The Good Person

                We heard the wailing even before the bus had come to a complete stop. The other passengers heard it too and we all watched the front door with a mixture of curiosity and dread.

The door opened and a young fellow stumbled aboard. Roughly 20 years of age, he was sobbing and shaken but somehow managed to produce a bus pass. The driver quickly glanced at it, then stared stonily ahead. My fellow riders and I looked everywhere but at the young man. His high pitched keening cries continued as he stumbled down the aisle. Finally, he took a seat. 

I’d seen him on the bus before, though never in this state. I believe today’s politically correct term for his condition is “mentally challenged”. Under normal circumstances you’d barely notice him. He usually gets on the bus, takes a seat and spends his journey smiling at everyone. Every now and then he may quietly talk to himself, but you’d never pick up on it if you weren’t listening. Today was obviously different.

As his crying continued unabated, I glanced nervously in his direction. To my dismay I realized he was searching desperately from face to face, seeking any available source of comfort. I knew I couldn’t allow this to go on and because everyone else was riveted on their newspapers or staring out their windows, I found myself calling out to him in a voice much louder than I’d intended. “Hey pal! What’s wrong?”

With tears streaming down his face, he eventually focused on me. His voice rose a full octave as he exclaimed, “I’VE HAD A VERY BAD DAY! I’VE HAD A VERY BAD WEEK! I DON’T KNOW WHAT’S GOING ON WITH ME ANYWAYS!”

I quickly moved to a seat directly across from him. “You don’t have to yell anymore. I’m right here. Just tell me what’s happened.”

I handed him a tissue and he blew his nose loudly. “THIS GIRL AT WORK, SHE CALLED ME STUPID!”

“Okay,” I pleaded. “Tell me exactly what happened but please, lower your voice. You’re scaring everyone.”

We both glanced around the bus and noticed almost everyone watching us intently. Even the driver glanced back at us every now and again through his rear view mirror.

“Well,” the boy sniffled, “I made a mistake where I work and she got really, really mad at me. She yelled, got all red and worst thing of all, she said I was stupid! I HATE that!”

When I asked where he worked, he responded with the name of a downtown recycling company. Our conversation continued. 

“And you know the worst part?” he asked. “Except for bosses nearly everyone who works there is like me. Even this girl is! We’re all sort of stupid but a good person doesn’t say that to another person, and I’m a good person!”

“Well, it certainly seems that way”, I responded. “It’s Friday. Do you two have the weekend off?” When he nodded I continued, “I’ll tell you what. Just relax this weekend and think hard about all your friends at work. I’m sure just about everyone there likes you, right?” Again he nodded, this time with obvious enthusiasm. “When you go back to work on Monday, walk right up to that girl and tell her that not only are you a good person, so is she.”

He appeared puzzled for a moment then he said, “I’ll do it and you know why? Because most of the time she is a good person! Maybe she had a bad day too.”

“Yes, or even a bad week, like you,” I smiled. He grinned back at me.

Just then a thought struck me. While my initial intention had been to quell a disturbance, the result was much more profound, for me at least. I had witnessed another person’s despair quietly evolve into acceptance and finally to a self-realization that few could ever comprehend. I’d encountered a truly dignified man in a time when such people seemed to have attained endangered species status. His ability to have faith in himself despite personal adversity was an attribute I could only dream of acquiring.

At that moment the bus arrived at our terminal. As we disembarked I asked my new friend if he was feeling better. 

“Yes I am,” he replied. “Do you have any candy?”

As luck would have it, I had a brand new roll of Lifesavers and I handed them to him immediately. “Keep the roll,” I said. “You deserve them.”

He carefully unwrapped the package and popped one into his mouth. He thanked me and as he walked away I heard him murmur, “I am…a good person."

Innocence Lost 

                                 On a recent Sunday afternoon I had occasion to drive through my old neighbourhood. The circumstances that brought me there are unimportant but the crisp air and bight sunshine was more than enough to lead me down an old side road and slow my vehicle to a crawl.

As I drove memories of my youth swept over me. I found myself picking out homes of old friends, wondering if they lived there now and how their lives had turned out.

My elementary school was still there, though it looked considerably less foreboding than I remembered. On this day it seemed ordinary and small, but I recalled a time when I couldn’t imagine setting foot in a building as large!

I remember walking to school, taking care to stay on the west side of the sidewalk, as the east side was the realm of the older boys. There were no written rules per se but once school started, you were soon informed that the east side was inhabited by all-powerful masters of the universe and therefore, not your dominion. Unless you wanted your books and school papers strewn over a city block, you were careful to know your place. Of course one day you'd be old enough to patrol the east side and vengeance would be yours!

There was Mr. Harridin's house. Dark, mysterious and completely cloaked in a shroud of huge evergreens, everyone knew this was no ordinary house. Any man who stayed home all day, as Mr. Harridin did, and never came out except to retrieve his mail and glare at us had to be a spy! Which country the old scoundrel represented was unclear but we were consistently careful to maintain absolute silence when we passed. World War II had been over for 15 years but the Cold War was very much alive and it was our patriotic duty to ensure we didn't divulge any national secrets.

On my way out of the neighbourhood I turned the corner to the north end of my elementary school. To my surprise I came upon a scene that caused many cherished memories to flood over me. I quickly parked the car, got out, leaned against the trunk and watched the proceedings in amazement.

In the small lot between the community skating rink and the school there were roughly a dozen boys between the ages of 10 and 13. They were playing field hockey. Using splintered hockey sticks and a tattered tennis ball, they raced up and down the field, pausing only to argue and gesture dramatically or to rescue the ball from under a car. Their faces were scarlet with exertion and rage and while many wore NHL jerseys and new hockey gloves, quite a few resembled my old gang, sporting their older siblings or parents oversized gear, their ragged sweatshirts hanging to the patched knees of their jeans.

