Category: childhood

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.

Re: Create

Yes, I believe we are created in god’s image. Yet, I do not believe in God. I prefer to attend closely to another soul for proof of the act of creation. How that soul came into being I cannot fathom. How I came to be on this earth, I cannot comprehend. Yet I know for certain that we are all miracles of creation. That is a fact found in our DNA; each strand of which carries the markers of our uniqueness.

We as humans are constructed out of Big Bang stuff. As recipients of this creative matter and energy we are destined to travel a creative path. The best teachers do not indoctrinate or inculcate. As a teacher I thought of all of my students as singers, dancers and artists waiting to find the right tools and skills to enable their creative force within to show itself. Budding scientists, athletes, orators, change agents and titans of business sat in the desks of my classrooms. Each child will tell you their dreams of destiny. Each child will be confident in their ability to make something. Each child will be convinced they are a marvel, unless they are told they are not.

Children must never be deflected from their creative urges. I could be a strict parent in my time but I would not stand in my sons’ way when it came to them testing their creative aspirations (even if their music was definitely too loud). One of my favourite creators, the songwriter Harry Chapin, sang a poignant song (Flowers are Red) about a stifled creative urge. Here he is with entertainer John Davidson showcasing how ideas can spring up from daily experiences. Then this gem of a moment in music happened. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7qrbNygL0YU

The film, ‘The Fabelmans’ fictionalizes Steven Spielberg’s youth. This famous director was lucky, in a way, to have had the right magical dose of encouragement from various sources, not to mention an ingrained natural talent. The patriarch of the family perpetually thought of his son’s movie fascination as a hobby, while his mom revelled in his exploration of self. As I watched I wondered about my own parents, trying to guess who encouraged me to colour outside of the lines.

At the dawn of creation a spark was placed in all of us. Lucky are those who are born into the perfect environment to thrive. Most of us struggle for simple recognition of our innate creativity. Without a rudimentary acknowledgement of our gifts we begin to think less of ourselves, creatively or otherwise. Obviously, we are not all going to be famous artists. Gaining fame is not the point of creative pursuits, be they hobbies, pastimes or even professions. My father’s greatest talent was creating an atmosphere for making others feel appreciated: He made them feel gifted.

If God exists, I’m convinced he/she/they didn’t make junk. We have the genetics capable of creations of our own design. It’s paramount that we encourage ourselves and others to live up to that example.

Re: Cookie

I can totally relate to the Muppet named Cookie Monster because I love cookies. My day begins with cookies (two) and a mug of coffee. I’ve had this morning habit for years now and it hasn’t affected my blood sugar. Anyway in my way of thinking porridge is just an oatmeal cookie without the crunch. I once had the pleasure of being wooed by a lady who knew of my kooky breakfast desires. She often left a bag of fresh from the oven oatmeal & raisin delights on my doorstep, ringing my bell, then stealing away down the street. I was grateful for the effort, the cookies were delicious but that relationship never got past the baking sheet.

My favourite cookie flavour is probably oatmeal but the delight of this baked good is more about the texture, not that I’m particular. The shape of a cookie is round, a beautiful shape for eating. Sometimes I’ll load a whole one in my mouth like a CD slipped into a player and I’ll listen to the unique music of the chew. I’m not wild about Oreos but I get the sensually artistic pleasure of twisting the black circles, unscrewing slowly, to reveal the white cream. A lick and a crunch puts a smile on anyone’s lips. I like a slow coconut style chew, rather than a ginger snappy snip between the teeth. Stale cookies can still be dunked (even a fresh from the wrapper Dad’s cookie holds my hot coffee moisture well). Really crumbly, over cooked cookies deserve to be enjoyed on ice cream or combined with muesli for a breakfast in a bowl. Of course not all cookies need to be round to be loved; my runner-up in my private cookie contest is a thick shortbread. The Scottish recipe is delicious for sure but I love when bakers go untraditional and add a bit of baking soda to the shortbread formula to give the taste some tang. When I go mass produced it’s a Peek Freans I choose. Coincidentally, they are my mother-in-law’s favourite so that makes her my cookie buddy.

