Category: childhood

Re: Imagination

Imagine for a moment you are enthralled by a young mind telling you a story from their imagination. In this context facts are unimportant, only the drama and wonder of thinking how this idea could possibly have begun in the first place.

There I was one afternoon relating the story of the big bad wolf and the three little pigs to my three year old imaginative friend. He was rapt as I told him that some versions of this fairytale had the wolf EAT the pigs (my listener has a vegetarian mother). He stopped me several times to repeat sections. A couple of times I had to assure him that every character was doing what came naturally. At the end of my tale I asked what he thought of eating meat from pigs (we had had sausage for lunch) or chicken (he concluded that birds don’t count). He said he didn’t care about fish.

Any teacher will tell you it’s a perk of the job to listen to examples of imaginary thought from their students. I remember my mom always saying the phrase “out of the mouths of babes” whenever she concluded a story about my sister or me to her friends. Back then there was a television program Kid’s Say The Darndest Things hosted by Art Linkletter. Later the program was rebooted with Bill Cosby posing as the questioner of the kids. Imagine!

My young friend ruminated on my fairytale for a moment (bathroom break). The house continued to buzz with kitchen clean-up and quiet adult conversation when he came back and sat beside me on the couch. I thought he was going to ask for another fairy tale but no, he began to tell me something that sounded like a recipe for baked horse. Allow me to provide a condensed version of his culinary how-to: You have to put on gloves and get all the poop out. Next (he instructed) you cut off the tail and chop the horse into pieces that will fit into the oven. Keep everything clean (he emphasized). When it’s all very hot then you spread on some mayonnaise (at this point he smacked his lips!)

After the first narration my young friend was clearly impressed by the attention he was getting (by now his parents had joined in, listening with a measure of shock & awe). The show must go on! He raised his arms and asked if I would remember his horsey story (I assured him that I would never forget it). He then stepped onto the floor and performed an interpretive dance version of The Baked Horse Recipe. His hands got rid of all the poop, the snipped tail miraculously flew into the air on sprouted wings, the horse bits were pushed into the oven, and the spreading of the mayonnaise was the piece de resistance! He could have bowed because we all wanted to give him a standing ovation. I suggested to his parents that he must be enrolled in acting classes immediately, or at least chef school.

Re: Half

I pondered the ‘Glass half full/half empty’ idiom as I woke yesterday. I usually awake feeling optimistic and this day was no exception. I scanned my memory for all the things that fill my spirit. My thoughts warmed my heart. And ‘warmed’ was key here: The situation was neither hot nor cold. My feeling was neither elation nor dreary. I concluded that I like my proverbial glass always at the halfway mark. Most of the time, I find satisfaction living without the stress of extremes.

Come to think of it, when I’m in my car, if the gas tank needle indicates HALF, I’m good with that too. Running on empty is stressful and being full-up means the vehicle is carrying more weight than it needs to carry. Besides I’m never more than half a world away from the important people or places in my life. In my memory I recall my mom advising me before going on a teenage adventure in my used Volkswagen Beetle, “Don’t go off half-cocked” which made me shudder over the sexual implications. I didn’t help if she added as I was backing out of the driveway, “And what ever you do, don’t do it half-assed.”

Contrarily, half of an idea can suggest a conflict. I could be jealous of someone and have the thought, “I’m not half the man he is.” Or I can have a debate in my head over what I might say, thinking, “I’ve got half a mind to tell her she’s wrong.” The halfway point of anything is betwixt and between, and that can be confusing. When my sons were smaller treats were portioned so that each of us felt satisfied with their share. To avoid squabbles, the son showing the greatest desire was given the job of cutting the cake/pie/chocolate bar into equal pieces. It became a math lesson of fractions requiring a good eye and a steady hand on the knife. When something is split in half, we say it’s been halved. I find the verb form hard to pronounce since I want to put too much emphasis on the letter L. Try saying, “You may have a half portion but you must have halved the cookie accurately.” This could be a fun kid’s party phrase in the manner of the tongue twister, ‘She sells sea shells…’

My 96 year old special mom is hard of sight so she appreciates being handed a cup half full of her favourite coffee. Less spillage that way. I’m learning about other things related to eldercare as I tend to her needs. She’s not shy about sharing her preferences; Half and half cream is best in her hot chocolate for example. Perhaps more than me, she enjoys routine because it helps her ‘keep on top of things’. But I can relate to her desire to avoid the hills and valleys that can occur unexpectedly. Keeping things half-way there, means you can still look back when you want, while keeping an eye on what might be just up ahead.

