Category: wonder

Re: Tale

A tale can be like a story, but perhaps it will contain deeper sentiment, as in the great work of Charles Dickins, A Tale of Two Cities. A tale can be as old as time or it can be something you tattle. In the spectrum of fiction, a tale can sit safely beside a yarn, which is something a sailor may spin about an adventure at sea. Fable, legend, and myth will also be found on this imaginary language spectral line.

The telling of a tale requires picturesque language allowing us to suspend any disbelief we may have with the narrator. Unlike non-fiction stories that must rely on facts to communicate an account, fans of tales want to be convinced that what happened, actually could have happened. This manufacturing, to me, is not lying but colouring by using what we know with what-might-be. I like revisiting the Sarah Conner story in the Terminator film series. She’s like a princess, but a princess with purpose: a tale of, and for, future times.

I loved reading fairy tales to my kids as I once loved being read Grimm-like fables when I was a child. Cinderella popped into my head recently as an example of the possibility of time travel. It was a Back to the Future mind spin where I rationalized the need for the glass slipper lady to return home by the time the clock struck twelve. H.G. Wells’s classic futuristic novel Time Machine is an early attempt to suggest that travelling through time could be achieved, with the appropriate clockwork technology. I wondered if perhaps Cinderella was a time warp artist, riding in that magical pumpkin-ish looking coach. Her only fault might have been she didn’t coordinate the return-time better with her fairy godmother/timekeeper.

In my version of Cinderella, she discovers a way to end her despair entirely by leaving her old world behind. I picture my Cinderella being trapped in long days at Walmart, greeting others who have interesting lives, while she is mired in the drudgery of retail. As I see it, time travel only gets messy when we actually come in contact with our own lineage. Maybe you could come and go through the ages as long as we kept it out of the path of your own timeline. For example you could see the court of Cleopatra but not visit your grannie when she was three. Perhaps my Cinderella wouldn’t lose a shoe but a watch, and this is why she forgot the time paradox: you can’t be in two places at once. Marty McFly discovered that timing was everything or else the future would not exist as only he alone could tell it.

Dreaming, like what I’ve been writing here, is tale-telling. There must never be punishment for it, unless it’s intended to deceive or hurt another. We can believe in old-wive’s tales to the point where their value continues to inspire new discoveries in STEM research. The truth must always remain the goal, but I see no harm in embellishing the facts, for story’s sake.

Re: York

I’ve learned to pay attention to symbols. I don’t always know their meaning at the time they present themselves but I get a certain pause that tells me to look again. I wonder if I am getting a message from my future self or simply a memory of something. Maybe something like a time capsule where the thought was packaged for future viewing only.

Anyway it might explain why I woke this morning to a nursery rhyme about a grand old Duke of York who had 10,000 men. When I came down for breakfast I was captivated by the way my bride had hung her sun hat over a chair post that had a cotton New Yorker book bag tangling. I continued to stare at the story created by hat and bag and chair. A memory came; of rushing to see my father after learning he was taken to a hospital in Maine. The journey required me to fly from England and catch a Grey Hound bus leaving from downtown New York at 2 in the morning. This mega-city was awake, bustling even, as I sped on foot through Times Square towards the subterranean depot.

I buttered my toast humming a medley of songs about the city that never sleeps: Barry Manilow told of how he survived by keeping the New York City rhythm in his life. Rod Stewart harmonized in a melancholic ode to a girl he hopes he’ll see tonight on a downtown train. Neil Sedaka chimes in to say he loves the place he calls his home. My breakfast ends with me tap dancing with Gene Kelly and his pals in a scene from On The Town; “The people ride in a hole in the ground.”

My English roots mean I’ve eaten sizzling hot Yorkshire Pudding (roast beef is a meager meal without its presence pooled in gravy on the plate). I’ve even been to the old Roman City of York with its magnificently preserved Cliffords Keep and the majestic cathedral York Minster. The latter construction is a massive structure that dominates the city yet the walls have carvings that give the building the lightness of lace. I feel a pull to both Yorks; the old and the new. I would like to live in either city to resolve the emotional tug that comes from anything York-ish.

