Category: culture

Re: Picnic

The word Picnic is so cute I just have to smile when I say it out loud. I’ve been on many picnics in my lifetime and they’ve all been perfect in their own way. Where ever you live, a meal enjoyed alfresco improves the taste of the food, no question. I’ve enjoyed outdoor feasts, snacks, suppers, barbecues and fireside weeny roasts. I’ve joined with others in traditional parks, in wayside rest areas, in rugged forests, poolside or on beaches. As a youngster I anticipated my father’s Company Picnic as a full summer’s day of free food, races, games, clowns and balloons.

In northern Ontario taking advantage of the great outdoors is a cultural imperative. My young family used to love gathering with other young families for winter picnics. We loved getting the spring season started early by tromping on skiis and snowshoes through sodden snow in mid April, digging out the picnic tables and making a blazing fire to summon the summer gods. On one such occasion we were startled by the sound of thunder in the distance. Our little kids thought we had disturbed a sleeping giant, when much to our surprise, rain poured down on our gathering while lightning gave the setting an electric light. Magical!

Another picnic tradition we held at that time in our lives was the annual day-before-school-starts-picnic. We kept the meal prep simple by getting a Family Pack Combo from KFC. Back then it came with a generously sized Sarah Lee chocolate cake. The five of us would consult on a favourite spot to dine. The mood was always mixed since I was a teacher losing my holidays, my homemaker wife would miss the daily joy of all of us being together, the boys would be mired in their own thoughts of new classmates, grade level expectations and having to wake up to an alarm. Somehow this early September picnic would soothe some of this drama.

After my first wife died it was a 5 star picnic that healed my wounded heart. When I discovered the courage to venture into the world of dating I was asked by a local beauty to a picnic that I will never forget. I went imagining hotdogs and beer. When we arrived at one of my favourite kettle lakes, she popped the trunk of her car to reveal a wicker picnic basket, colour coded bowls & containers, blankets & bottles: It was the real deal! I kid you not, there were six courses to this particular picnic du jour, yet there were many more courses of love to come.

Picnics make my heart lighten, remembering times with friends and family. Times of fresh air, abundant food shared with plenty of relish. I suppose there were ants, blackflies or other metaphorical pests to take some of the edge off the joy of the experience yet the dominant memory for me is of moments of bliss. A sniff of barbecued chicken, watermelon, a hot dog with mustard can transport me to a checkered blanket somewhere in time: My Happy Place.

Re: Film

My parents got me hooked on film as entertainment. Over the years I learned about my folks based on their enthusiasm for a movie. My dad loved adventure stories and my mom was all about the musicals. Debates about actors/actresses were common in our household when I was growing up. Judgements were made on who was the most beautiful, who danced the best, and who really looked like they meant it when they said, ‘I Love You’ on the big screen.

When my dad danced at parties he pretended to move like Fred Astaire. My mom proclaimed (many times) that Lauren Bacall was a bitch. I found it interesting that she mimicked Ms.Bacall’s screen persona around the house. During my formative years we lived in an apartment block right across a parking lot from a theatre. You could read what was playing on the neon display from our balcony. We were working poor but always had enough for the cheap tickets of that time. I remember the first Sunday that Ontario cinemas were allowed to open. Ironically on that particular Lord’s Day I watched Charlton Heston act like Moses in the epic film, ‘The Ten Commandments’.

A grand movie theatre is like a church. It is an artistic treat to sit in a vintage cinema. Some great drive-in theatres have thrilled me with their cultural ambience. While a setting can provide a sanctuary, I don’t think my joy in the genre is tied to a building or venue. I can get the same feeling of self satisfaction in front of my television. A regular feature on the TVO network was Saturday Night at the Movies with film host extraordinaire Elwy Yost. He would educate us with cool facts about the movie we were about to watch then tell us to turn the lights low and put our feet up. Once the credits were done, I was oblivious to all that was going on in the world. When any movie starts I get the same sense of calming anticipation.

Film, like all art forms, can attract snobs. My mother would never watch a remake of a film just on the principle that you can’t improve upon the original. I follow a cinematic expert on Twitter who refuses to pick a favourite actor/director etc. out of respect for the craft. I admit to favourites, yet I can find great things to say about any bit of celluloid that I watch. My wife and I have volunteered with film societies and festivals in numerous cities. One of the highlights of my life was learning how to prepare and run movies on the old reel to reel projectors only months before most cinemas converted to digital screening technology.

The sound and magic of flickering celluloid will always be part of the poetry of my life.  I’ve watched many shows several times and always find something new to relate to. When I first met my wife, I found it necessary that she learn to love me through my film preferences. In this case the way to my heart was via a message on the screen.

