Category: accomodation

Re: Stories

While talking to my 95 year old special mom about a newspaper story of a neighbour who is lost, I became lost myself, in the flimsy gauze between truth and fiction. The report of the missing man has details that beg to be filled in with only my conjecture. My mom asks questions that I can’t objectively answer, yet a conclusion to the story had to be reached before we could move on with our day. Thus, the story in our community becomes wedded to our own story, even while the resolution to the story is pending. Even with her advanced age and experience, my mom found this hard to bear.

Bedtime stories are precious in the way they invite imagination. The child being read to goes on fantastical journeys with only a few words of script. Sometimes only a picture is enough to provoke multiple questions of why, how and where. The stories live on after the sleepy-head has been tucked in and the reader has left the room. Stories are meant to persist just as the witness to a life event takes in information and transforms the data into something relevant and understandable. In that way, life itself is a never ending story containing multitudes of chapters and possibilities.

A building starts with a foundation. Stories are added to this physical structure to accommodate people and things. Sometimes in poorer countries the extra floors take time to build. I remember asking a tour-guide, while on a bus trip in Peru, about some buildings having rebar sticking out at the top of rows of cinder block. She told me it was a sign of hope in her community that one day enough money would be available to add a second floor onto the house, to make space for expanding families. A case of another story creating room for more stories.

Recently Andrea Skinner, a daughter of Alice Munro, made public her story of abuse at the hands of her step-father. Readers of Munro’s work talked and wrote about the revelation as though it was their story. Some couldn’t see themselves ever reading this Nobel Prize winning author’s stories ever again because of this new, real life chapter insertion into the Munro bibliography. Ms.Skinner’s misfortune reminded me when I was a toddler and being admonished never to tell tales on the family. I took that to mean; Don’t lie. Yet when I saw my mom talking with others she would often start a conversation with another adult by asking for gossip. I still find the difference between privacy and secrets confusing.

Any bit of fact can be turned into a story. I believe conspiracy theories are an attempt to make our imaginations come to life. We want to understand things so desperately that we join in the story making with other like-minded folk to explain the unfathomable. Every culture is built on stories. Sometimes the truth is hidden to get on with other things we think are more important.

My story is not like yours but we have chapters in common, let’s build on that.

Re: Dominion

The bible tells me so: Gen. 1 Verses 26 to 31 “And God said, Let us make man in our image, after our likeness: and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the fowl of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creepeth upon the earth.” But what if I don’t want to!

To have dominion is to control stuff and I believe it is wrong to dominate other living things. For some folk their god is all powerful, so we can be too. But really, as a hominid, I’m just another creeping thing that creepeth over the earth. The state of the planet right now only proves my point: If we had been put in charge of this place we’ve sure enough done a terrible job of it. If we were made in an image of god then we haven’t been creative enough in return. We haven’t been good stewards.

During the controlling phase of my life; when I felt things worked better by imposing order and good government, I had a small bonsai tree. Its roots were constricted like the feet of Chinese girls of ages past. Its limbs were shaped by twists of wire. Its growth was restricted by judicious use of fertilizer. I wasn’t a good pet keeper and this plant did not flourish. In the film Trees, And Other Entanglements, director Irene Taylor tells us of a famous Bonsai artist and others who attempt to represent their views of how plants should be shaped to serve our needs. It left me feeling a bit creepy.

Let’s face it, as a species we didn’t think through the whole industrial revolution period. Our machines have laid waste to the eden from whence we came. Now we find we must manage other species before the tipping point of their extinction. In university I studied for a degree in Fish and Wildlife Biology. Many of the courses described methods of farming multiple species so that these living resources could be effectively used to feed, clothe and house the ever growing and expanding human population. We were being trained to be efficient dominators of the environment’s flora and fauna. We studied how deer ate, so they could be fed better and then be hunted. We studied the salmon’s cycles so they would grow prosperous before they were netted. We studied forest growth so that we could improve tree yield before it could be harvested. We were given the licence to dominate every creature, animal or vegetable, to serve our own needs. We still fell short. We failed to be taught how to live with, rather than lord over, the Earth Garden.

Our colonizers, The British aristocracy, once ruled this land calling it The Dominion of Canada. The Crown still holds power in our affairs. The label has fallen out of favour but citizens may still proclaim allegiance during formal community events. I hope the age of possession is over. I don’t want us to be the master of all that we survey.

Re: Pace

I have a sort of pace maker for my heart. I’ve been diagnosed with Atrial Fibrillation, which means that my heart has irregular rapid beats. I currently take medication to regulate the intensity and to cut down on the randomness of my heart’s pace. I’ll live to see another day.

