Category: culture

Re: Secret

Hooray for me! I kept a secret while being a painfully honest person. That’s hard to do because with secrets come lies. To preserve the secret, a fib can feel inevitable. And I told several white lies. That’s how it went for me anyway, when I tried to surprise my bride of almost twenty years.

The story of this secret starts with me being pulled into a gallery by my wife to see, “The most amazing painting for our wall!” It was colourful and big, the original painting that is, but the lie became that size too. I went back to the gallery privately a total of six times to arrange the acquisition of my lover’s desire. Gallery staff became quickly amused by my instructions to keep everything Top Secret (at first it seemed like fun but I realized later that I was putting a lot on their shoulders). One employee actually offered to make up a story if ever she encountered my wife on a subsequent visit. Spies are needed in the secrecy business I guess. I insisted that all receipts and communication came to me through a selected email. Even with these well-laid plans I tried not to wince whenever it looked like I may have been discovered by the birthday girl. Long story short; the secret survived until the reveal of the gift. I was a hero but somewhat dazed and confused.

I read once that a secret was like carrying a fresh egg in the palm of your hand for days. My birthday secret was joyous but after months of deception I wondered about secrets that may cause injury. Secrets aren’t always a happy thing. For example we may see someone, a friend of a friend perhaps, in a compromising position. We may wonder if we should tell others involved about the secret being displayed. We may wonder if it’s our business to do so. There was a Jumbotron video capture at a Coldplay concert recently that led to someone being fired. What happened in Boston, didn’t stay in Boston.

Gossip is like a confidence that a friend has shared with us in the way that we must decide to be part of the secret or not. I wouldn’t trust a friend who told me never to share what he/she/they just told me. I don’t want that responsibility. I don’t want to be a confidante. If the secret is that precious I don’t know if I could be trustworthy enough to carry that fragile thing around with me. Being Cis, I can only imagine the turmoil that is a daily part of life for someone with gender dysphoria. What does one do with feeling constantly apart while trying to understand oneself? Society and its rules are responsible for making confidentiality ok sometimes, or a matter for public consumption depending on circumstance.

When my mom had to keep a secret she would confide that she wasn’t sure if her deodorant would hold up. I’m wondering now if that’s why antiperspirants were originally marketed to women. Sexist! My brand is Mennen. Don’t tell anyone.

Re: Cult

Some words contain words. Cult is part of culture in more than just structure. There are elements of cultism in every culture. Citizens of a culture make the decision to embrace what is practised, or not. The essence of a country’s culture is demonstrated by how resources are allocated to promote the larger values of the collective. Sometimes these tribal desires to belong can conflict with our individual wants, wishes, or needs.

When folks agree to do similar things together a connective thread is created. I like to think of that as the art of living. Defining a culture is how societal groups are formed. Individuals in families may often repeat to each other “This is the way we do things.” Teams often bond over the wish to be united so that literal goals can be achieved. After a tragedy, a city might suggest that the way forward would be by recognizing common values. I remember, after the bombing of marathon runners in 2013, newspapers promoted solidarity by printing headlines; Boston Strong! What fascinates me is the border between a healthy culture and a restrictive cult.

Throughout history people have collected into groups for protection, efficiency, or the pursuit of a shared experience. Religions are built on this desire to belong to something greater. Few of us want to be alone in our beliefs or occupations. Unions, fraternities, and sororities have been an essential part of the workplace so we can feel like comrades of industry. Military institutions have aspects of cult conditioning within their training. When you belong to any group you have to give up a bit of yourself for the greater good.

With the fracturing of our understanding of cultural mainstays comes doubt over what is important. Factions, sects, and brotherhoods become more important when traditional ideas of the common good are muddled. Cults begin to grow, fracturing the confidence populations once had for their society’s documents of legality, equality, and fraternity. When I read of organizations having a crisis of culture it worries me that fundamental values have been twisted to suit the needs of the powerful. Most people will think of cults with a capital C as those practising life on the fringe of religiosity. The rules of belonging in a cult-like setting are very oppressive of individual freedoms. In some cases you are coerced to deny your own history in order to begin life under a new set of guidelines. Life in some 60s communes was like this, and I have concluded that being involved with any religion is cultish.