Re: Clown

A Jack in the Box is a clown puppet on a spring. You turn a crank on the side of the metal box where he lives to make music (Pop! Goes the Weasel) until the door on the top opens randomly and out jumps Jack the Clown. If you can recover from the shock, then just push the clown back down, close the lid and relive the experience. Sorta like life.

The circus came to our city one late summer and I took my first born and his younger brother to catch some of the excitement that live theatre provides. After enjoying a few simple rides, some candy floss and a small petting zoo we went into a large tent and sat on chairs arranged around a single large ring. We got to be in the first row so everything was up close. There were horses and jugglers, acrobats and clowns. One clown, face pasty white and eyes ringed in red make-up came out of nowhere flashing his large gloved hands and startled me. My children crawled into the arms of my wife sitting next to me. Chaos ensued. The clown man moved on along the circle. We decided that we had had enough for the day.

Santa is really a clown, “Who’s got a big red cherry nose?” He could be referred to as the King of the Clowns. Every year someone pretending to be Santa volunteers to dress up and be part of parades and company parties. Every large shopping mall has a North Pole display complete with a throne for Santa. Children are encouraged to overcome their shyness, sit alone on the big man’s lap while telling him their secret wishes. Some kids are visibly shaken by the experience yet caregivers feel compelled to continue this odd cultural tradition. Pictures are taken to keep the moment memorable, smiles or no smiles.

The author Stephen King has added an extra level of fright to the way we view clowns. Pennywise, the character in his story of clowning mayhem called IT is not a dude you would like to bump into. Lurking in the gutters, leering through the drain ways,  Robert Gray generates no laughter from me. Neither do clownish politicians who act one way and make policy decisions in another dimension of reality. There were times when court jesters were employed to divert the populace from unpleasant royal edicts. Comedy used this way could be risky. Several television & movie actors have toyed with the fine line between humour and pathos. Jack Lemmon, Norman Wisdom, Milton Berle, Red Skelton and Jim Carrey are among those successful with the transition between these emotional forms. Jerry Lewis was another who used his clown persona but not always with mass approval. Witness this questionable unreleased film; ‘The Day the Clown Cried’. Coming Soon! https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8Cv3-MCkX7U

Sometimes I enjoy clowning around. Being silly allows me to step outside of my normally serious personality. I don’t use scary makeup. If others in the room appear shocked, I’ll quickly let them in on the joke.

Re: Baseball

Hollywood and Baseball are the only two truly great things that come from the United States of America. Whether you refer to it as a game, a sport or a pastime; Baseball has something for everyone. I believe the meeting of spectator and athlete at the Old Ball Game has an artistic quality to it, with church-like overtones. The stadium is the sanctuary, the diamond is the nave, the pennant is the holy grail. Buy me some Cracker Jacks please.

Baseball is a story, generally played out in nine chapters by two teams with nine players on each side. During the game there is drama, strategy, plots and intrigue. Occasional foul play is rare, but umpires are there, to ensure that there is an overriding tone of gentlemanly interaction and level headed sportsmanship. I like that Baseball is a team sport as well as an individual sport. The first batter to approach home plate is truly one player against nine. With each swing of the bat the goal is to secure a place on the next base. Once there, by fate or the will of the baseball gods, the runner prays his teammates will get him home. Barring a home run, all members must work together. Coaches are allowed near first and third bases to give runners some encouraging words. It’s collaborative. It’s collegial. It’s an example of the way life can be.

Variants of ball and bat games predate the development of Baseball which got its start in North America in the mid-nineteenth century. As the sport grew in popularity it was played on vacant lots, streets and open fields. The dreams of many a boy began with hearing the exploits of their favourite player. I had a small transistor radio I kept in my desk in grade six. It gave me updates on the exploits of Roger Maris and Willie Mays, my two favourite players. I played hardball and was a terrible batter. However, I caught the league winning fly ball in my last season as a left fielder. I collected Baseball cards, kept them in a shoe box and, like everyone else, after I left home for college, my mother tossed them out,

The pace of Baseball appeals to my personality. It takes its time. The players are diverse in shape, size, colour and disposition. My favourite player right now is a catcher named Alejandro Kirk. He’s not a stereotypical athlete but damn can he perform! In a world that often seems unfair, the rules of Baseball are regularly being updated to make for more egalitarian play. Umpires, like a third team, are present to see that justice is done, that a level of respect is maintained. When judgement is questioned there is allowance for impartial review. Scandals have existed on and off the stadium grounds (steroids, gambling, conspiracy, corporate usury) but when all is said and done, regardless of who you are, you have a chance to realize your dreams on the field of Baseball.