It always seemed odd to me how we’d picked that particular spot to play field hockey. There were plenty of other areas we could have used, many of them schematically appropriate and closer to our homes. Yet because this place was adjacent to the actual community rink, it made perfect sense for us to play there, and only there, but what amazed me on this day was that these kids had continued the tradition! I was certain they’d not been instructed to go there but somehow, they’d followed our logic. I found the notion simultaneously amazing and comforting.

After watching for a few minutes I noticed a woman in her early 30s striding purposefully toward me. Her crossed arms and the angry set of her jaw told me she was not about to exchange pleasantries. 

“What are you doing here?” she demanded.

I blurted out my story about having lived here as a child and explained how I’d stopped to watch the kids play hockey, just as I’d played as a boy. Even while speaking the words, I felt an internal easiness.

“Look, my son’s one of those boys and I don’t know you from Adam. You’d better leave before I call the police.”

My initial reaction was extreme outrage. My first thought was to lash out at her with the same venomous disgust she’d shown me but of course, I didn’t. Instead I said nothing, got back into my car and slowly drove away. She watched me until I was out of sight.

As I left from those grand old memories I was overcome by sadness. It wasn’t so much that one can never go home. Time and it’s inherent lessons have taught me that lesson. It wasn’t even the woman with her angry eyes and fiercely protective manner. Given the circumstances of the moment and the social climate of the day, I empathized with her position. I didn’t blame her.

That evening I sat in my chair and contemplated the events of the day. I realized the hollow sensation that caused my throat to constrict and my eyes to mist did not concern a specific person or thing. Rather, I found myself grieving for an innocent time lost, likely to never to be regained.

Doug

I had a friend growing up, Doug, and from the time he was six or seven he acted, looked and carried himself like a girl. This behaviour was beyond his control. By the time he hit his mid teens he was fighting it with every fibre in his being, but to no avail. 

Doug's parents seemed unaware of his difficulties and as the middle child of 5 kids, he occupied a rather low place on the family totem pole. Frankly, his entire family were not particularly pleasant people.

He tried out for baseball, soccer and even hockey, though he could barely skate. He was always the first cut. 

Doug would pick fights with guys over almost nothing and lose them all, badly. As his sole friend, this was hard for me to watch. The few times I tried to step in, Doug became angrier with me than the fellow he was fighting, so I'd stand by and watch like everyone else. I vividly recall a feeling of self-loathing wash over me.

Once we reached high school, Doug tried dating girls. He never "liked" guys in a sexual way, he much preferred girls but his inborn femininity prevented him from taking on a fully masculine role. This was confusing for most girls we knew and as a result, Doug didn't date much. He went to grad with his cousin. To say Doug was confused is an understatement. 

He developed a friendship with my Mom. She was always more accepting of Doug than his own family. She first became aware of his situation when I brought him home after one particularly nasty scrap. He had a small cut over one eye. Mom cleaned him up and simply talked to him. Their friendship was immediate and instantaneous. Doug would drop over once or twice a week, usually under the pretense of seeing me, but he'd talk to my Mom almost exclusively. I didn't mind. On the contrary; I was happy for him. It was great to see him actually connect with anyone, including my Mom.

After meeting Doug, my Mom and Dad made a point of telling me how some people "differed" from the norm. They explained that quite often, behaviours weren't a choice, they simply...were. I can see now how their viewpoint was rare for the time, but I've always appreciated the fact they shared it with me.

In a recent interview with Diane Sawyer, Caitlyn (formerly Bruce) Jenner said, "Imagine waking up every morning, despising yourself for your body and your feelings, then throw in an overwhelming sense of self-disgust. That is my reality every single day." I recalled Doug saying something similar to me when we were in our teens.

Unfortunately we lost track of one another a few years after high school. Doug stayed in touch with my Mom for a time but eventually their friendship faded as well. 

Doug got into hardcore drugs, did some jail time and died of lung cancer at 44, single, broke and alone. My Mom and I were the only people at his funeral. No-one from his family attended.

Had I been in Doug's situation I'm not sure I'd have followed Jenner's route, but I sincerely wish that option had been there for him. 

A Solid Guy, A Solid Life          

I lost a childhood friend recently to diabetes related issues and eventual organ failure. I’ve known Jim since we were 6 years old and except for a gap of about 15 years, we’ve always stayed in touch. His wife Michelle asked me to write a childhood memory to be included in his eulogy to be read by his favourite 2 nieces. 

One of my earliest memories with Jim involved us playing catch in my front yard, something we did often. On this particular day I was also babysitting my 2 year old brother, Bruce. He would stand inside at the front screen door and watch us, usually without incident, but not this time. 

On this occasion Bruce managed to open the door and tumble down the 5 front steps. Once he landed he was screaming bloody murder and one of his tiny legs was twisted at a weird angle. I immediately tried standing him up several times to no avail. 

“Stop doing that,” yelled Jim. “His leg’s broken!!” to which I responded, “It can’t be! My parents will kill me!” 

At that precise moment Mom and Dad pulled up.

As it happens, one of the cement sidewalk slabs at the base of the steps had never been poured properly and the side nearest the steps stuck up roughly two inches. My Mom was always on my Dad’s back about fixing it but to date, he hadn’t.

My Mom ran up screaming, “WHAT HAPPENED! HIS LEG’S BROKEN!” 

Enter my best friend and personal hero, one James Edward Short.
“Mrs Hamilton, we were playing here in the yard with Bruce and when he ran back to the house, he tripped over that sidewalk block.” I believe my Dad’s exact words were, “Oh shit.” Mom turned on him like a ravenous lioness and I was suddenly off the hook.

Now I don’t want to have you believe that Jim was a liar. He was more of a pragmatist but that’s not the point of this story. Jim showed he was a true friend that day and for the rest of his life. It was that quality that put him on a slightly elevated personal pedestal, to me anyway. 

Jim Short was a solid guy and I miss him dearly.

My Dad and the "Ef Bomb"




When I was in my pre-teens my friends and I always often had a game of tackle football directly across the road from my house. The action was hard core, we had no pads or helmets but no-one cared. As a result of this intensity, the air was often rife with very loud, extremely crude cussing.