Communal systems can get complicated when group and personal needs conflict. To some degree educational institutions are designed to indoctrinate our children to the ways of the national interest. In Canada, our ten provinces and three territories have their own policies, procedures, and legislation within the framework of the larger federation. All regions have their own priorities and practises (especially Quebec, and lately Alberta) yet we all call ourselves Canadian.

Cultures must evolve to survive. I would celebrate a global culture of peace as a priority.

Re: Sport

My youngest son thinks that Sport is everything. I can relate to his enthusiasm because I feel the same way when it comes to Art. Our world would be a shabby place were it not for the creative opportunities found in either of these two activities. He’s very knowledgeable when it comes to team stats and athlete’s profiles. When it comes to participating in a sport he is the epitome of good sportsmanship.

Canada has just been through another serious sort-of sport: Electing a new Parliament. Politics and sport don’t mix, you say? But I think they are a lot alike. The parties all have their colours like the teams you will root for in the stadium. There are some players to watch while assessing goals or penalties depending on your judgement of the candidate. The final result produces a collection of tired bodies, frayed nerves, and speeches to media. The losing performer usually says something like he had a great team behind him, and it was an honour to participate, and yes we can live to fight another day. The winning representative is aglow with victory, praising her supporters for knocking on all those doors, as she assures everyone that once she is on the hill she won’t forget how she got there. In Canada we have a tradition of being good sports when it comes to our election night announcements.

My sporting life consisted of the usual experimentation within individual and team arenas. Unlike many in my home nation, I never played hockey (unless you count the street version where the shout ‘Car!’ is part of the activity). In my youth, I was into soccer, baseball, football, and volleyball. By nature, I preferred solitary sports like golfing, fishing, tennis, and archery. Some of these activities might be considered Games or even Past-times by those who are more particular. Friends of mine consider the goal of any physical activity, organized or not, is to keep fit. At my age I’m considering adding cheering for the Blue Jays to be very sporting of me, especially if they lose, again.

That youngest son of mine recently waxed poetic about the latest winner of the coveted Green Jacket of the Masters Golf Tournament. He spent time explaining to his 96 year old grandmother how Rory McIlroy had wanted this win so badly, thinking it was out of reach because he had come so close before, and now in victory he sank to his knees on the final green, letting all that emotion out for all the spectators to witness. Such a victory in sport is often called a crowning achievement. In the Olympics they hand out gold coins to signify the status of being first in your field.

Sport is really a story, and we love stories. Athletes are central characters in their quest for glory. Their parents and coaches have urged them on to create themselves while learning the skills for excellence. We watch excitedly when their joy in doing is evident in their faces. Being a witness keeps my mind fit.

Re: Wed

I don’t think it’s a coincidence that the abbreviation of Wednesday is Wed., especially when you think how the mid-week day is affectionately called Hump Day. I’m being cheeky of course, because there is more to being wed than having sex, or whatever day you choose to enjoy that activity. To be wedded implies a union like no other, a bond that is more than just the sum of its parts.

My 95 year old special mom got me thinking about this word when she commented how the flavours of the stew my bride was making needed to take time to marry. “It’s always better the next day.” She stated. I thought about my marriage in that context and made her laugh by suggesting that her daughter and I, after twenty years together, must be very tasty indeed. Our conversation went to tales of marriages of convenience, shotgun weddings and also fairy tale romances, like in the film Princess Bride. I told her about a neighbour of mine who once had a delightfully amusing remarriage on the front lawn of their suburban home. They dressed in hillbilly clothes and, instead of kissing his renewed wife, the aging groom was encouraged to throw his bride over his shoulder and “Git!”

In some religions, marriage is a sacrament. To me, it’s a loving attachment that is mutually beneficial. I don’t believe that deciding to live together with others in a shared experience can be any less holy simply because of a lack of paperwork or an official stamp of approval. Being unwed used to carry a stigma and usually women suffered the disparaging remarks associated with shacking-up with someone or, gods forbid, not finding a mate and thus becoming a spinster! Society can be cruel when judgement defines its culture. My own children have taken marital arrangements in the broad sense of finding someone with whom they wish to share life.