The spirit of this game shall endure forever.

Re: Artifact

My mother-in-law has been giving some thought to what she might like to take with her when she moves one last time. When I asked her which of her keepsakes were most important to her she said immediately, “My pictures!” I could relate to that sentiment since I have been in charge of family photography. Recently I digitalized all of that wealth so that my next move will be easier.

The task of cleaning out storage lockers, cupboards, closets, attics or sheds can be onerous and honouring. Through the layers of dust, artifacts of a personal nature are revealed. Letters and journals can be examined to make a time stamp, like rings on a tree stump, showing what was going on in our past, in times passed. Sorting comes easy when items literally break apart in your hands. Things that someone once thought might retain value, are not even yard sale worthy. Then again the adage,’One man’s junk is another man’s treasure’ continues to contain a nugget of truth.

I met up with a fellow who ran a New Immigrant Fellowship based around learning how to use a bicycle. My in-laws created a new memory for themselves by donating the wheels they had used when they were still able to peddle. In my job as cleaner/sorter in this downsizing adventure it is helpful to work with someone who sees value in letting go. I believe some of our curios are meant to make someone else smile. Clothes can be laundered and given away. Garden tools can be offered up to create new gardens of earthly delights.

My special mom has treasures from her daughter and grandkids that help her remember things hard to recapture. She wants to pass on family heirlooms. She has a pottery figurine she likes to have right next to her bed. It’s curious what each of us counts as treasure. I used to wonder what my birth mother was thinking as she stroked an old deckle edged Kodak black&white photograph. It was one taken of her sister, its corners now softened to the consistency of linen.

What we keep may be ‘art-in-fact’. Respect must be shown to the original owner of the relic. Museums around the world are coming to terms with this truth; that their cultural artifacts (some involving human remains) may have been procured under false pretences. Governments are seeking to rectify and reconcile with Indigenous People who have had their heritage put on display. Justice for these situations may be found through repatriation; a giving back of what was not ours to begin with.

I can’t imagine what I might leave behind as an artifact. I’ve already discarded things I once thought useful but no longer found important enough to shelve or even seal in a box. I can be very sentimental when exposed to an idea. I can cry when I see an artist earnestly creating. Generally though, old things are just curiosities to me. I’m an old thing after all, and pretty curious to boot.

Re: Spectacle

Being a follower of the philosophy of awesomeness I’m naturally drawn to anything spectacular. Occurrences in the sky can make me gasp with pleasure. I love double rainbows. A bright full moon with a three dimensional texture will knock my socks off. While travelling on the prairies I’ve been awed by the spectacle of distant cloud formations slowly approaching my position then dropping rain in great curtains, quenching the arid landscape.

I can be gobsmacked by human feats of invention. I love a grand fireworks display as though I’m seeing it for the first time. Uniformed marching members of parades don’t turn me on like they did when I was a kid. Back then my mom would warn me not to make a spectacle of myself. Her admonishments made me shy, but maybe I’m just naturally introverted so I mustn’t blame her for my lack of desire to seek the spotlight. I had to get a pair of glasses (horrible cheap black rimmed ones) in grade eight which caused me a bit of teen angst. You could say I felt a spectacle due to my spectacles!

In adult situations, I prefer to be a shadow assistant or second-in-command. Once, a Chairperson of a Board, on which I served, called me a ‘stealth director’ which underscored my wish to be seen and not heard. I like to be judged by my actions. I am surprisingly happy when I find out someone has been talking about me. Some have said it is better to be gossiped about, rather than being the one to spread rumours. Balcony seats in opera houses were designed to show off patrons, much as scandal sheets, like the National Enquirer, serve the purpose of getting celebrities the notice desired. Can you be humble and not wish to attract attention, all at the same time? I seriously don’t recall an occasion when I’ve purposefully made a spectacle of myself. Whether that is because I’m not very daring in social situations or that I’m just not easily embarrassed, I haven’t figured that out yet.

A spectacle can draw us together. The lustre of pomp and ceremony has somewhat dimmed for me as I age. Staged events, particularly political ones, can make me feel less than impressed when I think the money could be better spent elsewhere. However, I still feel attached to the culture surrounding the Olympics: the intent to showcase human excellence, the effort to break down borders and barriers through sport is inspiring to witness. It’s a reminder of how far we have come from the days of the Roman Colosseum where human life was treated with such disregard.

We see what we want to see. We hear what pleases us. I confess to filtering life through rose coloured glasses when the landscape surrounding me presents discord. It can be a matter of survival to change focus when my emotional resources are low. But I do have a special pair of spectacles for when it’s important to see as clearly and as far ahead as possible.

