waiting

folks come and go in the hotel lobby. a porter stacks bags on brass trolleys as commuters wait for their airport shuttle. vans and buses come and go. the revolving glass doors see steady traffic. here i sit, staring out to the covered car park, waiting for my love to arrive. she will be driving a silver hyundai with a green sticker promoting vegetarianism on the back bumper. i am an omnivore. we share the car with friends. on board are our two children. with any luck the boy will be sleeping and the girl will be happy to see her daddy. i love them all. in this lull of my hectic weekend i miss them terribly. anticipation grows as i wait.

but shadows of concern play in the recesses of my mind. contingency plans bubble up only to be pushed back down with the hope they will prove unnecessary. i tread against that sinking feeling. it’s just traffic. they left late. the visit went longer than planned. hope does her best to float. a cell phone would be handy. too bad we swore them off unequivocally. worry grows as i wait.

there is little stronger than love for family. i smile as i think of mine. we will be together soon

o for a sword and an orc in which to stick it.

sometimes i want to be a hobbit. you know, the little people of the shire with stout hearts and over-sized furry feet. i already share the half-lings love of good beer and the simple life. more than these, i crave hobbit adventure. the real issue here is not that i want to be a hobbit so much as i want to live in the land of middle earth.

now i am sure that the mention of lord of the rings may conjure certain images of peter jackson’s trilogy in the minds of my three fine readers, but let me establish that my love of this epic world was established long before the tale was told on the silver screen. in my elementary and secondary school years i spent many a bus ride reading j.r.r. tolkien’s work, eyes locked to type as the narrow country roads bounced me mercilessly. metallica, guns ‘n roses or some other hair band would blare through overhead speakers, and my fellow riders would laugh, yell or otherwise carry on – no doubt teasing some poor kid to no end. but i was not distracted, lost to another world most unlike our own. it is into this world of elves and dwarves, orcs and ogres that i wish i were born.

this is present tense. though i fell headlong into this bit of story telling at a young age, my desire to inhabit the world that is middle earth has never been stronger. it is a time and place where so much depends on decisive action that there seems to be little time for self-doubt and deprecation. the results of a day’s work are obvious – another mile traveled, another enemy slain, another battle fought. honour and glory are paramount. evil must be overcome. the world of men must rally or all is lost. heroes are the ordinary who fight beyond will and strength.

the only fight i wage is the one in my head and that particular battle grows wearisome. i increasingly tire of struggle against unseen and elusive enemies. esteem and self-talk pale in comparison to the hosts of mordor. is it heroic to steadily ascend maslow’s ladder? is self-actaulization and reaching one’s inner potential an honourable fight? seriously, let me take on a cave troll. let me defend my family against marauding orcs, my homeland against the forces of sauron. if only i were a ranger, garagorn they would call me…

of wool and other things

i was reading some crap i wrote last year and i must say, it wasn’t half bad. when something is ‘not half bad’ it means that the majority is good. more good than bad. on the better side of worse as some may say. actually, no one says ‘on the better side of worse’ that i know. i will start

i do wish to write some more. i do enjoy putting a few words together, adding a dash of squiggles and dots for punctuation, and reading the result to the queen of my castle. she is a good soul and the primary encourager of mine. you may not know this but today marks seven full years of marriage for our little selves. an anniversary is what they call it. we will be dining out this early eve as our kids are in the good hands of friends. it will be a short stint of childless wonder – less than 4 hours all told – never-the-less, we will enjoy every minute.

seven is the year of the wool i have been told. wool? the last thing i knit was toque. for a girlfriend. i must confess that i just did the straight up stitching and my fine mother did all the tricky stuff. casting on and off and such. i’m really not sure i want to pick up the needles again. maybe my love and i will get a spool or bundle or shock or whatever you call a pack of sheep string and do something to mark the day as special. we shall see. it may be alpaca or even llama.

as seven is the year of wool it makes sense that it also be the year of the itch. it would appear that during the seventh year of marriage more than one couple has shipwrecked on restless rocks. tired of the good they got so they go looking for what they think they want some where else. not sure how it works really. i don’t intend to find out. wool over the eyes, i say. we two are not immune to spousal dysfunction and disharmony and the relentless grind of the everyday. by god’s grace and some doses of honesty, humility and some humour to boot, we’ve kept closer together when circumstances would wedge us apart. we fight for ‘us’ on a regular basis. things are well in the castle of late. we’ll use this year of seven to stretch some togetherness muscles. stay limber and in love.

incidentally, seven is also a movie about the dwarfs. an animated feature. the one where brad pit and morgan freeman track down said number murdered short people. deadly. turns out snow white got life times seven with no possibility of parole.