One Sunday afternoon I was mowed down by a block from behind and as per custom, I jumped up and unleashed a venomous string of obcenities at the cretin who dared to perform this henious act.

About mid bellow I noticed my Dad, leaning on his rake, watching and listening from our front yard. 

We kept playing for a time afterward and at game's end my Dad motionrd me over. As I recall, our conversation went something like this.

Dad: "You guys play really well. I wouldn't be surprised if you all make your high school teams when the time comes."

Me: "Thanks!"

Dad: "One thing I didn't like was all the swearing, particularly the 'f-word'. Tell me, have you ever heard me use it?"

Me: "Uh...no."

Dad: "Well I have, three times. Because I use it so seldom, no-one expects it but when I do use it, people listen. It's a great word but if you use it constantly, it loses all impact."

Me: "I'd never thought of it like that."

I've tried to remember Dad's lesson but sadly, I fail more often than I'd like. I did pass my Dad's advice along to my son James, and I'm pleased to report he's done a much better job of following it than I ever did. 

Good on him I say. 

"Moot? What The Hell Is A Moot?!?"

I'm not a fan of newspaper obituaries but I was stopped in my tracks by one last week. While looking for the daily crossword puzzle, I spotted a photo of a friend and former colleague on the obituary page.

Gary Lakusta was my Area Manager at TELUS in the late 90's, though I certainly noticed him before that. He was the very picture of a "sharped dressed man"; custom tailored suits, immaculate shirts and ties, polished shoes; the whole gamut. His professional appearance went beyond the surface. I rarely saw him without a smile, a  listening ear and a handshake at the ready.

Like many of my coworkers, I initially thought Gary was too good to be true. Nobody was that  good looking, that well groomed and happy to boot. Over time it became apparent we were wrong. 

A position opened in Gary's area. The job looked very interesting so I applied for it and he took me on. Within a few days I realized Gary was as genuine as they come. He really was the consummate professional. What I couldn't see initially was his hidden inner wackiness. 

We were making a formal presentation to the TELUS Executive Board when a Senior VP questioned one of the steps in our proposal. "Well sir," replied Gary "that particular step shouldn't impact the provision of services. It's implementation, though necessary, is a mute point."

Everyone in the room immediately stared at him. Gary noticed but within seconds he pressed on. The remainder of the meeting while eventually successful, was uneventful.

As we entered the elevator Gary asked, "Why was everyone staring at me? Did I have something in my teeth? What the hell was that about?" 

"You said a certain point was 'mute' and the correct word is 'moot'. It just surprised everyone."

Gary stared at me and exclaimed, "MOOT? What the hell is a moot? C'mon! That's not a word! Is it?"

I burst out laughing and Gary laughed too, yet he remaind confused until I explained the difference between the two words. 

Gary repeated that story to just about anyone who'd listen for years afterwards because though it happened to him, he found it hilarious. That's the kind of man Gary was and that's why I admired him. He lived every moment to its fullest, even embarrassing moments at his own expense. 

I've not met a lot of others with that quality. Gary Lakusta was the real deal.

A Blog? Why?

In my 70 years on this mortal coil, I've enjoyed an unremarkable yet fulfilled life, thus far anyway. 

I was an average kid in physical stature and mental ability. I worked as hard as required to avoid pissing too many people off. A degree of anonymity was a personal goal. To my surprise, I found I had a gift for observation. Things or events would occur and, for the most part, go unnoticed by most people. Still, there were times when I'd spot something desperate, despicable, inane or humane behind some seemingly ordinary event or person. Most times the impact would be fleeting, but on occasion, certain things would stick. 

Eventually I began capturing what I considered the most significant of these thoughts and ideas in print. I'd share them with people via essays, editorial submissions, eulogies and correspondence. For years certain well-meaning friends have suggested I somehow record these "mini streams of consciousness" and frankly, this blogging trend removed my last excuse not to do so.

So hang in there dear readers and buckle up for a journey rife with mediocrity, but laced with just enough wonder and naivete to make it interesting. Above all please understand. I'm not looking to educate or enrich, merely entertain. Enjoy!

My "Military Career"

I began my military career at the age of 10 when my Mom signed me up for Cub Scouts. I wasn't crazy about the beanie style cap, but the green sweater with the Canada Cub Scouts logo was pretty cool and the scarf with the little leather holder thingy was awesome.

My first official meeting provided a glimpse of how my future would roll out, militarily speaking of course. 

Our initial order was to memorize was "the code":

I promise to do my best,

To love and serve God, to do my duty to the Queen;

To keep the law of the Wolf Cub pack,

And to do a good turn for somebody every day. 

Dib dib, dub dub , Akeila we will do our best.

Being something of an idiot, that last line cracked me up and I didn't exactly snicker. I busted out laughing and after a second or two, my fellow neophytes followed suit. This was met with sneers of disdain from the "real Cubs" and I received an immediate dressing down from the Scout-In-Charge. Despite my best efforts, I could not stop laughing and I was told to leave.

I was allowed to return the next week and I managed to get through that session unscathed. Actually, it was a lot of fun. The Scout-In-Charge explained the idea of merit badges and how to earn them. Before you could earn merit badges, you had to earn two stars, or "eyes" to display on your cap. Once you had "both eyes open", you were not only considered a true Cub Scout, you were well on your way to becoming an actual Boy Scout!

Within a month or two I'd earned my first star and I displayed it proudly on my cap. By this time the other newbies had earned both stars and they were working on their initial merit badges. I was so enamoured with my initial star, I really wasn't in much of a hurry to get the second one. This infuriated Scout-In-Charge and he finally called me out on my lack of effort in front of the entire troop. When I told Scout-In-Charge I was pretty much set on being a one-eyed pirate Cub, my journey ended.

By the time I was 12, two of my older brothers were serving in the Canadian Navy and they urged me to join the Navy Cadets. I didn't really care for their odd little hats so, with their blessing, I opted for the Canadian Army Cadets. 