Re: Appropriate

Sometimes it is hard to find the appropriate word. I have to take into account the way language evolves over time. Add to that the changing societal norms of acceptable usage, then it takes courage to speak or write what might be on my mind. I believe that freedom of speech requires an appropriate filter if I wish to engage in meaningful conversation. Reading helps me stay on top of current language trends. Writers can suggest uses of words or phrases in ways that sometimes seriously startle me. A challenging author can get to the how of life rather than dwelling on the why.  That’s a grander exploration than the dead end annoyance of why someone did or said something controversial.

Cultural appropriation is in the news. Artists are currently frustrated by criticism when they explore features outside of their domain. I wonder how we can get to that place of cultural understanding if we do not pretend or act out roles that are unfamiliar to us. I think that it is part of the learning process to appropriate ways that may be foreign. Perhaps that can be a way to walk a while in the other’s shoes. If we hold too fast to notions of exclusivity we are in danger of discarding the concepts of openness and inclusivity.

I have often felt outside. Luckily, belonging to a dominant culture allows me more freedom to be an outsider than someone who is already on the fringe or part of a minority. I get that being marginalized would make you hold on to what you have with greater passion, especially when your culture is being appropriated. Historically, The Doctrine of Discovery was a document legitimizing theft. It was a rationale for displacement and slavery. No one has a justifiable right to have their cultures appropriated by another. The appropriate English name we have for that is genocide: The ultimate form of appropriation.

Jesse Wente is a respected thinker and film critic. He has published a memoir called Unreconciled. While reading this book, I felt as though he was in the room with me, challenging my perceptions of inclusivity, patriarchy and colonialism with the gentle persuasion of a man honestly examining his own role in the world. In spite of my white skin and ancestry I recognized the truth of his life experience when I could relate it to the truth of my own existence. I could find a commonality even though we are not of the same tribe. I believe we share and value the importance of story telling in our individual lives. I felt closest to his words when I allowed myself to respectfully, in thought, tread where he had tread.

My high school was full of extracurricular opportunities. The many different clubs I joined helped me to understand my identity. Sometimes I found the membership requirements to be inappropriate to my goals, so I quit. I could always try another club. Sometimes my application to join a group was rejected, then I felt crushed. Words can break bones.

Re: Skirt

I’ve wanted a kilt, made in my family tartan for a while now. I won’t skirt the issue regarding why I haven’t bought one: I predict I will feel shy wearing it. There are some ways that I wish I were more daring. Wearing a plaid skirt would certainly be bold for me. I just don’t think I could pull it off yet I continue to fantasize. The thing is I don’t think I present as a manly man like Sean Connery or even Jamie, The Outlander dude. I’m not a man of fashion either; sweats, T-shirts, blue jeans suit me just fine. I prefer to blend in rather than stand out.

The kilt was banned in Scotland for a long time because it was seen by the dominating Brits as a sign of dissent. The word Skirt itself carries much baggage: Not kindly for females. Skirt was a derisive term for women of weak morals. Boys who cried got called Skirts. Canadian girls weren’t allowed to wear pants while at public school even into the early 1970s. Looking at the issue of gender identity, the role of the skirt as a definition of femininity is obvious: Most restrooms still use the skirted woman. I’m thinking spontaneously and perhaps outrageously that the skirt is likely a clothing item seen as an example of male oppression of women.

Part of me wants to raise my Jacobite sword in defence of this free type of covering for all people. By wearing a kilt, or an izaar, I could join other males in discovering the benefits of a breezeway. Or perhaps, in the smallest of ways, I can get a step closer to understanding a woman’s experience. For example, I wonder what it would feel like to stand over a subway grate like Marilyn Monroe once did. Wearing a kilted skirt, I would not be trying to make a statement, just find out how it feels to be so easily accessible and vulnerable.

Exceptions have been made to my normally drab wardrobe. There has been occasions where what I have worn has made me feel on the outskirts of reality. I have been called classy while wearing a crested blue blazer at juvenile team sport banquets. One full year in high school I wore only white pants with corduroy shirts (a different colour for each day of the week). I had a brief fling with the Sonny Crockett ’T-shirt and dinner jacket look’ in my fifties. I can rock a wool turtleneck while practising my seafaring brogue. Once, for a wedding on a paddle wheel boat, I purchased a dark blue, double breasted jacket to go with grey pants and a light grey mock turtleneck. A guest told me I looked familiar, sincerely asking if I had served on a ship out of Whitehorse. I was flattered and wished I could have continued the deception.