Melvin’s* voices

*almost his real name

Melvin hears voices that coach him. They tell him to do different things. I know ’cause he told me. Lately they’ve been saying he should eat a lot of sweets and he sure does. He has a fondness for the sour cream glaze. I hear voices telling me to drink more beer. I’m partial to the ales. I question those voices. Melvin doesn’t. He tells me about them with utmost sincerity.

Along with the voices in his head, Melvin carries his bible everywhere he goes. I’m pretty sure it’s a Gideon model. Gold cover and dog-eared as they come. I always ask him what he’s reading. Lamentations is a perennial favourite. I’ve seen Melvin weekly for about a year now and 7 times out of 9 he’s reading Lamentations. Ecclesiastes gets in the rotation, sometimes Proverbs, and once he even dipped into Revelations

Melvin may or may not eat when ever he comes around the Gathering Place from which i know him, but he always cracks the good book. The Lord must be cracking jokes in the wisdom literature because he laughs aloud on a regular basis. He’ll be reading by himself and chuckles will come drifting over the room from his direction. People will look up, realize it’s just Melvin, and go back to whatever it was they were doing.

Today I thought it was high time I got in on the joke.

“What’s so funny melvin?”

“Oh, I just heard voices from Israel.”

More chuckles

“See you later Garry.”

My coworker and I exchange puzzled glances as Melvin graciously excuses himself. I didn’t have time for a second question. As far as Melvin was concerned, there was entirely no need for any follow up. Voices from Israel are just par for the course.

As far as I’m concerned it’s time for a beer. Then I think I’ll read the bible.

of watermelons, storms and summer evenings lost

She always did well at the county fair. Her cherry pie was to die for and her long-haired heifers were the envy of the ol’ boys.

“That there’s a cow.” They’d mutter, leaning on the fence while gazing soulfully at yet another one of her winners.

This year the grand prize was no less than an all expenses paid trip to Las Vegas. She intended to win it all. She always did, and they loathed her for it. She’d gloat in their faces and strut around the grounds with an array of blue and red ribbons across her dumpy bosom. A sore winner to be sure.

That summer she tended to her watermelons as if her life depended on it. They grew large and green and were destined for greatness. She would croon and purr over them. They were her beauties. I wish I could have found such favour in her eyes. She was my aunt and most evenings I would peddle over to help her roll the melons so that they wouldn’t grow flat spots.

“Put your back into it boy or next time send your sister.”

I’m certain her bark was worse than her bite but it didn’t make those summer evenings anymore enjoyable. She’d cuss and cluck and hiss at my work and then turn around and lovingly stroke the green monster I was heaving. She had a lot of love for the fruits of the vine. Every so often I’d give a melon a good kick just to spite her. I’d cry out as if I tripped and show her the dented rind.

“God help me child! Can’t you even walk, boy? I’ve half a mind to do it myself.”

I wished she would do it herself and send me home but she never did. Strong as she was, she really did need my help to roll the big one. Her prize was growing at the edge of the patch nearest the gate. Bitter as I was at missing out on evening of swimming, baseball or watching tv, I knew better than to mess with that melon. No fake falls around that one.

One hot summer night as I biked over, the sky grew steadily darker. One of those freak thunderstorms was moving in and fast. The air that had been so thick and still was beginning to stir. As I turned off the main road, I could see her down at the end of the lane working feverishly to get as much done before the storm broke. Her sturdy frame bustled here and there throughout the patch, snipping a vine then turning around to pinch a bud. She would be waiting for me to help with the heavy work.

I pedaled faster as the black clouds stacked above me. The wind was kicking up, I could see the fields waving as I hurried past. Thunder was rolling and close too. Big drops began to fall. As I approached the gate all hell broke loose. Thunder cracked right over head and lightning licked earth. It lit up the gate as I shot through, lugs pumping, eyes wide with surprise, every hair at charged to attention.