I’ve had two different marriages: One was traditional with church service and reception followed by a honeymoon. A wedding so old fashioned in ceremony that my best man even read out telegrams we received from far away lands. We had a tiered cake. We lit two candles for ourselves, then used that light for a single candle to represent our union. The singing of hymns proclaimed our love. My second marriage was an elopement to a distant island where days were spent holding hands while strolling barefoot on the beach. Just the two of us, the music in our hearts. Some of our friends and family sent candles in our luggage as a beautiful form of blessing which added historical connection. Idyllic. Eden-like. A twinning experience. We faced the future together.

I’m wedded to the idea of the possible. Aspects of cultural formality in the eyes of society and church may have their place yet I prefer to think that structures are often arbitrary. I enjoy stories of humans who overcome convention in their work, recreation, and love lives. I still feel newly-wed. Learning about another soul takes a lifetime of Wednesdays.

Re: Cars

I took a mental inventory of all the cars I’ve ever owned: a VW Beetle, a Honda Civic, a Chevy Blazer, a Toyota Previa, a Toyota Camry, a Dodge Ram Roadtrek and finally a Toyota Yaris. I also enjoyed a decade riding a 50cc SYM Fiddle II. Each vehicle matched the times/needs of my life: youth, parenthood, facilitating, or adventuring. At one point I had the camper van, the Yaris and the scooter parked simultaneously in my carport. Coincidentally all modes of transport were coloured white. My youngest son was impressed, commenting, “You’ve got a fleet!”

My Beetle was second hand & red. It cost me $750. I drove to Maine and back home to Whitby. I outfoxed a policeman while driving it back from a barn-party. The Civic was my first brand new car, costing around $1500. I drove it to Timmins with my first wife by my side, excited about my first job. A new Blazer truck seemed the right thing to get for a growing family. It cost me $8,000 but it lasted me ten years and, one memorable summer, it took a family of five camping all over the East Coast of Canada. When I bought my Previa it was all the buzz in 1991. I took a test drive and I called it a shuttlecraft because it reminded me of StarTrek-TNG. My teenaged boys absolutely loved it. I checked the bank account and squeezed out the $21,000 MSRP. I shared the cost of two Camrys during a transitional stage in my life (one black and one gold which symbolically illustrated my emotional flow from darkness to heavenly days). My new bride encouraged me to get a used Roadtrek I had coveted for decades. Together we took to the road, enjoying the feeling of no-fixed-address.

Cars give us freedom and independence. My bride loves using the Yaris to get away, even if it is just an autonomous ride into the city. Being older, I notice I am becoming more tense while driving or in the passenger seat. I’m weighing the odds of having an accident (I’ve had 4). I’m finally realizing the impact automobiles have on our health and the environment. When I was in high school you could get away with drinking while driving. It took decades before groups like MADD convinced us of the folly of mixing alcohol and gasoline. Now we have climate change.

It’s still a car culture, big ass truck sales are on the rise. Joy rides are still a thing even though they may be shorter. In our community there’s a growing interest in making roads safer with designated lanes for cars, busses, and bicycles. Car owners are not happy about sharing the road that they have dominated for decades. With modern realities, we are all going to need to create a new culture, less dependent on fossil fuels.

Die-cast Dinky cars, easily imagined in the chubby hands of a kid in a sandbox, may soon be a sight only in story books. The environment must come first.

Re: Reflect

Reflection requires a certain amount of stillness which is challenging my body’s circulatory system. I’ve got a case of chilblains in my toes as a result of too much idle thinking which is freaking me out. I’m of an age where parts go missing or malfunction. I have a personality that is suited to pondering and puzzling so I think that should ward off dementia but it seems my body is being sacrificed while I attend to intellectual matters. 

My current three common activities are like the classic educational three R’s adapted as: Reflect, Read, wRite (the last one is a cheat but makes for the alliteration, so what). Truth is I prefer to reflect, rather than deflect. Issues are important for me. I probably dwell on general news items too much for my own good. I’m a good muller. I like to share my reflections when anyone cares to listen. My 95 year old special mom likes my cerebral wanderings and we often have great dialogues. Reflecting on stuff has helped with her memory and gives me insight into my own aging process.

We both read a lot during the day. She likes to listen to her audio books while my wife and I catch a film on television. Since she has a headphone set, it’s a fine arrangement so that we can keep track of each other all in the same room. It provides an Upscale Nursing Home atmosphere: Complete with kitchen privileges. When I ruminate on the way my life has changed with the advent of Elder Care, I’m glad I can see the humour at most times because when I glance at myself in the mirror I notice the telltale signs of stress and fatigue. I figure getting these observations down on this website will help me laugh when I have time to review these seemingly endless days of routine.