Re: Tender

When my mind is in a whirl over things domestic or international, I try a little tenderness. Which is not just a classic Otis Redding song but a way to shift my attitude. Music helps me set the course for a new perspective that is more harmonious because of its positivity.

Tender is a word that can be viewed from many perspectives. For instance, I like to think of myself in this word’s noun form; as in, One Who Tends. I like to tend to my tiny garden occasionally. I like to take care of business by tending to the bills and other finances of our household. I love tending to my lover. I think every work-er is also a tend-er since he or she cares for the final product of their labour. When I was a teacher of small kids I loved attending to the instructional needs of the members of my classroom. In that situation I also tried to be tender in the performance of my duty towards the little rascals.

Many of my wee students once had a liking for the Care Bears, a heavily advertised multi-media marketing bonanza that started with a delightful series of paintings by Elena Kucharik in 1981. The collection was an inspiration for expansive commercialization (cards, dolls, clothes, toys, records, books, television, etc.) but the central theme of friendship, community, and caring was touching for many folks, young or old. One of the ten original Care Bear characters was Tender Heart. The stuffed toy version was a favourite of my youngest son for so long he wore the fabric heart off of his plush chest. After so much hugging and squeezing you might say that this comfort-toy became tenderized.

I find the use of the restaurant item Chicken Tenders rather disturbing even though they are delicious. Recently our BC Ferries ‘put out a tender’ inviting bids for construction of a new line of coastal ships, which had me thinking about their intent. Perhaps the management team was hoping only ship builders promising tender-loving-care would apply. Maybe the winning bidder would have proven to employ the tenderest engineers when it came to their craft. Hard to say.

Showing tenderness towards an object like a kitchen appliance is one thing, but having tender thoughts towards another human being isn’t always easy. If we are a caregiver, for example, we may still be tender from wounds inflicted by the very person we currently look after. Treating ourselves with tenderness may be even more difficult if we suffer guilt from past performance. When my emotional scars ache I surprise myself by finding stable ground in a musical phrase. A key word like tender can lead me to songs containing that word or sentiment. I can move from Grumpy Care Bear to Tenderheart by searching Youtube for musical references. The Beegees asked for tenderness from Fanny. Elvis Presley pleaded, Love Me Tender. The group General Public wondered where it was and Paul Simon couldn’t find any. Otis Redding had tenderness right when he crooned, “It makes it easier, easier to bear.”

Re: John

My first memory of a person named John is regarding my dad’s brother. When I was six he took me to a typical British children’s park. There he pushed me around and around on a circular spinning thing. I learned later this was called a ‘Round-a-bout’ and according to an old expression what you gain on them you lose on the swings. My Uncle John was a philosophical guy, a dreamer really. He didn’t have a regular job that I was ever told about but he was my favourite family relative. My mom told me that he had a number of life tragedies, including finding his wife dead in the bathtub, electrocuted by a toaster.

Growing up I knew another ‘Uncle’ John (a family friend unrelated but deemed worthy of the title as was the custom of the time). I liked to hear tales of Long John Silver because he was a pirate, and I loved pirates more than dinosaurs when I was a kid of small age. Strangely to me, now that I type this, is my curiosity about John the Baptist. I think I like the fact that he was secondary in the Jesus story but he had a role to play in bringing salvation to the masses (sort of pirate-ish, if you think about it). When I read about Robin Hood I discovered his band of merry men, of which Little John was a member. Alan Hale Sr. played that fictional character so well in the 1938 film with Errol Flynn. I couldn’t tell you how many times I re-enacted that famous crossing the creek scene with my fellow Boy Scouts whenever we were out in the woods.

On those scouting trips we learned how important it was to keep our body systems functioning so daily evacuations in the ‘John’ were de rigueur. We actually called these poop pits the KYBO (as in Keep Your Bowels Open). Of course now-a-days it’s common to look for a Johnny-on-the-Spot when you are at an outdoor concert venue. That term strikes me as more grown-up sounding than Porta-Potty.

I wouldn’t name my child John in this age because of its association with toilets but also because John is a generic term for a guy that hangs with prostitutes (not that I have anything against sex workers) or is the recipient of a John Doe letter, poor fellow. Next to guys named Dick, I’m betting Johns get lots of teasing or abuse. There are some famous folk with this common name. The first bloke that comes to my mind because of my age is of course that Beatle, John Lennon.

Eclipsing all Johns of fame in a spiritual sense has to be John Denver. My feelings about John Denver ripple out to inform my desire to be creative. His work as a song writer, humanitarian, and fellow explorer of wondrous things have provided me with examples on how to live. He wanted to be the first citizen in space. I miss that country boy. He died flying high, like an eagle in the sky.