Picking up the latest New Yorker magazine, I linger with the manuscript in my hands, looking at the cover art, hoping it holds the promise of unravelling the mystery that is symbolism. My love of magazines notwithstanding (the power and beauty I find in words written there) yet this magazine is a flimsy structure despite the heft of the title page font: New Yorker. “This has meaning”

Perhaps I am crossing borders to my Angle ancestors when I speak the word York as in some mystic chant to summon images of hunts for wild boar. The symbolism that draws me to that city; a geographical place but more than that. I wonder if there is something coded in my DNA.

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: 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: Joy

My mom was Joy to her mother, for a period of time anyway. Perhaps that’s what joy is; a small glimpse of what might be, a flash of sunlight, something to squint into and smile over so we can continue to look for a more lasting happiness based on a mutually assured place in the sunshine of our thoughts. My mother Joy rarely shared the temperament her name suggests. Joyous she was not. She despised her own mother and barely got along with her own daughter. As a teenager I would ponder that name and wonder what the opposite might be, because surely that would be a better moniker for my mom’s contrarian spirit.

If joy is a notch above happiness then it stands to reason that it is hard to come by. A good mood does not come naturally to most people. I’d like to discover the country where it is common currency. To smile or not to smile; that should have been the Shakespearean question. For it is nobler to soldier-on than to reveal the general humdrum nature of one’s existence. There is a fellow named Gurdeep Pandher who posts regularly on social media encouraging the pursuit of Joy, Hope and Positivity. Along with this wonderful message he dances bhangra which, when joining in, somehow allows the oxygen to blend with the optimism in the bloodstream to metaphorically warm the chambers of even the Scroogiest heart.

I wake to feelings of joy each morning, even if I am kidding myself a little. The euphoria sputters and falls quickly to happy, then with a small breath in I am content, and before touching down on the floor with my cold feet I am convinced I am satisfied. If it is Christmas time I will hum ‘Joy to the World’ as I am shaving. My intention is to make a joyful noise unto the world, even if it sounds like I’m trying too hard. At other times of the year I might think thoughts of tulips, summer picnics, or an autumn romance just to keep embers of hope alive. I believe hope, joy, and faith all come as a combo from some spiritual warehouse but usually something goes wrong with my order and when I open the shipping container a part is missing.

Being in the season of darkness can leave us searching for the sun. At such times as these in a war torn, self-centred world it is hard to find solace or solidarity. When I think about my times of trouble I can recall mysterious moments of clarity. Like a lift in my being, a little leap grows from my heart and I suspect it might be joy. I can’t pin it down. The feeling flutters by. It doesn’t alight long enough for me to examine its structure, weight, colour or dimensions. Its transitory nature makes it difficult to classify yet I know the troubles that had been mine moments before were lightened by this different perspective. Joy to the world.

Re: Flight

When my thoughts take flight I am lifted above clouds of doubt. My thinking sets me free to soar above conflicting emotions. I can see more clearly the path ahead.

I happened to be in our parking lot when our neighbour, I now call him Captain, was just coming home from work. I learned that he was accumulating hours for a commercial pilot’s licence that would get him an elite job back in his home country. We got talking about my time with the Dept. of Fish & Wildlife in Ontario, since that was the last time that I was a passenger in a small aircraft. I told him I had never been in the co-pilot’s seat and he said, “What are you doing tomorrow?”

He rapped on my door at 10:30 the next morning. At the airport, the Captain had to check-in so I filled in time with a look around a part of our airport dedicated to pilots and the Victoria Flight Club. I gazed out to the tarmac curiously wondering which of the planes parked there would be ours to fly.

All the paper work done, we walked to our plane and I took pictures while he did a circle check. Finally I got strapped into my seat, headset on, engine started, then more checklist items. I was beginning to wonder if we would ever lift off! As we taxied down the runway there was a lot of incomprehensible chatter from the tower and other pilots: “Delta, Victor, 3, Bravo, Romeo this and Alfa, 4, Sierra, something, something”. I just counted backwards from ten slowly and silently until we were off the ground. I wasn’t really nervous just in awe that such a tiny bit of chattering metal could hold two people aloft. I commented after gaining altitude that it didn’t seem like we were going very fast and my Captain laughed and showed me the airspeed indicator. We were cruising at 110kph.