On our first week we received our uniforms, a general introduction speech and we viewed a short film about Cadet Camp in Vernon, B.C. I became very excited. Ten whole days away from my parents and that camp looked like it kicked butt!

In the week leading up to the next session, my brother Tom showed me how to prepare and wear the uniform and of utmost importance, how to "hot spoon" and polish my boots until I could actually see my reflection in them. Tom then drove me to the local barber where I received a genuine military brush cut. I was unimpressed with the new hairdo but whatever, I was on my way to Camp "No-Oldies-For-10-Days"! 

At my second session I met an actual Army Captain and he complimented me on my "authentic appearance". I joined my first drill exercise virtually walking on air, but this elation ended quickly.

I grew up in a suburban neighbourhood where all the houses were built within a year or two of one another and the area was rife with kids my age. This made for a terrific childhood as everyone, including me, had 10 or 15 "best friends"! Of course there were exceptions. 

Every neighborhood had at least one kid who whined about everything, didn't really like anybody and generally set about making everyone around him miserable. We had Billy Markeen.

Billy's family was well off. He always had the nicest bike, the latest clothes and comic books, gobs of candy, tons of spending money and an overall "I'm way better than you" attitude. He also had a habit of picking fights, then calling on one or both of his older brothers to finish them up.

So, imagine my horror when I found out our "Staff Seargent/Drill Coordinator" was none other than Billy freaking Markeen.

I stood in the back row, hoping he'd either ignore or not see me. Of course that didn't happen. Upon eye contact, Staff Sgt. Markeen summoned me "front and centre". He slowly circled, his little wooden staff at the ready. He barked, "Straighten your hat!" and emphasized his directive with a tap on my shoulder. "Watch the stick, Markeen", I whispered. "THAT'S STAFF SERGEANT MARKEEN!" he shrieked.  

"Pull in your gut!" was his next directive, punctuated with a poke to my belly. "Don't do that again", I warned.

When Markeen drew back his stick once more, I plucked it from his hand, knocked his hat off with it, flipped it across the room and walked away. The last thing I recall is Staff Seargent/Drill Coordinator Markeen screaming, "GET THE HELL BACK HERE, HAMILTON!" That didn't happen.

In that moment it occurred to me; perhaps a career in the military would not be part of my future. As the years passed, I realized I could take directives and instruction as well as anyone. Orders? Not so much.

A Visit From Dad

Every now and again I get a subliminal "visit" from my late Dad. I was in a department store lineup recently and a dapper older gentleman was directly in front of me. 

He wore polished burgundy brogues, a navy blue topcoat, a grey suit, a white dress shirt and a paisley tie. He was impeccable. In front of him was a younger fellow in his mid-twenties, also in a suit and tie. 

The older gentleman seemed to study him for a time, then leaned forward and quietly said, "Young man, that's a fine suit, but just because it comes with 3 buttons doesn't mean you have to use them all. Try undoing the bottom button. I think you'll find it more comfortable."

The younger man complied, glanced at his reflection in a nearby mirror then he immediately thanked the older man. "Wow, that does feel better! Looks better too. Thank you!"

They shook hands and the moment was over, but I swore I caught a hint of my Dad's after-shave lotion! Thanks for dropping by, Dad.

Blatherings

• When I was in my early 60s and I'd tell people my age I'd hear, "No way! You look 45, maybe 50 but not 64!" Now when I tell folks I'm 65, I get, "Uh-uh, that's cool." What?!? In one YEAR?!? 
• As if I needed it, yet another sign of my rapidly advancing years: Every time I "Google" someone, I'm find I'm older than him or her, even when I've thought "there's no effing way!" Sigh. 
• We finally saw "Silver Linings Playbook". The way the writers and actors handled mental health issues with compassion and deftness, while avoiding the usual cinematic sugar coating, was both a joy and a relief. 
• Took a fall down the steps today with a arm full of laundry. I wasn't hurt and while I didn't see my life flash before my eyes, I did get a glimpse of my reality. I cannot afford to get hurt. 
• With the snow all but gone, I've this incredible urge to race outside and start raking. Or not. 
• We're about an hour into the movie "The Life Of Pi" and I'm thinking, "Now here's a big ol' slice of my life I'll never get back." 
• We've been watching a lot of home swap/renovation shows lately. After almost every program, I am totally psyched to jump up and do a few things around here. Thankfully, a snack and a short nap usually takes care of that. 
• I miss the huge, raucous family Christmas dinners from my childhood. 15 to 20 guests were not uncommon; old people, young people, children, babies, even pets. 
• Yesterday I noticed the ruching on a young lady's dress was badly bunched. Today I asked my wife to explain the difference between a bustier and a camisole. What the hell has happened to me? Project Runway, Fashion Police and too much daytime TV happened to me. How sad. 
• I was recently approached by 2 young Mormon men while walking Dave the dog. One asked if he could tell me about my eternity. I replied, "Certainly, then I'll tell you what the gays have done to the soil", and they walked away! Go figure. 
• 
  