The pace of my life has changed. There are things I have adapted to, out of respect for my age. I’m neither unfit, nor unwell. My body is giving me reminders to slow down to accommodate the realities of my 8th decade. Joints are becoming arthritic. I can’t turn my head without hearing a crackly sound. I turn to pain medication more often. My skin flakes off constantly. I think it’s a question of ongoing maintenance, that, and good hygiene. My former mother-in-law used to say that after seventy life becomes a matter of ‘patch, patch, patch’. She was a vigorous mall walker into her late eighties then she just stopped and died. Talk about a change of pace!

One fretful moving day years ago I rented a car; an AMC Pacer to follow the movers to our new home and a new job. From there we were to go on to a wedding but alas, our pace for the Pacer was too much for that machine to bear. Repairs were made but we arrived late to the nuptials. It got worse; our rental wouldn’t start when it was time to leave. Towing and more repairs were made. I called the rental company & they said no worries, they’d sort it out when we returned the vehicle. I kept all receipts & affidavits but still had a hassle. Conclusion: AMC Pacer must be on pace to be the worst car ever.

‘On your mark, get set, go!’ Comes a shout from the timekeeper, while the racers are off at their running pace towards a manmade finish line. Olympic sponsors are currently revving their corporate engines, meanwhile nature sets its own pace. Certainly the seasons, by way of the rotation of our planet around the sun, tell us that everything will unfold in its natural way. I must consider the phases of the moon the next time I think it’s imperative that my pace is more important than my peace.

Since retirement I’m no longer in the rat race so I practise stillness, even value it. I’ve been a pacer; in the sense of anxiety keeping me moving. Waiting for something to happen was often an unhealthy preoccupation of mine. Picture the old time father pacing in the hospital expecting his child to arrive any minute now. In those days of expectancy I wore a watch to monitor the pace of my day; counting the minutes until the working was done, timing the roast in the oven, looking to see if I still had time before my appointment.

My 95 year old special mom uses a large nuclear style push button audio device by her bed to tell her the time. Its automated voice tells her to get up and greet another day.

Re: Kept

I don’t have any well kept secrets because I’ve never been good at hiding things. I don’t enjoy keeping people guessing if there is news to tell. I can keep to my own thoughts though, and I’ve sometimes kept a diary. I’m reasonably good at keeping up with a conversation. I’ve kept going to work when it was the last thing I wanted to do just to keep up appearances. I have reluctantly worn a silly hat in keeping with the situation.

Julia is a television series created by Daniel Goldfarb. In the second season, episode two Stockard Channing has a guest role as Frances Field. While at a dinner gathering, her character makes a short speech. Frances says” “We’re all kept…I know I’ve been kept. I was kept by my late husband…I assume you’re kept…good fortune comes and goes. Here’s to sharing everything you have. Here’s to being kept.” There is a long pause as people leave the table saying goodnight. Frances turns to her date and says, “Was it something I said?”

I wondered about that speech. I tried to trace examples in my life of being kept. I asked my 95 year old special mom for an opinion. She said immediately “I am kept” and then “but I don’t feel hard done by.” My mother-in-law is such a realist when it comes to figuring out life. Being almost blind and hard of hearing means she is very dependent on others for her care. So in that way she is kept, but content and grateful to be so, we mutually concluded. Her response has kept me thinking.

The phrase ‘kept woman’ flashed through my mind as I reviewed that conversation. I started to realize that Ms.Field was perhaps feeling equally blessed when she gave that dinner toast. She felt her needs were being looked after and she didn’t mind suggesting that some of her autonomy had been lost as a result of being kept. She was being realistic however, in implying that getting along in life requires exchanges and compromises that don’t necessarily have to diminish one’s character.

Yet where do we draw a line for ourselves? I don’t wish to be someone’s puppet; kept on strings in a case, in a corner. Neither do I wish to be in the driver’s seat for someone else. I respect that everyone has a right to their own life and to live it as they please. For a number of years in my youth I was often left in charge of my sister. Our mother made it clear that she didn’t want us to look unkempt, lest neighbours grow suspicious of her shirking her parental responsibilities. I was expected to get my sister to and from school, sometimes also making her lunches and dinners. I was told to look after her until mom or dad came home from work. I was my sister’s keeper.

My parents kept me in line. I became responsible as a result (perhaps neurotically so). I’ll continue to share parts of me. And I’ll show gratitude whenever someone chooses to look after my needs.