I thought of my dad, who had once invested a chunk of his hard earned money to take flight lessons, only long enough to take one solo flight. Being in the air, feeling how fragile that existence is, sparked a memory of watching him land at Buttonville Airport, near Toronto. I was probably about 8 or 9 years old, and can recall his beaming face as he shook hands with his instructor. He spread his wings again at 70, while parachuting, ticking another box. When I see a solitary cloud in the sky I think of him sitting on it, grinning at me.

As the Captain and I dropped altitude for our runway approach I felt surreal. In our three dimensional world we hovered as a falling leaf awaiting touchdown. I was aware of my two dimensional existence as we drove home yet the feeling of being transported to another world has never left me. Flight gives you a vantage point unlike any other. Seeing my world from another perspective boosted my understanding of my place in it.

Re: Animate

“It’s Alive!” Is the exuberant cry that Dr. Frankenstein shrieks when he has re-animated his stitched together fictional monster. He is excited! From what was once dead, springs fresh life. I am waiting for that enthusiastic response after what has been a deadening historical interval. I am man, hear me moan.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy encouraging myself and others to be Yippy-Skippy. When I see someone exuberant I want them to bring on that happy face & spread sunshine all over the place. It’s awesome how we can take a troubling situation and turn it upside down with a smile. My son recently told us a classic Canadian winter story of driving on treacherous roads of snow and sleet. Then he told us how he almost chocked to death after a first bite of a meal. He had us sitting on the edge of our seats because he animated his tale with captivating facial expression and body language. It reminded me of tribal times after a mastodon hunt, but not really because I’m not that old.

I’d love to be a comic strip artist or better yet an editorial cartoonist. These folks use drawings to animate our existence, dull that it is. I have been especially focussed on political cartoonists since they do such a good job of making me laugh/cry at our current leaders. Their point of view effectively lampoons the irony of our existence. I’m particularly keen on the art of Michel deAdder, a brilliant pictorial satirist, once fired from a Canadian newspaper and then picked up by the high profile Washington Post (take that Brunswick News!)

https://www.cbc.ca/radio/asithappens/as-it-happens-monday-edition-1.5196196/michael-de-adder-opens-up-about-being-dumped-by-n-b-newspapers-after-viral-trump-cartoon-1.5196199

Animation as an art form fascinates me. My dad once tried to use 16mm home movie film to turn my sister’s birthday party into a cartoon. I helped him make stick models that danced while cardboard letters magically arranged themselves into words. I can never be too old for cartoons (such a Saturday morning with cereal by the television unimportant sounding plural noun). Pinocchio, a film by Guillermo del Toro, recently won an Academy Award for stop-motion artistry. Claymation is fun and then came the Wallace&Gromit features. There are many Pixar and Disney films that make me marvel. Walt’s classics are works of art painted in a single cel that connects to a loop of film creating the illusion of movement. Add sound and you have a masterpiece. My granddaughter sings ‘Let it Go’ whenever she is awake. I’ve been singing the ‘Little April Shower’ song from Bambi for more than sixty years.

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

To be animated is to be optimistic: I welcome the fascinating, the wondrous, the rebirth. As I spring forward with the time change leaving winter’s death behind, the lengthening hours of sunlight will animate my mood, inviting me to look for reasons to dance and sing.

Re: Miracle

The miracle of birth is a wonder of creation. There have been many circumstances labelled miraculous throughout world history. We don’t need to be religious thinkers to put weight on things that amaze us. Awe is everywhere.

Survival stories of car crashes, natural disasters or medical recoveries are often cited as miracles. My mom was a local track star in her early teens, following the sport into her adulthood. In August, 1954, a ‘Miracle Mile’ was run by Roger Bannister, beating the unimaginable time of four minutes. Stories of that Vancouver, Commonwealth Games record event were still being printed in Canadian newspapers when I immigrated to Canada later that fall.