Re: Fishes

I kept an aquarium when I was in my early teen years. In several tanks in my bedroom I cared for neon tetras, gouramis, siamese fighting fish, angelfish, varieties of suckerfish and zebrafish. Those were the sorts of tropical fish available in the late sixties for someone on a limited budget like me. One of my friends had a saltwater aquarium which I envied for its exotic assortment. I made a deal with the local pet shop owner to provide him with the products of my fish breeding program in return for supplies. Most lucrative to sell were the Betta’s fry. I was able to coax this combative species to mate and produce eggs which were beautifully kept safe in bubble nets, not unlike the jelly masses of tadpole creatures, until they matured enough for market.

If something smells fishy, it probably is. The whole trade of popular aquarium species has a shady history. The practise of capturing and shipping constituted appalling loss to the local populations of fishes as well as contribute to habitat degradation in many parts of the world. I feel guilty to have been part of that capitalist agenda and yet through my exchange of home-grown fish I suppose I limited some of the need to get specimens from the wild.

During those years my hobbies revolved around fish. I spent endless hours during adolescence peering at my aquarium, cleaning the glass, separating the sick or pregnant fish to a hospital tank. I dedicated one tank to hold a collection of pond-life species that I captured from a nearby creek. I took notes, feeling like a young scientist, and later presented my findings to my high school biology teacher. This work and the resulting A+ grade was an encouragement to apply for university studies in Marine Biology. I also spent memorable leisure time sport fishing in rivers, streams, and lakes. I always had my rod and reel handy when the opportunity arose to hop in a boat or hunker on the shore. I felt a bit like Tom Sawyer on those occasions.

The natural resource industry is a big part of Canadian history. The early years of this country contain stories of greedy resource extraction of all kinds. For the famous fishers of Newfoundland this poorly managed industry would ultimately result in the great cod moratorium of 1992. This was a change of biblical proportions to a culture dependent on fish. Similar tales can also be told of other countries where the fishery was once never expected to be depleted. In the west coast current realities of salmon stock reductions due to over-fishing and poor habitat conditions make my heart ache for what bit of nature might still be left for my grandchildren.

I don’t earn money from working with fish like I used to, but I still go fishing when I need to change my lifestyle. Not fishing in the literal sense but as a metaphor for searching for possibilities. I’ll ask questions with baited subtext to see if the response brings a rewarding strike on my lure. Opportunities abound! It’s all how I cast my line.

Re: Balance

Riding a two wheel bicycle takes balance. The spinning wheels help you keep on your determined path by creating centripetal and centrifugal forces. This feeling of being in motion while creating the power of locomotion is exhilarating and never gets emotionally tiring even if your aging body gets physically zonked.

Many self help books provide guidance about life balance. Keeping your body active is on the list of must dos to reach that daily goal of mixing your life up enough for maximal fulfillment. The sugar laden cereals of my childhood pronounced similar advice on the box’s colourful sides. “Part of a balanced breakfast” was a common nutritional slogan that merged with “Prize inside!” All promises designed to create an illusion of a better you. Buy our product, use your willpower and add a healthy dose of good fortune. In this regard Lucky Charms was a well named cereal even if most of the nutrition came from the milk you sloshed into the bowl.

Everybody has an opinion about a proper work/life balance these days. In reality that goal is about as easy to achieve as getting plates spinning on sticks (current record 108) like performers used to do on the Ed Sullivan Show. Many entertaining acts from the big top days were all about balancing skills: Jugglers, trapeze artists, tightrope walkers and horseback riders all had to have a finely tuned and trained sense of balance. We don’t work in a circus, although we may wish to run away to one sometimes.

Checking my bank balance can make me dizzy, especially if the news of the day has set my mind spinning. I’ll start to worry over the future and the state of imbalance on our planet. The one percent and the poorer 99 percent statistics show clearly how we are a Have and Have-not World. Then I suppose our Earth has never been scaled to justice. To mix the metaphor, the great pendulum of human history always keeps swinging and by virtue of momentum never stays at the mid point of the arc long enough for the common working folk to take a healthy breath before we have to get our bearings set on the next big thing.

And don’t get me started on the notion of balanced reporting when those of evil intent define that to mean that the hate mongers of the world get equal time with the peacemakers. It is being irresponsible to equate freedom of speech to equality of divisive rhetoric. Three minutes of misinformation does not balance three minutes of scientific fact. I try to consider the messenger when a news item comes up. Journalists have an important job to do, without them we would be at the mercy of the most powerful.