As a kid I was an after-school milk & cookies sort of student. Both my parents worked outside the home so I ate by myself most of the time. I’m not sad. That was really all right because I didn’t have to answer cookie cutter clichés about how my day had gone. That milk/cookie combo was such a comfort after a hard day in the classroom. One year when my dad had strange work shifts he would sometimes surprise me with a tray of fresh peanut butter cookies ready when I got home. We sat beside each other on the couch while watching television.

These days children might know that there are cookies on their computer. I hope they have time to learn how to make cookies or at least share some precious moments with a parent and a biscuit tin. I’m no foodie but a warm sweet morsel of cookie is darn close to what might be called perfection.

Re: Sign

We have tried to find significance throughout history for the meaning of stuff. Shaman’s and soothsayers, seers, witches and warlocks would take mystical readings of signs revealed only through their extra sensory powers. From an eye of newt or an eagle’s claw the fortune teller could predict the future and our place in it.

Some signs we must obey. Some signs can tempt us to misbehave. Other signs we ignore at our peril. Quite a few signs seem so absurd they seem meant to make us laugh. The Five Man Electrical Band had a groovy song about being pissed off with so many signs. Here’s a version of that song with some far out signage someone posted on YouTube.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=qLm3HMG8IhM

When I was in my late teens I got interested in calligraphy. I was fascinated with stories of how some criminal cases could be solved by examining the handwriting found at the scene of a crime. I practiced my signature and settled on a swirling capital T that apparently showed I had an artistic sensibility. Nowadays the signing of a document can be digitally formatted. Codes and passwords have become the way we determine the validity of an individual. We have vestiges of these olden times with the language we use. I can’t remember the last time I used my ‘John Hancock’. A signature is still required on a business contract. When you get married does one still sign the register? I signed a cheque months ago for a deposit on a rental. I recall enticements to get things on credit: All I had to do was ‘Sign on the dotted line!’

My grandson’s first fascination was with signs on posts. On toddling walks he would point out the little squares and rectangles and I would tell him what they said. The circle that said STOP was important. He puzzled over the triangle yield sign but his little feet scampered and got all tangled as he approached all the instructional messages posted near garbage cans.

A barefoot life is freeing but I have to check my feet regularly to look for calluses or other signs of road wear. The other day I noticed itchy, red and roughened toes, a hot sensation even though my feet felt cold. I typed the symptoms into a web doctor on my laptop and gosh a picture of my feet came up on the computer screen. ‘Chilblains’ declared the caption. I was aghast that somehow I had contracted something with a nineteenth century sound to it.  Vicks VapoRub came to the rescue.

Being a Boy Scout taught me some cool tricks about survival. I learned how to spot trail markers that serve me now as a metaphor for finding my way. It’s a sign of our times that we have become distracted by inconsequential stuff. I fear we’ve lost our ability as a society to pay attention to signals. Climate change is telling us something and because of light pollution we can no longer determine what might be written in the stars.

Re: Grace

If I had the chance to father a daughter, I would ask that she be called Grace. The name has a quality of mercy about it, so surely the owner of such a name would grow to value kindness, compassion and charity towards her fellow humans. I’ve only known one person named Grace and she was rather aloof, so maybe names can’t set the tone for character, but I still like the idea.

I’ve known several people to whom the value of grace was their guiding principle. One fellow from my church years, who looked perpetually 90 years old, shared a pew with me during choir practise. He carried himself with assurance, not arrogance. He would always put others before himself. He helped create quality time amongst our fellowship, never once demanding it. He wore simple clothes that suggested he wished to blend into a crowd, yet we always knew he was in the room due to his warm laughter. His favourite hymn was ‘Amazing Grace’ which seemed appropriate. Check out this lovely version by Cellist Patrick Dexter.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iyk2XrKIMcA

Shakespeare’s play, ‘The Merchant of Venice’ is one of my favourites from The Bard’s collection. While not without controversy, the characters do a wonderful job personifying several human values. After reading the play and performing a few lines in a classroom setting, my English teacher took our class to Stratford, Ontario to watch and learn. I remember being breathless throughout most of the scenes. We all felt somehow smarter after the performance, even a bit older. On the return trip, a small knot of us nerds gathered at the back of the bus to debate. We concluded that the opposite of Greed was not Charity, but Grace. (That’s why being greedy is so disgraceful) We didn’t do a High Five back then, but we knew we were cool.