Re: Zoo

I don’t like to keep words in boxes (dictionaries). I respect the notion that language is forever evolving. For example, when I come into contact with the word Zoo I jump to initial conclusions based on my experiences. The very sound of that word triggers an emotional response. Before I enter into a discussion regarding zoos, in general or specifically, I need to consider the context of the engagement. Perhaps my understanding of the meaning of this word will change as I consider a different point of view. With this word Zoo I have now covered all the letters of the alphabet. Maybe one day my effort will serve as a children’s ABC style learning book but for older folk: P is for Price, A is for Art, Z is for Zoo etc.

Language researchers like lexicographers or etymologists enjoy studying words. I am not a researcher yet I like writing about how the English language has made me who I am. Most adults have a vocabulary of 10 000 words used on a regular basis. Human beings separate themselves by language, physical borders, personal boundaries or behaviour. It almost seems natural that we seek to enclose ourselves.

Zoos as an institution can depress me. Aquariums for aquatic mammals are jails. Captivity is not something that appeals to me. Keeping (owning) pets of any kind is a questionable human habit. Surprisingly, I used to aspire to working in a zoo. I once visited a hobby farm or ‘family zoo’ that appalled me. The star attraction both times, 30 years apart, was a very sad looking chimpanzee. After all that time the pathetic creature was in the same cage, not looking any wiser. The film Planet of the Apes comes to mind. In the late eighties some zoos underwent a transformation from the confined structure of old bars, iron gates and concrete screened buildings to more open air enclosures where the wild habitat was imitated to a certain degree. On a visit to such a zoo in Europe I was enthralled that I could walk about in an open field with giraffes. I came very close to chucking a career in teaching during a mid-life crisis after reading that Al Oeming had started a conservation area for ungulates in Alberta and wanted workers educated in wildlife management. Pick me!

It’s funny how we throw our arms in the air in exasperation saying, “It’s a zoo out there.” Clearly we have built our own self confining spaces. Sometimes we live in cages of our own design. Maybe that’s why we feel a zoo is ok for animals. Maybe that accounts for our belief that it’s acceptable practise to incarcerate fellow humans. I truly think planet Earth would do better if it was less managed by our species. With climate change, perhaps we are being shown that we can’t continue to harvest/corral/confine everything just to make our lives better, richer or safer.

‘We reap what we sow’ sounds fitting in this context. 

Re: Own

The times in my life that have worked out for the better have been those occasions when I have owned the narrative. Times when I have made the best out of a poor situation. Times when I could have felt ‘done to’ but instead I decided that I could find a place for myself amidst the lives of others. It’s best not to feel victimized or even put upon. In the best or the worst of times, having some control allows us to use our creativity to make an adventure out of any circumstance. Taking ownership is the first step towards making a plan.

I resist the phrase, ‘You’ve made your bed now go lie in it’. Yet, owning the problem can enhance your responsibility; moving you into a place where opportunities await. Change becomes less shocking. You alone are best positioned to decide the best choices to make within the reality. Currently I am sharing the daily task of elder care. My wife’s mother is living with us so that her unique needs can be met. I rarely feel as though I want to jump ship but assessing my role in this present picture is a challenge. I could say to my bride, “She not my mother, you deal with it.” Or, I can accept my situation better the more I feel involved: I can read newspaper stories to this special 95 year old (almost blind) woman. I can engage her in a stimulating conversation. I can invite her to help me solve the crossword. I can walk her to the seaside, sit with her, and describe the scene my eyes can still see. I owe it to myself to own every moment I have in concert with the people in my world. In this scenario I am working towards the goal of recognizing the value of thinking, “Well she’s my mother too.”

Owning the present in an affirmative way has helped me accept change. As a teen my parents separated (I discovered I felt better when I spent more time independently with each of them). My first wife was raised in a church going family and wanted that lifestyle for our children (I found a new side of myself by joining the choir and learning biblical teaching). My second wife was into healthy food choices (I found the world of cuisine expanded my curiosity and gave me a heightened awareness of other countries and cultures). I adapted rather than acquiesced.

During one talk with my elder roomie, I asked her what she thought about the word Own. She blurted out, “Well I don’t own any furniture anymore.” An obvious statement coming as the consequence of downsizing and a cross country relocation to a small townhouse with her daughter and me. Digging out of the confusion of a life no longer being normal takes a lot of patience, until you find what is normal again. Owning up to the part you can play and being unafraid to design your own script can help with the success of any of life’s productions.