There is no balance to be found in pain and pleasure, regardless of whether you opt into S&M role playing as a hobby. And you don’t need to experience hurt before joy has meaning. Looking for a balance in our world can be frustrating because few things are as simple as those moments when we find ourselves coasting without effort.  That’s finding your bliss!

Re: Dad

Some words stand for a lot of stuff. To me, Dad is exclusive. Well, he was also a dad to my sister but they’re both dead now. In my memory he is the man who led the way. My dad was my elder: The one who made me ponder, made me proud, made me bashful, made me silly, made me ashamed. He patterned me in ways I’m still trying to figure out.

Like sons everywhere, I looked to my dad first as a protector. My first recollection of him is when he came looking for me because I was late for dinner. I believe I was still in diapers, at least I remember my pants were very wet from playing in a puddle, where he found me. He wasn’t angry. He took me by the hand and led me back to the house where my mom would surely give me a talking to. I don’t remember her lecture only that Dad changed my clothes and sat me down at the table in front of something hot to eat.

I rarely think of my dad as a father. There are many words in many languages for the patriarch of the family. Others may call out Pere, Papa, Papi, Apa, Vader, Tati, Baba or other words unrecognizable to my English speaking ears. My Polish born daughter-in-law sometimes calls me Tato. My own son is called Po by his son. My niece used to call my dad Popop when she was little. The word father is very generic sounding to me; as in everyone has a father. It is also religious sounding; as in ‘Our Father’. That father is always in heaven, far away and out of sight.

My father was a busy fellow during my growing up years. He was a shift worker at a factory so I rarely saw him until dinnertime. On weekends he often had another job which brought our family of four enough money to make ends meet. Those ends came together for me during our annual camping trip to the ocean. Dad became a different character altogether during these adventures: More playful. More thoughtful. With up to two weeks to play, my dad would not de-stress so much as re-create. Here at beach side I would learn more of his past life, his dreams, and his wonderings. He had a life before me? As I got older, I discovered I was only part of the timeline for this man I called Dad.

I’m still puzzling over the meaning of my dad in my life. Biologically, I believe there may be a genetic connection when it comes to my curiosity and creativity. I’ve been told I have a calm disposition and that comes from my father too. He demonstrated a love of nature, art and an optimism regarding his fellow humans. I can’t say he actually taught me much other than to be careful who I chose to be my wife.

My dad died alone, on a distant shore. I hope his final thoughts were happy ones.

Re: Play

A friend of mine asked the other day, “What do you do for fun?” I had to think, and I’m still thinking. In days gone by I might have made a list which included; playing street hockey, snow castle building, pick-up baseball, fishing or splashing around in a creek. Now, at age 71, my definition of fun is very different. I wonder if my ability to even have fun is still in play.

In the video playback in my brain, my first thoughts around playing are of the sandbox. My dad built my sister and me one of those playthings when we were toddlers. We were sad to leave it behind but we found one came with the courtyard of the apartment when we moved to Scarborough. This one had triangular corner wooden seats where mothers sat to watch over their children playing with strangers. Much later I built a deluxe rectangular sandbox so that my three sons could play safely in the backyard of our duplex in Timmins. I crafted a cover to prevent other animals from peeing and pooping in it, since awareness of intestinal worms brought fear to the hearts of parents at that time in history.

Playgrounds come in many configurations. I had a summer job one year creating modular climbing stuff for kids to enable them to build muscle and expand their imaginations. It’s amazing how designs of wood, metal, plastic and rope can foster team building, giggles galore, the sharing of secrets and playful expressions of friendship. Whenever I pass one in my neighbourhood I feel triggered by childhood memories. I love the happy sounds of children playing freely yet I don’t linger by the fencing since I’m sensitive about my maleness. We can’t play innocent when it comes to ignorance of society’s current insecurities.

The world of imagination is not limited to youth. The push and pull of good and evil is often played out in the theatre. Truth be told, the play’s the thing I’m most attracted to when it comes to thoughts of fun at my stage of life. I’ve never been involved in a theatrical production but I sure have felt my emotional response as an audience member watching the plot unfold on the stage. I’m envious of Playwrights for being able to use their way with words, and then on completion, creating an opportunity for so many other artists to interpret and extend their work. 

I can delight in watching others have fun. I feel lucky to be a grandfather so I can get a chance to relive some of my infancy vicariously. Sometimes, the toddler I’m being silly with might look at me like I’m an alien from another planet: I’m handed a bit of Play-Doh and I start to mold a goofy face and I’m told, ‘Not THAT way!’ Or I’m given a balloon and I start to punch it crazily and my granddaughter runs crying to her mommy.

Silly is something I do for fun. It may not play well with others.