• My childhood friend and the best athlete on our block, Jim Short, barely survived a heart attack just before Christmas. Lately, mortality keeps tapping me on the shoulder. 
• It's official. My hockey resurrection has come to an end. Tonight I turned quickly (?) from skating forward to backward and broke my ass. A half hour later, and with the help of one of the kids, I got my skates off, my boots on and dragged my broken ass home. Pathetic. 
• Have you ever encountered a life altering issue over which you've no control and can't avoid, but somehow, you've managed to live with it? Then, just for a moment, the issue wins and for that moment, you're utterly defeated, ground into the dirt. The good news; when that control returns, and it does eventually, you're often stronger for the experience. 
• I've noticed lately, a lot of people I know and some I care for deeply, are into agnosticism. I'm not sure why, but this saddens me. 
• The true measure of a genuine fool is often easy to define because they do it for you; willingly, readily and often. 
• Watching way too much TV again: My latest gripe - this kid says his Coca Cola delivery man Daddy delivers "happiness" and a "safer environment". I'm thinking more like "obesity", "empty calories" and "tooth decay". 
• Wakeup call to self: Stop seeking sympathy from others and grow a pair. Life's dealt you a difficult hand or two lately. So what?. Bitching irritates people. Fix it. Over and out. 
• Another "getting older/a-ha moment": I caught myself on the biffy, chuckling aloud at "Pickles" in the Journal comics. 
• Have you ever been physically surrounded by people, yet felt all alone? It's not always a bad happenstance, just an odd one. 
• When you ask people for help, you're actually presenting them with a gift. 
• How on earth does my wife expect me to go through our multitude of toiletries and locate something called "vanishing cream"? 
• They've been gone for years and I think of them often. Today however, I really miss my Mom and Dad. 
• What is with we Canadians? Usually shy and reserved in public, we fall over ourselves and stop whatever we're doing to help a total stranger push their car out of the snow! 
• Isn't it just a little bit amazing when the words or writings of a complete stranger can touch you to your very core? 
• If I agreed with you, we'd both be wrong. 
• Over the past year we've celebrated, loved and mourned. We've been staggered, stricken, lifted and enlightened by the sheer joy and heart wrenching dread of it all. Really, life's a trip. 
• I believe Facebook has the potential to be among our most powerful tools in the promotion of global goodwill and...wait a second. Some SOB just "UNFRIENDED" me?!?! Why, I'll KILL that mother effing... 
• We recently lost a close friend suddenly, incredibly, to an embolism. God called Dave Taylor home 13 months after marrying the love of his life. I thought writing this down would make it real. It doesn't. 
• Why did Kamikaze pilots wear helmets? 
• Never make the same mistake twice. There are so many available, why not try a different one each day? 
• My most fervent wish for this ongoing undertaking is to ensure it never resembles a list of fortune cookie quotations. 
• I have no misgivings about adoring Dave, our dog. His ability to adore us knows no boundaries. 
• The Oilers, the Eskimos and the Chicago Cubs are not, and will never be, a waste of my time. 
• There is no explaining why we make the choices we do until after we've made them, and then there's usually no point. 
• If something I've said or written can be taken two ways and you find one of them offensive, I meant the other one. 
• Like me, when your elders said "what goes around comes around", did you find it funny? Now you've witnessed life a bit more, like me, do you marvel at how funny it isn't? 
• Golf is God's way of keeping me humble while ensuring I never take myself too seriously. He's very efficient at that sort of thing. 
• Facebook is a wonderful social networking tool, no question. Still, at times I wish it would automatically edit me for "stupid". 
• A young woman recently thanked me as I held a door open for her. Seconds later, she snarled an obscenity at her husband/boyfriend. Question: Why are we nicer to strangers than people we care about? 
• As I've gotten older, I've found reconnecting with old friends can be a crapshoot. Lesson learned? Go for it. It may not work but there's a reason you were friends in the first place. 
• Feeling lousy about your life? Watch any episode of "Maury". You'll feel better, guaranteed. 
• You know the years are sliding by when you have to "rest up" before going out to dinner! 
• I'm always more puzzled than hurt when I find someone's lied to me. 
• When did being a "worry wart" become an "anxiety disorder"? 
• Another friends parent passed today. Having already lost mine and my in-laws too, I keep hoping the news gets easier to bear. It doesn't. 
• It's minus 42. My cars been plugged in all night and it still won't start. We live here why again? 
• I think we should change the name from "Christmas Day" to "PRESENTS DAY - FINALLY". Just a thought.. 
• The best thing about Christmas is EVERYTHING. 
• The best thing about Boxing Day isn't much. Leftovers maybe? 
• I've noticed something about my youthful athletic accomplishments, particularly in their retelling. The older I get, the better I was. 
• I hate "de-Christmasing" our house. It's the only time of year the place looks seriously drab to me, even just for a day or two. 
• It's tough being an Oiler fan this year. Our season started slow and has kind of tapered off... (sigh). Oh well, the Cubs start spring training soon! 
• With our basement in complete disarray for the last 4 months, I've apparently determined this is the time to redefine "procrastination". 
• Is there a chance some of these kids so quickly diagnosed with "attention deficit disorder" are what we used to call "brats"? 
• Is there a chance some of these kids so quickly diagnosed with "Tauret's" are what we used to call "effing rude"? 
• Are there any behaviours left that DON'T have an associated "diagnostic title"? 
• I happened across a former co-worker/friend's obituary this morning. I grieve for his friends and family but selfishly, I grieve for my diminishing mortality as well. 
• Married over 43 years and my wife still cracks me up, pretty much at will. Lucky, lucky man... 
• I've a friend who still uses his fingers as parentheses when making a point. I love the guy but please God, make him stop. 
• Don't you hate it when certain behaviours on A and E's "Intervention" or "Hoarders" remind you of someone you know or worse yet, yourself? 
• Wow. Writer's block really DOES exist! Who knew? 
• The word "proud" is inadequate and pedestrian when applied to my admiration for my son, James and his lovely wife, Catherine. 
• I've a friend whose opinion on a "hot box" subject is the polar opposite of mine. She's passionate, intellegent and I respect her position. She cannot or will not reciprocate and now our friendship has ended. How very stupid. 
• It's nice the Canadian Government is matching my contribution to Haitian relief. But isn't that MY money too? 
• This morning I took steak out for dinner. Sue said she wanted sweet potato fries. I said "Okay" and when I served the fries, the first thing she said was, "What happened to the steak?" We men are so literal. 
• Tested the strength of your relationship lately? Buy $2K worth of IKEA stuff and renovate a room together. That'll do it. 
• The 2010 Olympics were terrific beyond my wildest expectations but if I hear that insipid "I Believe" theme music even one more time, a total mental disconnect cannot be ruled out. 
• Whichever merchandiser originated "restocking fees" had no concept of customer service. 
• Sue and I have seen more 2009 Oscar nominated movies than any year either of us can recall; TWO! Of course it doesn't hurt there's ten listed this year instead of the usual five... 
• It may be me and my "advancing years" but it seems IKEA instruction sheets are not as clear as they once were. All pictures, no words. 
• We're driving over 200 KMs next Sunday to have lunch with a dear couple we've not seen in over 30 years! How cool is that?!? 
• Today a laid off employee entered his former workplace, killed one man, gravely wounded another then killed himself. Naively, I'm still astonished when horror manifests itself as reality. 
• Not to gloat but unlike pre-retirement, "springing ahead" into Daylight Savings Time no longer has much of an impact on my life or daily activities. 
• I recently slipped on an icy walk and took a genuine prat fall. I wasn't hurt but I can't believe how much it frightened me. Where has my bullet proofing gone? 
• Generally, funerals suck. Ones including a lone piper are worse. If there's anyone out there with influence concerning my final arrangements, I beg you, no bagpipes. 
• Reality check: Today a neighbor referred to me as "that nice old guy from down the block" when he thought I was out of earshot. "Nice" is a positive thing, I suppose. 
• My new "something-to-do" retirement job involves stocking shelves at a book store weekdays from 5 a.m. to 9 a.m. I've always been a relatively early riser and I love this gig, but the sound of an alarm clock at 4:00 a.m. is just wrong.  
• Since his recent public fall from grace, Tiger Woods fell from American Dream status to full-on creep in a nano-second, all thanks to the wonders of the modern media machine. 
• I vividly recall a similar reaction to the O.J. Simpson scenario. The crime totally contradicted his percieved personna and it appeared to evolve through a guaze of make believe. 
• To me, the best thing about Facebook happened today. I had a phone conversation with a high school friend I've not heard from in 40+ years and the time melted away like ice cream on hot pavement. Fantastic. 
• My golf clubs are in the front hall, staring out the window, dreaming of novel ways to punish me in the morning. 
• Note to self: When you realize you sincerely detest specific actors in specific commercials, you're watching way too much TV. 
• I golfed with my pal Bryan today and he fired an 85; a terrific result. While I didn't score nearly as well, I feel as good as if I'd done it! Golf's a funny game that way. 
• It's odd how the passing of time can be as rewarding as it is cruel. It's a balance thing I suppose. 
• I just realized there's no expiration date on worrying about one's child. 
• Tonight Sue and I dined with a childhood friend of mine and his lovely wife. It had been 30 plus years since we'd seen each other but, magically, no time had elapsed. 
• (to be continued, like it or not, at the top of the list!)