In years gone by I used to see myself reflected in my kids. My eldest I thought carried my enquiring mind, my middle son knew how to look on the bright side of life, and my youngest exhibited my peace loving soul. I pictured them growing up happy and, by and large, they have. To gain a perspective one must reflect. Narcissus of Greek myth fell into a pool because of a singular point of view so his story tells us to include others, resisting the vain notion that only our reflections count. 

Truth be told I rarely spend time examining my mirror image. My wife will straighten my mussed hair with gentle fingered caresses and that suits me just fine. She and I have developed a way of mirroring each other’s feelings so that conversation becomes more revealing. Our own individual thoughts can often lack clarity. Two people ruminating offers surprising revelations and outcomes. Like two songbirds playing off of each other’s melodies perhaps. In my retelling of Echo and Narcissus I see the two lovers being blessed for respecting each other’s uniqueness. That way they look into the pool in unison, loving what they behold. It’s a selfie!

Re: Sunday

Of all the days of the week, I have the most mixed feelings when it comes to Sunday; the first day of a calendar row. In the early days of our relationship my bride and I would discuss why this day began the week rather than ended it. Hence the cause for confusion because Sunday is part of the week-end. Biblically, Sunday is the day when god rested because he had been busy creating everything on the six days previous.

Speaking of tradition; the reason behind the old names of days are so old. Maybe they just deserve to be forgotten. Just who cares anymore eh? Monday is everyone’s moody day but we don’t call it that. Well moon’s day sounds kind of sweet actually. Tuesday? Relates to war, so I’ll pass. Wednesday? Just who is this Woden dude anyway & why does he deserve a day? Thursday? hmm? If I had a hammer. Not bad, kinda folky. Friday? Frig? I’m getting frustrated enough to swear. Saturday? Woden (again with the norse god)? Washing day! Really? Sunday? Here’s comes the sun, finally a reference to The Beatles!

If we can’t rename the days then how about putting them on a spectrum. How about a colour to represent each day? Monday is moody blue for sure. Tuesday maybe purple, Wednesday is taupe, definitely a soul sucking military brown. Thursday is freshened with mint green. Friday might work as tangerine. Saturday is anything neon. So that leaves Sunday maybe a greyish yellow. We could name the days based on a flavour or the taste it leaves in our mouths. Monday leaves a bitter taste but it’s a necessary day so maybe spinach works. Tuesday has more promise but it’s still boring so maybe a liver paté. I’d say Wednesday is perfect for Spam or lima beans. Thursday is a pastry day. Friday tastes like toffee. Saturday is salty or spicy and Sunday reminds me of soup.

I suspect most people think Monday, Tuesday and Wednesday are pretty ordinary days. The thought of a weekend ahead gets us looking forward with anticipation so when Thursday comes around we are feeling the downward slope on the hill of labour. When I was working, I liked thinking of Thursday with excitement. I found time to fantasize and distort the realm of time so I broke the four following days down into seasons. Follow my reasoning here: Friday equals Spring, full of promise & anticipation, Saturday encapsulates Summer filled with stuff to do, Sunday has elements of Autumn melancholy yet still colourful and then Monday hits like Winter chills. Neither the mamas nor the papas like Mondays.

My favourite day, in conclusion, is the sunny sounding one. I like the name Sun Day as it evokes warmth and smiley faces. I’ve started posting my essays in honour of this day to make it part of yours. I would advocate for a revolution to labelling our calendars. Gone are my busy Sundays. My newspaper brings me a crossword which passes the time. Sometimes there is a biblical clue or two. It pleases me that I can answer them.

Re: Education

Why education is not free for all I do not know: For knowledge, like love, is as central to our existence as the air we breathe. Acquiring an education can come by differing methods; Formal education must be part of the social contract and paid for through our tax system. We must be culturally encouraged to self educate through many different delivery modes. And of course the school of hard knocks can be enlisted, edited, analyzed by each individual in a life long learning manner.