Re: Man

I am a man. I think I am a man because of my biology and my training. I was taught that I could pee standing up, that I could help make a family by being a provider, that women and children must be saved first in a disaster. Some of that, perhaps all, is outdated thinking. But still, I know within my being, that I am a man.

This man: Me. I am taking small steps to learn that not all men, not all human beings, are created alike. By our very nature we are formed from the same flesh and blood and so must be treated, collectively with the same respectful humanity. However, I have come to learn that I am a Privileged Man by virtue of my whiteness and wealth. This troubles me. The equal rights declaration, “I am a Man!” is not lost on me. I learned of my manhood by example, as all men do. My father taught me there can be gentleness in a man. He spoke of femaleness and maleness as characteristics that men and women can share. For a while I was confused about these juxtapositions. I saw violence in my mother so I knew that hatred was not the purview of a man, alone. I learned that it was alright to cry, and yet tears may let others in on your secrets.

What it means to be a man has been a topic of discussion since the times of the wise Greeks. Most often, in my interpretation, these definitions have been restrictions to mankind’s full potential. Robert Bly made an attempt at defining the need for a men’s movement. His book, ‘Iron John’ was a great read using an old folk tale as a guide. The flaw in the text was the assumption that Man must be thought of as opposed to Woman. Our physiology must not predetermine our preferences, attitudes or behaviour. I believe there is more harm than good in concluding that the sexes think and act in a standardized pattern.

There is no manual on how to become fully human just as there is no series of steps to raising a child. Cultures may provide clues that help us to nurture nature. But nature will usually prevail. Societies may fear gender dysphoria to the extent of enacting laws that do more harm. Resolving issues of sexuality and gender identity will require love, not restrictive laws. It is clear to me that neither manipulation nor manhandling will be effective strategies when resolving these issues. I was recently moved by the role that Ben Whishaw played in the film Women Talking. He reminded me of my father in the way he showed respect for members of the opposite sex. His performance, proved there can be fluidity between the feminine and masculine ways of thinking. This quote from Psalms comes to mind: “O Yahweh, how manifold are thy works”

By virtue of my manhood I’m a member of the Patriarchy yet I am a man who does not want Power to rest in my maleness alone.

Re: Elder

My wife and I are in the midst of eldercare. Her mother is nearing 95 and needs attention. She is partially blind (can’t read print or signs, sees shadows and outlines). We are working with community services to build her a life worth preserving while sheltering her in our own home. We are not noble, just practical. We want what we think is best for her. We feel she has deserved a respectful conclusion after a life of care to others.

I placed my own elderly mother in a nursing care facility almost a decade ago. My sister and I concluded that we couldn’t meet her special needs. She was an elder who was difficult to serve. Of the three locations where she received government old age long term care, the last publicly funded centre was up to the task. She had five good years in a former hospital in British Columbia before she died of natural causes. After her death I was shocked to discover that a Nursing Home in Pickering, where she had previously been in residence, was discovered to have the most Covid deaths within Ontario.

Many cultures honour their seniors. The culture of caring for elders seems like a distant tradition for white folk. We tend to stick them somewhere and invite them over for holidays; but only if they promise to behave. Wealthy elders can afford nursing care in higher end Retirement Homes. Many may be supported, like my mother was, within a patchy arrangement of government funding. Often these old folks homes are dependent on staffing. The inequities between standards of eldercare surfaced with the recent pandemic. In Canada we have a federal Minister of State for Seniors but the office appears to have minimal influence.

Elders are people first so they can be cranky or angelic in spurts. I’ve known many people older than me, whom I have loved to think of as my friends. I’m growing old now too and can better appreciate the toll longevity can take on a person’s physical and emotional well being. I don’t like to feel pushed into believing that 70 is the new 50. That puts pressure on me to live up to a standard. Like most spirited elders I feel 17 and always will enjoy sensing that I am young at heart. I’m not turning into a fossil or becoming an old fogey in attitude. On my best days, I’d like to believe that I am eldering: growing old with grace.

My wife’s mother appears happy to be in our company. She jokes how it is better than being turned out to pasture or left to float away on an ice floe. Our village on Vancouver Island has a community centre for the elderly called ‘New Horizons’. I like the encouraging sound of that, since I rebel at the thought I might be at the end of things. We old folk continue to need opportunities for stimulation, restoration, even growth. I’ve a lot to learn & my special mom has a lot of wisdom still to give.