Bullies

Imagine spending your childhood in a subdivision with 20 to 25 other kids your age, a year younger or a year older, all living within a three block radius. That was Avonmore in southeast Edmonton and for me at least, life couldn't have been better.

Combine the abundance of like minded, similar aged boys with immediate access to wide open athletic fields, two community skating rinks and a wild but explorable ravine and you've created the perfect backdrop for a childhood full of activity and adventure.

Many of us moved into this new subdivision at the same time and inevitably, strong friendships were formed. 

One exception was an immigrant German family, the Strellos, who moved into a yellow bungalow at the end of our crescent, roughly four years after the initial influx of families.

Mr. and Mrs. Strello both worked, an oddity to us. Most Moms stayed home back then. Another difference; they had two adult sons living with them. Their third son was a quiet, dark eyed 13 year old, Hans.

Though he was our age, Hans had a tough time fitting in. He didn't like sports, he spoke with a thick German accent and didn't seem interested in making friends. It didn't help when his parents made him wear leather shorts known as "lederhosen" every day, all through the summer and well into the fall.

Hans was a handsome kid, something the local girls picked up on right away. Though he didn't particularly seek their attention, they seemed to flock to him. This was another character trait we didn't appreciate.

What we opted to do about this situation was something we'd all come to regret.

We started by paying no attention whatsoever to Hans, and when that didn't seem to affect him, we picked on him at every opportunity. We mimicked his accent, called him "Smello Strello," the whole gamut, all outside the earshot of adults of course.

Eventually, a number of these confrontations became physical. Hans stood his ground every time. He fought his battles, won most of them and slowly began to gain our respect. The only problem; Hans either didn't realize it, or he no longer cared.

One sunny morning roughly 18 months after his arrival, Hans Strello retreated to his basement, loaded his brother Mike's shotgun and shot himself in the head.

The news swept through Avonmore like a forest fire, and the resulting guilt we felt was tangible.

Two days after his death, Hans' brothers came to our school. There was an assembly of all 8th and 9th Grade boys and Hans' eldest brother, Mike, stood at the front of the room. He asked, "Which of you boys were Hans' friends?"

With the exception of myself and three others, everyone raised their hands. We four lived closest to Hans and the shame sweeping over us was tangible.

My stomach dropped when Mike pointed us out and said, "We want you four to be Hans' pallbearers. You're the only ones telling the truth here today."

We had no choice but to oblige.

The suicide and funeral of Hans Strello impacted every boy in Avonmore. Petty arguments, feuds and senseless spats all but disappeared. It was if our youth disappeared as well, replaced by a staggering sense of guilt, grief and sadness. Of course, it didn't last. Youth is resilient, if nothing else.

Within weeks of the tragedy, the Strellos sold their house and moved away. We never saw or heard from them again.

I've spoken to two of my fellow pallbearers a few times in the 50 plus years since Hans' death. Our one remaining constant is an intolerance for bullying. When we see it, we stop it, or at least make an effort to do so. Another commonality; these activities have done nothing to assuage our guilt, individually or collectively.

This is a rather pathetic epitaph I know, but Hans and his family remain in our hearts and minds to this day. I like to believe their suffering stood for something. What that might be, I cannot imagine.

One Magic Evening

At 12 years old, my life was pretty routine; school, church, TV, sports, playing with my pals, the usual stuff.

Alone time with my Dad came at a premium. By then my 3 older brothers had left home and my youngest brother, Bruce, was barely a year old. Dad had a very demanding job, working 6 days a week, 10 to 12 hours a day. He was also active in a number of service clubs and enjoyed golf and curling. This didn't allow for a lot of one on one time for us, but my friends all had similar relationships with their fathers, so I didn't think much about it at all.

