Everybody and his brother-in-law has a blog now. I don't. But I'm going to have a blahg. The difference, of course, is in the spelling. It's a place for short bits that really don't deserve their own page and title. I'll update when the muse and AbbyTheWebsiteMaven are in agreeable moods.

July 26, 2005

The Perfect Day

Awaken at 4:10 a.m. - five minutes before the alarm. Take a moment to savour the realization I’m at the cottage. Shut alarm off, fumble for clothes and tippy-toe out of the bedroom. Make thermos of tea and grab a banana to go. Slip into the boat in the near-dark of pre-dawn and putter
through swirling wisps of fog to where I know the walleye are waiting. Spend three hours or so making their acquaintance and bring two home.

Wash up and tippy-toe back into the bedroom. Undress and slip under the covers to cuddle and then wake her in slow and delicious ways.

Re-emerge to clean the catch and fry them up for brunch, served with toast and brown-sugared beans.

Sit on the dock and watch the kids swim and play with half my mind on where those walleye will be in an hour or two, with the sun high, wind low, and light penetrating deep into the clear water.

Take a couple of the kids with me for the afternoon foray. Walleye aren't where they're supposed to be. Or they’re there and refuse to be tempted. The kids get restless so - it's off to the weed bed where the panfish are plentiful and obliging.

Back to the cottage for a late afternoon nap. The laughter, the thump of running feet, the slamming of doors don’t bother me. Awaken and jump off the dock to clear the lingering cobwebs. The cool water imploding on me
works that magic in seconds.

Dry off and sit on the dock, plotting the next foray while soaking up the sun. Make a whiskey and soda and sip while BBQ-ing supper.

Eat. Kibbitz. Laugh.

Head out for the evening walleye hunt. Fish ‘til the mosquitoes start to swarm then return, clean the catch, make a 2nd drink, and read or play cards for an hour.

Bedtime at 10-something. Sleep is near-instantaneous.

Repeat daily until it’s time to go home.

May 11, 2005

Holland and Canada

When I was traveling in Europe in 1971 the fact that I was a Canadian garnered me a pleasant reception from most everyone I met. They regarded Canada fondly and many folks spoke of relatives or friends who had emigrated there.

The reception in Holland however, was different.

I was embraced. I was showered with affection and, most disconcertingly - for a callow 20-year-old youth - respect. People between the ages of seven and 70 shook my hand or gave me a hug as soon as they found out I was Canadian.

It was astonishing and it all stemmed from the fact that young men I never knew, some 25 years before, had come from Canada to shed their blood on Dutch soil in order to fight the Nazis. It was Canadian troops who liberated Holland and I was thanked over and over again by the Dutch for the sacrifice my countrymen had made.

I felt a strange mixture of embarrassment and pleasure. I also felt like something of a fraud. I knew so little about that aspect of the war.

This past week marked the 60th anniversary of VE Day - Victory in Europe. Celebrations were held in various parts of Europe and many aging vets flew over to take part.

Few things effect me more emotionally than the sight of old soldiers struggling against the years to stand tall once again. My eyes stung many, many times at the sight of these men being honoured by thousands of Europeans of all ages at dozens of ceremonies. The ceremonies in Holland were particularly moving. The rows and rows of Canadian graves are meticulously maintained with schoolchildren assigned to each one during the course of the year.

Most of the attending vets are in their 80s now. Most will never come back for another anniversary. One day, too soon, there will be none left alive to honour.

We here in North America do too little to mark their sacrifice. The very, very least we can do is tell their story to our children. The schools are doing a poor job of it. It’s up to us. We must find some way to make our young people understand the importance of these events that occurred so long ago, so they can tell their own children.

The Dutch, God bless them, will always remember.

April 1, 2005

Terri Schiavo: This Bird Has Flown

What tethers a soul to a body? Is it the mechanics of life - heart beating, lungs taking in and expelling air? Is it awareness, some degree of cognition, a sense of self? Is it a combination?

I believe that soul, self, and body are separate but entwined entities. They have a symbiotic relationship, each existing for the benefit of, and in cooperation with, the other.

Our body is a cage; the soul a bird who has chosen to take up residence within. The door to the cage is always ajar. The bird can venture out when it will. Most flights are short; during sleep or periods of delirium. The bird returns when it hears the call or feels the tug of the self.

What if the call never comes?

Most times the death of the body and the self, occurring together, is the cue for the soul to fly away.

Most times.

Here is what I know about dying and death; based upon my own near-death experience, from hearing and reading about others’ and from watching my father die: There is a point in the process when the self no longer cares. Sustaining the will to live becomes a terrible, increasingly-heavy burden. When the decision is made to “let go” the relief and resultant serenity is indescribable.

The door springs wide open and the bird prepares to fly.

Sometimes, in cases like Terri Schiavo’s, I think the bird took short flights after her illness, returning now and again to double-check that the self wasn’t calling; to make sure this wasn’t another sleep. Before too long its return visits became less and less frequent. Terry’s self had let go and her bird flew. Only the cage remained.