I’ve spent a lot of time in school buildings. If you count my childhood years and my teaching career, I’ve spent half a century within hallowed halls. I respect the institutions of education enough that walking near such places of study today gives me emotional sensations of hope and positivity. I can readily recall my grade school teachers: Mr. Stroud, Mr.Green, Mrs. Fourfar. Their names don’t matter so much as the information and encouragement they imparted. My parents instilled in me the value of education too. By example the gave me the prerequisite for all thought: Curiosity.

I believe that learning is a quest, an imperative to a fuller life. I ache to acknowledge that some in this world do not have the opportunity to have an education. Some religions still forbid entrance to schools of learning. Girls are still denied an equal footing in many places of study.

I believe much of the dissatisfaction found in the world today is due to the corralling of knowledge and information by those who wish power. Equal access to education for women and men diffuses the centralized vision of control, bringing balance and a shared imperative to community. Reading is at the heart of self education. Text brings intellect to life. Insight is gained from words used in different contexts. Imagine a universal book club. We begin by sharing the latest of what we’ve read. I delight in hearing my blind mother-in-law describe her latest discovery from her audio selections. Her reporting of information makes me recall listening to old radio shows when I was an infant.

To know is to be. Central to the entrapment explored in the film Women Talking is girls not being allowed to go to school. “No more pencils/no more books/ no more teachers/ dirty looks” is not something to promote in a policy document. “We don’t need no education/ We don’t need no thought control.” Is an anthem about revolution over a centralized authority. The subjugation of indigenous children to the atrocity of residential schooling brings a sadistic meaning to the school of hard knocks. We learn through our experiences and I believe our most relevant lessons are best delivered with love, not fear. We can only become our best selves when we are nurtured in the practises of daily life. We each have a role to play in educating each other; providing information as we would a gift, not withholding knowledge as though it were a secret.

We left Eden a long time ago. The whole wide world awaits.

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: Kill

In exploring my world through individual words, I’m often surprised when I come across a word that I haven’t examined in this blog. Kill is part of everyone’s vocabulary yet it’s one of those basement words that we might leave boxed up, unattended.

Maybe our fascination with killing comes packaged in our minds with the broader mystery of death. In the art world, we can love murder mysteries, film noir is fascinating and slasher movies are popular for date nights amongst teenagers. We are repulsed but intrigued by serial killers; we want to know details, the reasons behind the murder. When I hear an ambulance I’m curious if the siren stops close to our neighbourhood. If there is an accident on the highway, we rubber neck to see if there’s been some road kill. The dark side of our imagination isn’t pleasant. Yet it is present. Stephen King is a popular author for reasons beyond his skill with words.

I’ve known one person in my life who has gone to prison because he killed someone in a bar fight. This fellow was a run-of-the-mill boyhood friend. It’s curious to me why authority figures want to convince us that murderers are all insane. That’s usually the approach taken to try to dismiss the incessant gun play and resulting carnage that goes on in the United States. Some cases just don’t fit the madman stereotype. I’ve read of mercy killings for example, and have considered the more frequent accidental deaths involving highway collisions. I don’t believe that the Alberta truck driver who missed a stop sign causing the death of many members of the Humboldt Broncos can be called a crazed killer.

When we want to avoid the word Kill we invent a substitute like Slay, Slaughter, Smoke, Terminate, Disappear, Blow Away, Liquidate, Crush, Bump Off or Hit. Wordlessly, a mafia gangster might signal a death sentence with a kiss. Likewise, someone who wants you gone might make a slashing movement across his throat to show evil intent, even if he is ‘only joking’. Professionally, a director could yell “Cut!” while making a fierce chopping motion to signal her desire to kill the action in a scene.

We can’t fool ourselves by thinking normal God Fearing Folk don’t kill when it says in the Bible that there is a time for it. Our spoken word endorses the emotion behind the thought: “I’m going to kill you!” (we might cry out in rage). “We killed them!” (we might declare after a sporting victory). “I’m going to kill it!” (we boast after cramming for an exam). “He’s killing me softly…” (we might sigh/sing while bringing news of a lover to a friend). We feel proud when we kill two birds efficiently using only one stone. Hunters still find it necessary to pose while smiling beside their dead prey.

I try to avoid using the K word but I don’t want to be a killjoy when it comes to encouraging reflection. Words colour our perception of the world; it’s ignorance that kills.