I couldn’t stop. My tire hit a small melon at the edge of the patch, front wheel twisting. Time seemed to slow. I could see my bike stop beneath me and recede behind. I was airborne, the vines of the patch passing underneath. Looking up I see two things very clearly – my Aunt’s horrified expression and an incredibly large watermelon in my flight path. Rolling and tucking my shoulder, I braced for impact.

I came to a few moments later, the cool rind of her prized melon against my neck. The sky was still dark, the rain still fell, but the frenzy of the storm had receded over the fields. I lay there, surveying the damage. Front bike tire severily bent, lodged in a small melon. Left shoulder very tender, wedged in a gigantic melon. Aunt’s face expressionless, eyes riveted on a her precious punctured melon.

“Com’on boy.”

With just a hint of tenderness, she helped me extricate myself, watermelon innards reluctantly releasing me. We walked slowly to the house to call my mom. With every step her hope of glory faded.

—-

another piece birthed at storytellers anonymous. this one from an exercise that had everyone submit a word, phrase, place name to a list. the object was for each person to write a story that included all words on the list. this time around we had to use the following: watermelon, Las Vegas, a grumpy aunt, thunderstorm and any form of the verb to fade. and there it is…

restless…

ever want to be part of something great?

ya, me too.

“there are no great things. only small things done with great love.”

mother theresa

literal issues

I’ve heard it said that you are what you eat. At first blush, the phrase strikes me as rather stupid. It doesn’t compute. Consuming some food product or another does not magically transform a person into its likeness. Seriously, does anyone really think that having a bbq’ed steak makes one a cow or a t-bone or what have you? See – stupid saying.

That’s the literalist in me. Always on someone’s case about the exact meaning of their words. Usually the case I’m on is Shan’s. Usually she shoves me off with considerable efficiency. I would too. The literalist in me is a real ass.

The literalist in me is also a fan of steak, but I digress.

This blog post is going south in a hurry (Not actually south). I’ve written myself into a corner (You won’t really be able to find a corner anywhere in this paragraph other than the two times said word was used) and there’s nowhere to go. I hate it when that happens.

Here’s the long and the short of it… (Incidentally that is another stupid phrase that gets Literal Me all fired up. How can something be both long and short at the self-same time? Dumb.)

Take a hike.
Seriously, I need to go for a walk.

There’s something to be said here, but I’ll have to give it another shot when I get back.

Kid

at Storytellers Anonymous one of our assignments was to write for ten minutes using a picture for inspiration. i used the cover of our first edition of Hatch as i arrived late and it was the only thing handy. incidentally, hatch is not available on the internet. please contact me if you’d like a copy.

The war had taken it’s toll on Allied pilots. Thousands shot down over enemy territory, thousands more too afraid to return to the skies. Morale was at an all time low. Even officers were unable to hide the hopelessness they carried in their hearts. All seemed lost.

Until he came along.

He walked through camp with the swagger of youth. His dark eyes held a fire that ignited men’s bones. His words called out courage where ever they landed. He was stalwart. He was steadfast. And he was the ace who would turn the tide of that terrible war. We called him Kid. He was anything but.

trouble magnet

I have several friends who’s writing makes me smile on a regular basis. Bisslington is a young phenomenon just coming into his own, Dozzegier’s refusal to use punctuation is mind blowing, and Saint Elmach of Rysvk can mix a metaphor on dime. (Incidentally, I feel that was a strong mixed metaphor. Good work Birddog. B-)

One of these storied tellers wrote a piece that I very much enjoyed. It involved the running over of a monk on a winding country road. Front and Back tires were involved. A name was dropped. As always, it left me puzzled and amused. Much to my surprise, this bit of quality literature was no where to be found when I returned to the blog to reread and extol it’s virtues to the writer himself.

It was a phone conversation. He hinted that some serious trouble had come his way as a result of the writing. He laughed nervously. It was tense. He didn’t have the time or privacy to give his experience justice he told me. He spoke in hushed tones, his speech erratic, and his phrasing cryptic. I think the phone was tapped. He promised to tell all in person. I’m to come alone. No bugs, no police and no media.

One can’t help but wonder.
My steel-trap of a mind goes into overdrive.

My friend writes a story about hitting a monk with his car.
He identifies the monk by first and last name.
He posts this all on his blog, (which is on the internet, which, as we all know, is a veritable web covering our wide world with informational access).