My heart aches for all who loved her and saw only that her door was open and not that her bird had flown.

March 22, 2005

Bygone Business Practice - A Lament

For nearly 20 years, until 1999, I managed a small business, a retail furniture store. If I wanted new stock I ordered it from sales reps who visited every 4-6 weeks or I picked up the phone and called them. If I wanted to reorder a specific item or two, I would call the manufacturer directly. Once a year, we would attend a large furniture show at a convention centre near Toronto. There, manufacturers would show their new wares to dealers across the country and to some from the US.

We were a small store and most of my orders were under $10,000 but some were double that. A transaction, even with a dealer we didn’t know and who didn’t know us, was completed with a copy of the sales order and a handshake. Nothing was signed, no banking or credit information was asked for or offered. I assumed, in good faith, the manufacturer would send me the goods. He assumed, in good faith, I would pay for them. It worked out.

Around the early 90s things started to change. It began after the free trade agreement was in full force. Inexpensive American goods were flooding across the border and soon every sales rep had an American company or two in his bag. These companies required credit information before they would ship. Initially I balked and continued to deal solely with Canadian companies. Eventually though, consumer demand for $79 entertainment units forced my hand. I filled out the forms and started buying American product but it left a bad taste in my mouth.

I understood the reasoning. The American manufacturers were dealing with an unknown buyer in a foreign country. But so was I. I was still willing to go along with the formula that had worked for my father and worked for me - assuming that my word and the manufacturer’s word was good. No dice though. My $5000 or $10,000 was a grain of sand on their beach. They’d like it, but sure wouldn’t miss it if it wasn’t there

It was just one more domino in the series that led to selling the business and certainly not the most integral one. But it made giving up that life easier. What kind of relationship can you expect when trust is suspect from the get-go?

March 10, 2005

Four Fallen

One week ago today, four young RCMP officers were ambushed, shot and killed by a crazed gunman just north of Edmonton, Alberta. The gunman then killed himself. The memorial for Peter Schiemann, 25, Lionide Johnston, 32, Anthony Gordon, 28, and Brock Myrol, 29, was held today.

Some sights and sounds:

Four stetsons resting on four black cushions.

A riderless horse.

A normally-bustling, sunlit Edmonton street lined with thousands of silent people.

The measured, stately cadence of 8,000 pairs of brightly polished boots. 8,000 pairs of arms swinging in unison. 8,000 hearts grieving for four fallen brothers. A mile- long parade of police officers from every corner of Canada and several American states.

Flags snap in the brisk breeze and bagpipes mourn, providing counterpoint to the clomp-clomp of the boots.

The stoic faces of the marchers, most of them young, all of them brave and strong, are betrayed by glistening eyes and trickling tears.

The service is heart-wrenching but the family, friends, comrades, indeed the nation, must draw comfort from this inspiring display of solidarity.

The like has never before been seen in this country and I hope it never will be again.

February 26, 2005

I think it's official: the internet is a cooler invention than the wheel.

I was having a blah day when my friend AbbyTheWebsiteMaven sent me a link to a New York Times story. It was about a 19-year-old guy from New Jersey named Gary Brolsma who made a home video of himself lip-synching a Romanian pop song called Dragostea Din Tei. Gary, who's a tad on the pudgy side, danced while sitting in his chair.

Gary submitted his video, which he titled The Numa Numa Dance, to an internet site and he has since become pretty darn famous. I'd like to say "happily" famous, but alas, he's not. He's kind of bummed by all the attention. I hate to add even a tiny measure to his distress but...it is a wonderful song and I'm not ashamed to say I've watched the video three times in the last half-hour. I bounced and danced in my chair just like Gary. I am a happy camper.

I want you to be a happy camper too. I'm going to post a link to the site where I watched the video. Click where it says WATCH THIS MOVIE.

You can thank me later.

Sorry Gary.

http://www.newgrounds.com/portal/view/206373

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February 23, 2005

Dr. Hunter S. Thompson R.I.P.
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The man who put the "gonzo" in Journalism put a gun to his head and pulled the trigger yesterday evening.

I first read Hunter Thompson's remarkable and articulate ravings in Rolling Stone magazine in the 60s, when that magazine mattered. "Read" isn't quite accurate. You hopped aboard a Thompson screed and rode it - careening around hairpin turns of phrase and plummeting down eyeball-peeling metaphors - until you arrived, breathless, disoriented, wiser and entertained, at the end.

Thompson took the staid, just-the-facts-Ma'am world of Journalism and wasn't satisfied with turning it upside down. He broke every rule there ever was and then some. Fact? Fantasy? Didn't make a lot of difference to him. He'd grab some of each, blend them, add a dollop or four of hallucinogens and write the results.

Two of his books are brilliant: Fear and Loathing In Las Vegas and Fear and Loathing: On The Campaign Trail '72.

Decades of indulgence in drugs dimmed his abilities and I didn't read a whole lot of his stuff from the late 70s on, but he was the closest thing to a literary/journalistic hero I've ever had.

One of my favourite lines of his is: "When the going gets weird - the weird turn pro."

He was a pro.