Dad was there for me when I needed him, of course, but I certainly would have enjoyed doing more things together. One evening he did something that changed our relationship forever.

The first difference between this Wednesday evening and the norm was my Dad's arrival home, around 4:30 p.m. instead of the standard 6:30 to 7:00. His first words to me were, "Bub, is your homework done?" I said it was. "Can you be ready to go in a half hour? We'll eat on the way."

"Where are we going?" I asked. "You'll see, Bub." He mussed my hair and went off to change his clothes.

30 minutes later we were out the door, in the car and on our way. We stopped at the neighborhood "greasy spoon" for burgers and fries. I didn't think Dad even knew where this joint was but I was beginning to sense there was something entirely different about this night. Still, no matter how much I quzzed him, Dad wouldn't give away our destination.

Eventually we arrived at what I thought was the biggest building in town, maybe all of Canada; the Edmonton Gardens. "Are we going to see the Flyers, Dad?"

"So it seems." Dad had a grin on his face like I'd never seen before.

I'd been to the Gardens on Sunday afternoons to watch our Junior team, the Oil Kings, but I'd never been to a night game nor seen the Edmonton Flyers, the Detroit Red Wing's top farm team. Just going to this game was a huge deal for me.

Watching the warmup, I recognized a few players, mostly former Oil Kings; Len Haley, Jack Price, Eddie Joyal and Bruce MacGregor, but there was one player I definitely hadn't seen before. 

A little taller than the others, this particular guy had sloping shoulders, a unique stride and displayed a compact ease with the puck. Suddenly, he flicked a nasty wrist shot half the length of the ice, straight into the top corner of the empty net at the far end of the arena, then he skated right by our rinkside seats. I almost passed out. It was Gordie Howe.

Howe had suffered a broken wrist and as part of his rehabilitation program, he'd been assigned to Edmonton for 3 games to get back into shape. My Dad figured this was the only time I'd ever get to see my favorite NHL player, so he broke every weeknight rule in our household to make it happen.

The actual game is a blur. I can't even remember who the Flyers played, but they won, big. I do recall reminding myself to breathe every time Howe took a shift, and to say the man did not disappoint would be an understatement. His skill level was so much higher than everyone else's, the difference was absolutely tangible! 

As Howe's meteroic career continued, I did see him play again, but not until he was in his 50s, playing with his sons for Houston of the World Hockey Association.

It's odd how one event or one evening can change everything. From that night on Dad and I had just a little more than the usual father son relationship. Intentionally or otherwise, we'd forged a kinship, a closeness we'd never had before and I'm pleased to say it continued until his passing.

I discovered later he'd done similar individual things with each of my brothers, which went a long way in explaining just what an exceptional father he was. This very special gift from my Dad is something I'll treasure for the rest of my life.

Mr. Gorke's Tattoo

The custodian at our junior high school, Mr. Gorke, had a small tattoo on his forearm. Being a 13 year old idiot, I asked him where he got it. He said he was too busy to explain, but he would tell me later. An older student overheard our exchange, took me aside and gave me a terse yet accurate description of the Holocaust. I'd never heard a word about it until that moment, and I found the entire concept impossible to imagine.

That evening after supper, my Dad filled in a few more blanks for me. As a WWII veteran, he felt he had an obligation to tell me all he knew.

A few days later Mr. Gorke asked me to help him set things up for an assembly. I arrived at the gym to find everything already set up and Mr. Gorke sitting alone in the front row.

Over the next half hour he gently but explicitly led me through his horrific story. Sensing my shock he said, "I know this is difficult Brian, but you need to know what happened." I don't think I responded but I recall a huge wave of sadness washing over me as I left the gym.

Over time Mr. Gorke and I developed a friendship and I was honored to attend his funeral in 1997. We only discussed his ordeal that one time.
I can only wish for the eloquence required to properly express my horror at the monstrous acts of which we're capable as "human beings", particularly as they compare to the bravery and steadfastness of the human spirit.

Me & Burton Cummings

In the late 1970's I was with AGT (now known as TELUS) Broadcast Services. We were providing a satellite uplink for a Burton Cummings CBC live special. Rumor had it he was on the verge of leaving the Guess Who, and this was to be his first live solo performance.

The purpose of our meeting was to lay out the programming schedule for the portable AGT uplink to connect to the CBC satellite.

God knows why, but he showed up at our technical production meeting and appeared to confuse it for a performance production meeting.

We sat in stunned silence as Cummings raged about his various "cheap assed, idiotic problems". He ranted about everything from the size of his dressing room to the fact he didn't have a car and driver at his disposal. We didn't attempt to answer his shrieking demands, which was just as well. He clearly wasn't in a mood to listen anyway.

Eventually one of his toadies quietly clued him in. As he swept out of the room, entourage in tow, actually wearing a cape, his parting words were "F*CK ALL YOU EGGHEAD ASSHOLES!" 

Later I sat in the truck and watched the show live. The rude, crude son of a bitch absolutely crushed it. He was amazing.

Dumb, dumb, dumb....

Back in the early 70s my wife Sue and I were in a piano bar in Honolulu, and for no reason other than that's what I was into back then, I got absolutely blitzed.

As luck would have it, the mens room door happened to be held open by several stacked boxes, which turned out be cases of liquor. As I left the facilities, I reached 2 feet over my head into the top case and extracted a bottle of Chivas, my favorite Scotch!

I was in a tank top and shorts and God knows how but I managed to exit the bar without anyone, including Sue and the couple we were with, noticing what I'd done!

The next day my conscience and the hangover meant forJudas gnawed at me with a vengeance. By early evening I could no longer stand it. I returned to the scene of my crime, the piano bar.

Having already cracked the bottle, I couldn't return it but I asked for the manager, told him what I'd done and praying he wouldn't kill me, handed him a fistful of bills. The guy was a giant Samoan and I was sweating bullets as he came around the counter.