Currently, in our bathroom there is a strip of wise sayings meant to start our day off on the right foot. One square offers a challenge: “Instead of Perfection, Seek Grace.” Sometimes it is easier to offer grace to another when we see they are in need of forgiveness or human comfort. To recognize in ourselves those same needs seems selfish. To attend to our own hurt, feels self serving. Etymologically, Grace comes from the latin word Gratis which suggests a gift freely given. Here is where we can begin: By recognizing that we are all members of a community, deserving of grace that is unreservedly given to all who assemble here.

A family tradition my wife and I followed when my three sons were growing up was saying grace at dinner. It wasn’t really a religious observance so much as an expression of gratitude. We would each offer a story of our day, highlighting who or what we were thankful for. Conversation often flowed gracefully to individual experiences. Our eldest described his frustration over a Lego model that didn’t turn out properly.“It looked different from the instruction picture,” he shrugged. “Just like people!” Amen.

Re: X

But X is not a word, I hear you thinking. And you are right and I know I’m cheating in my journey of looking at my life through the magic of words. I’ve used one letter before however: The letter I, which is truly a word in a letter, through which I could describe me. When it comes down to it, language is really a bunch of symbols that stand for something. In this case the single letter X conjures up an extraordinary assortment of things for me.

When I was a kid pirates held an oversized fascination. I used to love going on treasure hunts that my dad would design out of obscure clues. Sometimes he would hand me a map with a prominent X marking where my surprise would be hiding. The quest was never easy and most times I sought extra hints which would encourage my father to pretend to be Blackbeard or the dreaded pirate Bartholomew Roberts. My sons have memories of playing with their granddad using the couch as a ship sailing to uncharted islands searching for buried treasure. I can still hear them all giggling excitedly in faux fear as they fell overboard into shark infested waters. We all shared a love for the film Captain Blood, starring Errol Flynn as the swashbuckler. Much later, after my father had died, I thought of him as I watched the exceptionally good movie, The Princess Bride. I hope to share this film with my grandkids.

I have fond memories of some Xrated films I snuck into as a teen. My friend, who looked older than I did, would get the tickets while I hung back down the street. Knowing I would be quizzed by my mom when I got home I had to gather a few facts about another movie playing in the same area. Digital parental locks on computers and other media make it easier for adults to exclude their children from this type of content but I think if there is a will, there is a way. I wonder if the internet makes it easier to lie imaginatively.

Normally I wear a large sized shirt, but recently I’ve noticed that my wardrobe has been shrinking. I could put it down to a laundry excuse; the dryer was too hot for example. That would work if it was only one item. I think I’ve resolved that my Covid girth is to blame so my next trip to the store will find me looking through the XLarge rack. I will not be able to explain my behaviour if I have to purchase an XXLarge. My shriek will echo throughout the halls of the mall, “Nooooo!”

Size is not the only change that comes with aging. Forgetting where you put things, scabs appearing without remembering you banged into something, missing activities because you are just too pooped to carry on. Life is sometimes learning to say goodbye. I know my time is coming. Maybe there will be a marker somewhere: X marks the spot.

Re: When

I hate waiting in line. It takes patience to wait for anything. The child in me wants to ask, “When?” Hell for me is the same as stasis. I’m not an antsy person, most people think of me as calm. I can be calm, tranquil even. I’ve been known to bask in the serenity that comes from doing absolutely nothing.  When I have a choice, being still is an easy option, yet I do not like to feel becalmed, beached or otherwise adrift in the Sargasso Sea waiting for a satisfactory trade wind. Under constricting circumstances, the Then part of my life story seems to never come, so I’m stuck crying out, “When!”