Re: Contract

After watching the film ‘An Affair To Remember’ with my 94 year old special mom, she engaged my wife and I in a discussion about marriage. “Why would anyone get married these days?” Our conversation covered the idea of a union being a contract between two people desiring to show a public commitment to each other. “But why?” She still wanted to know. We didn’t have a scientific explanation.

The business case for a marriage contract is pretty straight forward. There is money involved. Bank accounts. Valued possessions. Pets even! Most jurisdictions contend that after a certain amount of time in cohabitation two people are seen as having an agreement as a couple. I’m no divorce lawyer but the argument seems to go that a 50/50 split is required if your differences become irreconcilable. Now this can change if you both had the forethought to sign a prenuptial contract. To me that is just cold comfort because a prenup seems calculated to find failure. But prudence can be a red flag. I don’t believe love can be found anywhere near a judge. Justice maybe, but no love baby.

Getting a new phone contract was very stressful. So many decisions to make. Multiple offers were presented regarding data plans, equipment, insurance, privacy. I was glad my bride was there to help me not feel manipulated by a Glengarry Glen Ross style salesmen. Our guy Michael seemed trustworthy. I only used a signature once at the mall kiosk and that was on an iPad using my finger. Looking over the fine print of my new communications econtract that was sent digitally to my email account, I see that there are stiff penalties if I don’t return the upgraded equipment. Hopefully my anxiety will dissipate over time.

I do like the security of a contract when it comes to major purchases. This is the language of a black and white world. I’m old enough to still understand the respect shared with a handshake. An understanding is arrived at that I will provide payment for services clearly spelled out in writing. Yes, there are grey areas indicated in the fine print even in the most iron clad agreement (it’s almost a given that no one reads this part of the contract). Perhaps this is where the social contract overlaps with business contracts: Perhaps trust is the ink in the pen, fluid until it sets.

When I chose to marry, my intent was to make a promise to myself as much as to my wife. Our vows were on a beach. We didn’t have a signing ceremony, although we did receive an official certificate of participation. We began the business of living together not in a contractual sense but as a memorandum of understanding. We recognized there may be grey areas, yet we would make space for amendments. We never wanted to let ourselves down during our association.

I’m a romantically formal guy in one sense: On that beach we signed our Magna Carta: A loving charter of rights and privileges between two souls.

Re: Evacuate

I’ve recently had a moving experience. It seemed like a move on the surface: There were boxes to pack, items to sort, donations to be made, a yard sale, and relocation planning. This was all accomplished with the usual amount of fuss, tears and goodbyes. Things get emotional with a move.

I’ve been involved in several moves in my lifetime yet this was like no other. I tried to wrap my head around the experience by using different descriptors like Leaving, Escaping, Evacuating, Purging, Departing, Fleeing, Vacating. This seemed most like an evacuation. We left behind things. We knew we weren’t likely to ever come back. Fortunately, we weren’t joining a long line of similar evacuees, fleeing a war zone, but we did have a sense of loss, a sense of leaving a homeland. We felt these feelings vicariously. My wife and I saw them, in the eyes of our 94 year old dependent elder.

My mother-in-law had just witnessed the death of her husband after a protracted illness. The reality of what to do next lay ahead and we three decided that a relocation was necessary. My wife and I wanted to take our mother home with us to the place that we had loved before all this turmoil had begun. That meant our elder had to leave the apartment she had existed in for 44 years. Not an easy thing to accomplish; physically or emotionally. She was good humoured and forward thinking, telling her life long friends that she was excited about the prospect of a fresh beginning. She described how she felt grateful we had the resources for a successful transition.

When my wife and I first fell in love the notion of running away from it all was a frequent item of conversation. We thought that life would be freer and simpler if we just owned a backpack to carry a few necessities. We wanted to hit the road, be of no fixed address. Moving away from circumstances that have made us feel trapped felt liberating. One of the reasons we originally made a home in British Columbia was because we wanted to start life anew. 

My special mom has a great sense of humour. We equated our seemingly sudden departure to an ‘Elvis has left the building’ sort of moment. There were momentary hilarious thoughts of the whole exercise being like a bowel movement: All sorts of memories and possessions being expelled and flushed away. She hadn’t been evicted but there was real sadness in the eyes of the superintendent when the lease on the apartment had to be terminated. Along with her sunshiny attitude Mom had moments of darker comedy when she asked me jokingly if we were going to set her on an ice floe and push her out to sea. Reassurance was provided.

We are now settled together, we three. Our elder is busy exploring her new neighbourhood. The trauma of the move is over and a new chapter in our lives awaits to be written.