It’s obvious now…
Opus Dei found the story and made erroneous assumptions. They’ve assumed that the story my friend wrote is true and that the man named is actually one their own. They have threatened my friend and sent that crazed albino from the DaVinci Code to hunt him down and avenge their brother’s death. My friend knows there’s no way of explaining to them it was a work of fiction – to make contact is imminent death. It may go all the way to the Pope.

I’m pretty sure that’s what’s happening.

arnie’s poem and a shaggy dog story

I work about a shift a week at The Gathering Place, a program run by the Salvation Army in partnership with the city of Kingston. The Gathering provides a meal and place to hang out for the folks of Kingston who may be without homes, money, support or other such staples that many of us take for granted. I love it there. I love meeting the people I meet and getting to know them better.

A few weeks ago I found out my friend Arnie (almost his real name) has done some writing in his previous life. Arnie’s awesome. He’ll talk the hind end off a donkey as my Gramma has been heard to say. Half the time I have no clue what he’s talking about. We make each other laugh and that’s about all that matters. Arnie and I got to talking the other day and he told me he likes to write, so we decided the next time I was working we’d sit down, pen and paper in hand and do a little sentence crafting.

Here’s what Arnie cooked up…

The Right Wright Day
As it was said – get some paper and write:
Something
Stuff

One man’s basic look at life
One model
Two designs
Young and Old
Large and Small
Good and Bad

That which is mine is mine.
Everything else belongs to someone else.
Though there is the stuff we share, like the roads, sidewalks and parks
I will try to owe nothing to anyone but myself.
I will try to prove nothing to anyone but myself.
If someone should ask me for help, I will help if I can.

Arnie signed it with a special insignia of his initials overlaid on each other and a light bulb. As we talked, I discovered that this was a piece he wrote for the newsletter of a local agency. He couldn’t remember all of it but he’s going to get back to me…

This is what I cooked up… Well, I started it with Arnie and finished the rest later…

Brona was our Irish Setter. A full grown male, he was tall, lanky and had the shaggy dark copper coat for which the breed is known. I’m not sure how he wound up at our house and I really couldn’t tell you who gave him that stupid name. Always reminded me of the town Verona. The association remains in my mind to this day.

Brona wasn’t with us very long. Couldn’t have been more than a year, two tops. He was bright eyed and energetic enough but his hips gave him trouble. Brona suffered from hip dysplasia, a genetic defect common to setters, apparently due to excessive inbreeding. It wasn’t so bad at first, but he got steadily worse. He couldn’t get around without great discomfort, his hindquarters moving erratically as he walked, the pain obvious with every step. It was only a matter of time.

One day Brona went missing. We came home from school and he wasn’t anywhere. Apparently dogs will wonder off to find a place to die. That’s what Dad suggested must have happened. An 8 year old doesn’t take the disappearance of his dog very easily, but try as I might to engage my parents in the search effort, I couldn’t motivate them into action. The whole Brona conversation tended to get shut down rather efficiently. Yet I held out hope he would return – that everything was still ok.

A few days later, my younger sister and I were playing out back. Behind our house was a bit of a dumping ground for discarded building materials and other junk. One of our forts was down there. A pile of old cinder blocks we stacked into a small room of three walls a few feet high. We hadn’t been for a while and wouldn’t go back for a lot longer.

As I rounded the corner into the fort something caught my eye. Something red. Something hairy. Something that looked a lot like Brona… only stiffer… with flies buzzing around. Recognition came fast and furious. Tears flowed as I ran past my confused sister up the hill, yelling for Mom the whole way. Into her arms I ran, choking out the story of my discovery with sobs and snot and a whole lot of hurt.

There’s a fair distance between that hurt and how I feel today. In this matter, time had a way of healing the pain of loss. Time also had a way of revealing details and back-story to the events surrounding Brona’s disappearance and death. In an offhanded conversation with my Mom, I find out more than 20 years later that Brona didn’t wonder off to die at all. Turns out, he had some help. Dad had taken Brona for a walk. Going for a walk involves an ailing family pet, a tired family patriarch and a hunting rifle. It’s a practice common to rural life though it had never occurred to me that this was what happened to Brona. Apparently Dad was going to go back and bury Brona but hadn’t gotten around to it. Mom said she was so mad at Dad when I told her where I found the dog. Now, whenever I think of this event in my life, I can’t help but smile as I picture the tongue lashing my Dad received for the emotional trauma he inflicted on his first born.