Re: Coat

My dad owned a heavy dark camel hair overcoat when I was a teenager. During those times of pride and prejudice, he cut an impressive figure. He once came to give me a message while I was in the school cafeteria. My friends murmured, as adolescents do, when he walked towards me looking very official. To this day, I regret feeling embarrassed by his presence; when I chose to exchange only the necessary few words of acknowledgement with a man deserving of the distinguished aura he created. 

Reality can’t be disguised with a metaphorical coat of paint. But we try don’t we, with the things we go into debt buying, with the ways we choose to adorn ourselves, with the people we fawn over while ignoring those who matter most. Charades. Facades. A bit of bunting might hide the pretence. What we wear is still considered an indicator of ascendence. The clothes still denote the wealth of the man/woman who wears them. We all strive for and feel we deserve our own coat of many colours.

There was a folky English tradition amongst my parent’s generation to acquire a family Coat of Arms. You would send your last name and any details you could remember of your ancestors to some company. Weeks later you would receive a fancy printing of a heraldic emblem befitting your royal station. We four Thompsons of Canada, newly immigrated from the mother country, were distinctly lower class. Any chance to raise our status, to coat us with a veneer of respectability, was a challenge to be accepted. My dad accomplished this by behaving in the ways of a kind British Gentleman. My mother sought to climb the social ladder in ways that made me doubt her sincerity and question her motivation. 

These two hosted many parties. When my sister and I were young we lived in a small two bedroom apartment where our folks found space to entertain hoards of scary adults in various states of revelry. The noise would keep us awake, so we would wander between the legs of dancers in the living room. We might venture onto the balcony to find people kissing or saluting the moon. We saw frowns, heard swears, and recognized tears from the serious ones talking dramatically in the kitchen. My sister had the ability to fall asleep curled between guests on the couch. I would venture wearily down the narrow hallway to find my parents’ bed, covered with a mound of coats. Predictably, in the absence of adequate closet space, coats were tossed here at the moment of greeting. Fur coats, trench coats, leather jackets, satiny shoulder wraps, knitted, woven, quilted and stitched items smelling of tobacco, perfume and sweat, all flung in a heap and mysteriously reclaimed at the end of a night’s celebrations. I would squirrel my way into this fragrant mass of fabric escaping the mayhem while finding comfort in the arms, collars, buttons, pockets and belts. I would wake in my bunk next morning wondering of the magic of adulthood.

Re: Crush

The emotion of love has many synonyms but crush is my favourite. I’ve been in love with the female gender for all my life. I sat in the grade two row of a one room school house in rural Ontario when I was so overcome with infatuation that I blew a loud kiss to a beautiful girl in the sixth row. The much older girl had helped me make awesome structures out of piles of fragrant leaves during recess. I was smitten by her giggles. The teacher caught my love gesture and made me come to the front of the class where I was made to kiss the length of the blackboard. I sat back in my place, lips all chalky and feeling the blush of shame.

Later, now a student in a suburban school, I chose to share brown bag lunches with a gorgeous brunette. She was in my grade but in the class across the hall. We both sat at the back of our room so when the doors were open we could wave to each other. She was my one and only valentine. When my mother expressed alarm at a Parent/Teacher meeting about my crush, she was told not to worry as it was only puppy love. I think she thought I was obsessed for a while but it was really, singularly, merely a friendship. We liked teaching each other card games. I cheered her on at hopscotch or while she dazzled me with double dutch skipping. When I stepped up to the plate in baseball I could hear her calls of encouragement. I went to her house on fireworks day but felt regret later for missing our family’s traditional balcony extravaganza. I remember the pang of ending our relationship, whatever it was. My heart wasn’t broken. I felt relief that summer’s freedom was within reach. A shrug seems cruel.

Interesting how the word Crush seems apt for the unexplainable emotions connected to the first blossoming of romantic feelings. When we are older we may get a crusher of a headache or feel the crushing weight of responsibilities. In our youth holding hands can be enough to send our thoughts to the moon and back, smashing all thoughts of school projects/tests or parents’ demands to clean our rooms. I can see why some cultures are afraid of the notion of adolescent crushes. Kids are still kids in many ways, yet the maturation process is an uneven thing.

I don’t recall any connection to my sexuality with my crushes. One gal broke up with me because I didn’t want to take things “to the next level”. Phewff, she was aggressive. I was a late bloomer that way and was likely naive to any girl who showed physical attraction towards me. When I look back through grade school my connections were about friendships, first and primarily. In adulthood too the intensity of my love for another is of the steady beating kind; not necessarily measured by explosive fireworks but like the consistent lap of waves upon a shore.