I believe in miracles when I feel deserving or hopeful, yet everyday miracles may be just happenstance that end up making a great story that we can tell others as we age. I can’t quite get my head around the idea of finding a life long romantic partner. Mutual love is unfathomable. Is it fated when we find a soulmate? Couples will gasp, “It’s a miracle that we found each other!” Even that character Rick of Casablanca seemed awestruck,”Of all the gin joints in all the towns in all the world, she walks into mine.” Barry Manilow wrote a song about the wonder of it all. https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wc-2F3VDs2w

On the day my mother died I lost my wedding ring. The death had been coming for a while, the loss made a bad day worse. After my wife and I got the call from the nursing home, we raced there to watch as she took her last breath. The nurse was notified, procedures ensued. The attendants couldn’t get her ring off, so I managed the job with a dab of cream. It was then I noticed that my ring wasn’t on my finger. A search began that alerted all staff, covering the whole building, including refuse bins, and outside all around the parking lot. I had to come back the next day to sign certificates and such and the search continued. I checked the car, my house, my clothing: No luck. Was this a weird cosmic thing where rings are traded in an alternate universe? Was there something here requiring a return to psychotherapy? Was it a lesson in grief? Was this someone’s idea of a joke? About a week later I went to pick up my mom’s ashes. I put the container on a shelf in my shed and decided to do a small clean-up. I repositioned things and moved my recycling boxes so I could sweep the floor. The broom made its swishing sound as it found leaves, bits of string, plastic bottle tops, then something heavier. I knew instantly what it was. I picked up my lost wedding ring and held it tightly in total disbelief. I called my wife. We cried with the miracle of it all.

Sometimes it’s a struggle to get up in the morning: Bones creak, muscles are stiff, phlegm must be cleared. Life is a miracle.

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: Monitor

I was a high school hall monitor. I actually enjoyed being that nerd with a cardigan. I didn’t feel like an officer of the law, merely an advisor. I had answers to questions that other students didn’t even know they were asking. I felt important. I was part of a smoothly functioning institution called Education. Through several twists and turns after grade thirteen I chose to go to Teacher’s College where I was taught how to monitor elementary students.

Someone is always calling me at dinner, concerned that there has been some suspicious activity on my credit card. An ad in the paper says that I can sign up for some company to monitor those people and stop the calls before they even arrive. Seems there are watchdogs everywhere these days. People who say they work for my government are often suggesting I’ve underpaid my taxes. I’m not to worry about the inevitable fine because they’re on top of it and they can remedy everything for a small fee. I suppose I should feel a sense of peace with so many looking out for me. Not!

Law breakers sometimes wear ankle monitors. They can’t be comfortable. How does one put on their socks? Is the alarm component silently monitoring your whereabouts to some tech team in Dubai? Perhaps an ear piercing beep is all that happens if you stray from your perimeter. Surely they don’t explode, taking your foot off, like I’ve seen suggested in dystopian world movies. Speaking of security; Am I the only one bothered by the announcements in airports reminding you to keep your luggage in view? You’d think there would be enough cameras on walls and ceilings to help you out, while you are put through another snooze inducing flight delay.

Currently the medical profession is monitoring my heart. It had been skipping beats but now it’s calmed by medication. I’ve been checked with a Holter Monitor which gave me the appearance of being bionic. Nothing fancy though, call me the 60 Dollar Man. I also walked around with a blood pressure monitor for a couple of days during this nervous time. The cuff around my bicep squeezed every half hour, reminding me of the way my dad used to hold my arm when I needed reassurance.

My most unsatisfying duty as a teacher was as a lunch time monitor. I felt like Mr. Bumble, patrolling rows and rows of unfortunate children. One Principal I worked with instructed me to keep them quiet and encourage fast eating, else they take too long to get into the schoolyard. At every meal there was someone upset over their food, who they were sitting beside or the way someone was looking at them. A kid once smashed his sandwich with his fist while laughing hysterically. I took the remains of the meal away. The boy’s mother came to the school the next day asking why her son had come home hungry. CAS was consulted. A disciplinary note was put on my permanent professional record. I wonder if anyone still monitors that file.