There are six great journalistic questions: Who, what, when, where, why, and how. The third in the list was the question I most asked as a kid. Learning patience is hard for anyone, especially when you are four or 94. As a kid whining to my mother I would hear, “If you ask again we won’t be going!” I wouldn’t be getting, having, or knowing either, depending upon the context. When my elderly mother-in-law asks ‘When’ I stay quiet, figuring I’ll have a while before she asks again. She may even forget the whole thing as she listens to her radio. When my own children asked ‘When’ I would say, ‘In twenty minutes.’ This arbitrary amount of time never satisfied them since it could end up meaning sometime next week for all they knew. Sometimes I’m not very helpful.

One of my grandkids loves watching for the garbage truck coming down the street. In his city, the sanitation drivers/workers are very predictable. I saw my little DNA carrier run to the window one morning for no apparent reason. Moments later I realized his little ears had picked up the characteristic screechy sound of the vehicle because there was the workman lifting the cans into the back hopper. My grandchild turned back to his living room play looking satisfied that his world was in order. He was learning to trust that sometimes the Whens of life fit into a schedule that can be planned for and predicted.

I don’t think we can blame technology on our lack of patience. Even as grown-ups we want our stuff now, not tomorrow. Putting in a call to get service for a broken appliance or delivery information can be problematic. We are usually given a window of time when an agent will arrive. Recently for me that ‘window’ was “Between 9am and 5pm on Tuesday” and I paced the day away.

Perhaps adults’ patience level has been eroded lately with all our systems, simply because we are frustrated by the slow approach of getting to that question of when. Confidence in necessary change is enhanced if the public can have a predictable timeline of action. As a citizen I don’t want to be told it will take a metaphorical twenty minutes if it really isn’t going to happen during this business/tourist/health/government cycle.

Then my trust goes in the garbage

Re: Trigger

The word Trigger gets me thinking about guns. Don’t get me started on the 2nd Amendment of my basement neighbour’s Constitution! I’m triggered to think of the atrocities committed in the United States that are directly related to the insane belief that some Americans have regarding their right to bear arms. Of course, gun culture is not exclusive to the U.S.of A., but that nation sure knows how to promote it.

Most guys my age had a set of toy six shooters under the Christmas Tree. These faux firearms came with a roll of caps to create authentic sounds of engagement. As a nine year old I met up with my friends in a nearby ravine every weekend to play Cowboys and Indians. As well as my holstered cast aluminum pistols, I carried a replica carbine rifle and a derringer tucked into my sock. I was packin’!

Television at the time had role models to enhance your imagination. I could pretend to be Roy Rogers who had a dog named Bullet. I’d pretend to ride his horse named Trigger, chasing after bad guys who only understood justice from the point of a gun. Today you can view an endless stream of Netflix dramas that feature gun play. Violence is depicted as necessary, the weapon as an equalizer. Rarely is guilt factored into that fictional equation, since the end result justifies any and all means. So goes the script anyway.

What sets a person off can often be a good starting point to any discussion that requires resolution. I’ve been noticing lately that even a single word, misinterpreted, can incline the conversation in a surprising direction. Language can trigger memory and, like the speed of a bullet, the damage of that recollection pierces your heart as though the wound was occurring in real time. With feelings tightening, it’s very difficult to return to the onset: The flames of unresolved issues have been fanned into a firestorm of emotion. It’s a firefight.

I used to idolize the gunslingers I followed on my favourite tv westerns. They had a quick trigger finger and a focussed aim. I liked it when their precision shot would blast the gun out of the bad man’s hand, disarming the villain even while correspondingly shaming him for his intent to harm the innocent town folk. To this day incidents of bullying are most triggering for my childish mind. I picture myself as the sheriff walking about my village with a space gun (set to stun), or a rapid fire nerf shooter. I’ll be doing my rounds, ever watchful and fully prepared to immobilize the blaggards of my community. Thankfully, my adult sensibility has found ways to tap into a relevant response to current stressors.

I’m getting better at not letting triggers dictate my immediate action. I’ll review my past association with the words or behaviours I’m witnessing before going off half cocked. Metaphorically, for safety sake, I’ve put a lock on my triggers, to avoid any random violence. Peace and reconciliation are my aims.