Perhaps I’ll buy a kilt for my granddaughter’s wedding. Dinna fash, I’ll ask her first. It’s probably two decades from now so I’ll have plenty of linear time to dither.

Re: Watch

Long ago, in a land far away, some shepherds stood watch over their flocks by night. Others watched for a light in the distance. Some are watching still; for a saviour, an answer, a way out, a bit of truth at least. We all get comfort from a good story. We watch for ways that the story can help us in our fragile existence.

Many years ago I watched over my wife who was dying of cancer. I wasn’t the only one. Palliative care is a draining exercise. During the hours that I set off to work I had asked several friends to spend some time caring for my bride’s needs. One member of this collective took charge and organized a weekly calendar of visitations. I dubbed the 12 member group, ‘The Watchers’. A month after her death, we all gathered to reflect on our experience. We ate cake and posed for pictures. Many voiced that the job of being an active witness during a chapter of life was profoundly moving. 

Yesterday I was standing outside a store waiting for it to open. Two others of my age were also watching to see if anyone was coming to open the door. I commented, “It must be close to ten.” “Sorry, I don’t have a watch,” came a synchronous, stereophonic reply. We three wise men chuckled. We collectively wondered if anyone owned a timepiece anymore. I haven’t worn a wristwatch for years. I have a fake Rolex that my wife found for me in a rummage box. I’ve worn it a few times feeling expansive. I took it on a cruise holiday once and I felt overly watchful of it. Regardless of my attention, I dropped it, cracking the crystal dial. It became a heavy burden on my wrist and my mind. I resigned myself to fixing it, now I keep it in a bedside drawer. I don’t want to watch the watch any longer.

Today I talked to my son who reported he had just bought a Fitbit. He wears it on his wrist so he can monitor his health. He can program the device to watch his heart rate, his REM sleep patterns, his daily steps and to remind him when it is time to get up from his chair. He feels it’s helping him to be more active. I felt comforted by the news of this purchase. Perhaps I was pleased that the digital device was watching over him, since I no longer can with such regularity.

Watching signs of the passage of time is a very watchable activity. I like looking out windows. I can be transfixed by the slow lengthening of shadows as time moves towards dusk. The sight of logs bobbing in rounded waves, then getting beached by the receding tide can tell me it is time to go home. The slow rise of an orange moon makes me wonder how many times I have witnessed the fullness of a complete day with someone I love.

Re: Visit

I just had a visit from my son, his wife and our grandchild. With Covid concerns and all that going on it’s been a while since we have seen each other. Their stay reminded me of the twice yearly visits to grand folks that my first wife and I undertook. And it was always an undertaking; packing the right toys, snacks for the trip, clothing for outdoor activities, allowing time to visit the loo. Road trips to family always gave me mixed feelings. Regardless of how much I might have enjoyed the company, expectations always hitched a ride along with the luggage. 

“Come on in, welcome, how long can you stay, what brings you this way, make yourself at home, what can I get you, it’s been too long, how was your trip, remember the time when…” Phrases spill out during the first moments of greeting of the visitor, often in a tumble of words and feelings. The excitement makes me breathless. Perhaps that’s why the first question to a visitor will often be, “Can I get you a drink?”

Next to visits to the zoo my mom’s favourite activity on Sundays was popping by to see friends of the family. As a kid I felt the awkwardness of tagging along as many of these visits were unannounced and without invitation. Much later in her life, I saw my mom squirm when she had to accommodate well meaning drop-in visitations at her nursing home residence. She once shooed out a ‘man of the cloth’ with the shouted words, “What makes you think I need saving?” 

One sided visits can end badly. I have been on the receiving end of a final visit that put an end to our relationship. She just dropped in to say goodbye. The outcome, in hindsight, was appropriate. Yet those visitor’s words still sting. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rETA22Z_a9g

Some visitations, like death-bed rites, are formal. Hospitals recognize the limits of a visit by posting visiting hours. Visitors bring joy and assist in healing yet they can overstay their welcome. The phrase ‘pay someone a visit’ suggests a transaction of sorts. Your mere presence can be a gift and therefore requires a ‘thank you’ at least. Many cultures have an unwritten rule that guests cannot be turned away without offering food, drink or lodging. Countries value dignitaries who come to meet and greet; photo-ops are important to diplomacy. Ask any waiter how thin the line is between hospitality and wanting the table cleared for the next customer. 

Currently I am on an extended visit. I am sharing a palliative care mission with my wife. We have endeavoured to create for each other an environment that provides some comforts of home while recognizing the temporary nature of the stay. My son’s visit did a lot to make a bad situation seem more normal. Another son has planned a weekend with us to bring us some laughter. In the big picture, Life itself can be described as a visit. And we only have one.