I really thought I was about to die but he gave me a huge hug, thanked me for my honesty and said, "That's great brah, but you grabbed a 12 year old bottle of Chivas. You owe me another eight bucks!"

Sue gave the bar manager a twenty and we were gone. As we litertaly ran out the door, we could hear everyone behind us roaring with laughter!

5 years later, we had an overnight layover in Honolulu on our way to Maui. Upon our arrival, Sue was tired so she took an early evening nap and I went for a walk. Imagine my surprise to find that same little piano bar, right where we'd left it! I decided to check the place out.

The moment I entered I was stunned to find little had changed. The bar and the staff appeared to be the same bunch as before. The manager recognized me immediatey and roared,"Hey, brah, how's it? Look at you! C'mon, have a Chivas on me....but stay the hell outta the bathroom!"

Confrontation, 2011 Style

Today I made my usual mid-week grocery run to Super Store. I pulled into a snug parking spot and realized I was too close to the car beside me. As I started backing up, I noticed a young couple walking behind me and stopped immediately. The man thumped the back of my car with his fist.

I was a little surprised to see him standing there as I exited my vehicle. Around 5'10" and 140 pounds, he had his wife and 2 small children with him. His little hands were balled into fists and the first words out of his mouth were, "Watch where yer goin', asshole!"

I responded, "I was watching. That's how you didn't get hit by my car. Why are you still here?"

The kid's face was beet red as he snarled, "I oughta kick your ass! That's why!" He wrenched free of his wife as she tried to pull him away. "C'mon Ed, can we just go?" she pleaded. One of his children began to cry. "Shut those goddamned kids up!" snarled Ed.

It was starting to look like this could escalate and 25 or 30 years ago, it may have. But that was then and this was now. I decided to be honest.

"I feel bad for you, I really do. Either way this goes, you lose. Beat up an old guy who then calls the cops, you lose. Get laid out by an old guy who then calls the cops, you still lose."

Ed began to advance, his angry little fists raised. "Let's do this", he growled.

"Ed, that's just stupid. You've been watching too much TV. Nothing's going to happen. Go home. Get some help."

With that, I turned and walked towards the store. I could hear Ed huffing and fuming but just as I thought he would, he'd started herding his family toward their vehicle.
I feel truly sorry for this young man. I keep imagining how badly his life will play out, particularly with the innate anger he carries. Maybe he was just having a bad day and I was the excuse he needed to lash out. I hope that was the case but sadly, I doubt it.

"Shoosh"?!?

 I thought I'd I found the perfect post-retirement, part-time job; stocking shelves in a bookstore. I worked Monday through Friday, from 5 a.m. to 9 a.m. This allowed me ample time to make a few bucks while maintaining a fullfilling home life. The job was a little more complex than I'd have thought; oddly challenging but fun. My co-workers were all very nice and for the most part, I fit right in. I had extremely positive responses to my work ethic and while my learning curve didn't feel as sharp as I'd have liked, things were progressing well.

After a year, I encountered a new supervisor who didn't like me. She said as much within a day or two of our meeting. This was a scenario I'd seldom encountered before. Very soon Supervisor Linda was on me about everything task I performed and within a week I began to dread coming to work. I knew instinctively Linda was trying to make me quit and at $10 per hour, my patience was running thin. It dawned on me I wasn't there because I still enjoyed my job. I was there because I couldn't stomach the thought of her "winning"; not a good reason to keep getting out of bed at 4:00 a.m.

One morning Linda asked me why I was doing something a certain way. Midway through my explanation she shoved a stubby index finger in my face and "shooshed" me! I lost it. I'd never before had a derogatory word for Linda but in my mind, she'd stepped over a line. I think my little rant went something like this.

"Are you insane? I'm a 62 year old, grown assed man and you just SHOOSHED me. What're you, 40 something (she's 34)? You've been here, what, 20 years (more like 5)? You've advanced as far as you ever will and really, how pathetic is that? Do you realize the income tax taken off my pension check is more money than you'll ever see in a month? Why would I give a damn what you think or how you feel a task should be done? Seriously, get bent."

By this time the other 3 staff on duty were staring at us, open mothed. Flustered and beet red, Linda mumbled something about my not being allowed to speak to her that way and then, for the first time ever, I quit a job on the spot. It was glorious.

In the end I probably made Linda a very happy little supervisor but I couldn't have cared less. Over 40 years of pent up workplace frustration evaporated in a nano-second. I'd never been so happy with a snap decision in my life and given the circumstances, I wouldn't have changed a thing.

The Origin of the Hamilton Family Motto

In Scotland of the early 1300's, the three Hamilton clans joined Robert the Bruce in the revolt against King Edward the 1st, also known as "Longshanks". They were basically thieves and thugs, yet this revolt all but legitimized their activities.

On one ocassion they were pursued and eventually cornered in a forest by a contingent of Longshanks' forces. Thinking on their feet, they immediately "borrowed" axes and appropriate garb from the locals and posing as what we refer to as lumberjacks, began frantically chopping down trees.

Back then workers hollered "Through!" instead of "Timber!" when felling a tree and the Hamiltons followed suit.

Thinking these fellows were legitimate, the soldiers blew right by them and the Hamilton Family Motto "Through!" was born.

Jack Semple

Canadian guitarist/singer Jack Semple recently played a charity to rebuild the roof of the ancient United Church in dowtown Edmonton. My brother Bruce volunteered he and I to work the door.

Semple was brilliant; very skilled, versatile, funny - the whole package. After his first startlingly intricate number he took the mike, thanked everyone and asked, "Just curious. How many of you play guitar?"

There were over 500 people there and not a hand went up. Bruce whispered, "Raise your hand!" and I just glared at him.

Semple came back with, "Let me put this another way. How many of you OWN a guitar?"

Amid a roar of laughter more than half the people there, including me, raised their hands! It's likely an old bit but I'd never heard it before and I thought it was hilarious!