too. Yet these memories are so tangible, like reaching out to touch a book cover. Isn’t it surprising just how much we all carry around in our hearts, all the people we’ve loved and the places we’ve loved and the touchstones that decorate those memories?

I have read that dreams are the brain’s attempt to organize emotional clutter or a safe place to work out emotional conflicts. I have read that dreams are fulfillments of unconscious wishes too. But I think this dream just means that I miss you. And I miss those sunny, windy, wavy-grass days of my youth when life was simpler and so much easier. And writing this now I wish I really was parked in an old bus outside your house waiting for you and Grandpa to just come outside and help me back up.

Yours,

david

Bathroom Acoustics

This is going to sound a little strange but I overheard a kid proudly singing a song in an otherwise empty public bathroom recently and I had to stop outside the door and listen. Enhanced by the bathroom acoustics she was singing a lyrically mixed-up version of Amazing Grace. I felt a little weird planted there eavesdropping, but I just couldn't move. 

Soon I had shuffled off all the years, all of my a-ged-ness and became the little boy I once was sitting on the toilet, legs swinging back and forth, I too singing my own song with abandonment, bolstered by the echo in the bathroom. Free. Totally free to be who I was then. When exactly does the freedom to be who we truly are so insidiously slip away from us?

When we hear pure innocence, I think it's important to pause and pay attention. And maybe, just for a moment, let that voice inside us sing along.