Ya I'm grumpy today ... what's your point?

My fifty-eight birthday is imminent ... I'm moments away from being my Dad. I could fake it up to this point but now I even look like his not so younger brother. Damn that was a fast trip. Of course he warned me that this day would come ... the dreaded you're the oldest guy in the room day. The day you realize that you remember things well before everyone else in the room was born, yet they're all taking about shit that happened yesterday of which you are blissfully unaware. To make matters worse you're convinced that they're only calling you sir because you look like a bad ass.

Now I really am trying to do this ancient warrior thing gracefully, but sadly there are moments when I want to reach across the table at the earnest, bright eyed MBA totting, bigger office holding graduate in front of me and ask them … steely eyed, if they are ready to talk their way out of an old fashion ass kicking, one which I erroneously continue to believe I can deliver.

Sigh … my Dad once told me, rather sadly (and it’s been said by others) getting old is about disappearing. People stop seeing you he claims … well I’m not quite there, although some have tried. I suppose historical lore suggests that is as it should be … older generations giving way to the young. But there’s just one slight problem.

I have no frigg’in intention of slipping quietly into the void.

I guess that’s the trouble with us late boomers … we are a tenacious, and yes somewhat self-indulgent, bunch … determined to be middle aged for … well ever. While some in my Dad’s generation feel old and eventually succumb to the siren call of farting unashamedly in public places (some don’t) … boomers generally are not so much inclined to do so … we’re too vain.

Now I know that the currently (note the word choice) bright eyed millenniums, forced to live in the shadow of this ridiculous baby bubble are getting a tad (that means a little) frustrated that boomers continue to hog the lime light (I mean the whole music thing alone has got to be annoying … the Stones still touring), I have to say … well … that’s just too bad, suck it up, you’ll be fat and dimply soon too … in fact, health statistics suggests you might beat most of us grey walls to that look. 

Sorry I started this rant to be apologetic … but as I wrote it … I realized I don’t have anything to apologize for … I’m living my life the best I could with what I had … and no I’m not talking personal responsibility for all the shit that’s happened while I’ve been living it … if you can do it better … good for you … let me know what your kids say in twenty years …

Oh ya … I’ll still be here … just a little smellier.

Why not ...

Apparently my plan to win a lottery isn't quite working out. I can't understand why not. I'm doing all the things you're supposed to do. I buy my tickets religiously, I pray to a variety of deities (just to hedge the bet). I dream weekly of how my new found wealth will be dispensed, houses in exotic places, large environmentally unfriendly vehicles, trips abroad with assorted companions selected for their depth of character or more accurately - lack of it, ridiculously expensive clothes and of course a large donation to a deserving charity / friend / family. Okay maybe the last bit is negotiable. Regardless, nothing seems to be working. Rabbit foot ... not. Wearing the same socks every lottery day ... not. Game beard ... not. Rubbing bald heads ... not. Wishing on a star ... not. Giving up smoking ... not. Just what the hell am I suppose to do?

I deserve it ... sort of. I mean, I think lots of good thoughts ... mostly. I do good deeds ... kind of, well I mean to do good deeds more often ... but I'm really busy, like right now ... I'm typing.

I mean come on someone’s got to win ... can't that someone be me? What great plan for the universe would be capsized by my win? I mean seriously. What’s the Frigg ‘in problem?  

… well?

I know what you're going to say ... that I'm healthy and have lived my entire life without any serious illness or injury. That I've always worked at something I've enjoyed. That I have two beautiful children, loving siblings, family and friends. That I live in one of the safest countries in the world, that I have never been abused or suffered at the hands of haters. That I have more of everything than most people on the planet ... so what ... doh!

Nevermind ...

 

Ordinary people doing extraordinary things...

I spent the last week meeting and hearing from some pretty amazing people, and I’m not talking about the people who spoke at the conference I attended, but rather the “ordinary” people I met. Patrick who was looking to create a non-profit restaurant because he wants to make a difference in the industry he believes in and the people who work in it. Suzi, who is a sensitive and beautiful soul determined to express her artistry while staying grounded in order to offer her son a life she never knew. Suzanne committed to making a difference in the lives of people who few take the time to notice. Jeff who was looking for some inspiration to help drive his community college into a new paradigm beyond bricks and mortar or my good friend Gerry who at fifty-six is about to become the care giver for three young boys at a time when his friends and colleagues are entering the other side of child rearing and domestic administration.

Humbling stuff, yet all of it real and in the realm of everyday possibility, the speakers spoke of grandeur things or at least grandeur in the telling. But it was the ordinary stories that struck home for me. The daily challenge of doing the best you can do with what you have; the determination to make a difference in the immediate. Those are the stories of life, not the stuff of trendy books or centre stage. The stories of the unsung, those most ordinary yet extraordinary people.

Lucy's home ...

A number of weeks ago, as I was returning from visiting friends in Ottawa, I passed a kitten on the side of the road. I was in a line of cars on a busy two lane highway just outside of a small rural town. My first thought was how tiny it was and my second thought was some concern for its safety. I drove on debating whether to go back; I didn’t get far. I’m generally not the type of person who just keeps trucking when I see something amiss, a tendency that has been both a source of reward and a few challenges over the years. So it was probably inevitable that I would do what I did. Long story short, Lucy is curled up on my bed now sound asleep.

I hadn’t planned on being a pet owner again, in fact I think I vowed  I wouldn’t be. Damn things just end up breaking your heart, although I’m now reaching an age where a cat could out live me. She’s taken over the place, her toys are scattered about and it’s not safe to pad to the bathroom at night without an eye out for a potential furry assault. I’ve always loved animals, and for great stretches of my life I’ve shared my space with one four legged beastie or another. I like to think that fate put this latest fur ball in my path. She was a bit of a mess when I came across her, half-starved and one eye infected and as it turned out, a nasty upper respiratory infection. She weighed less than a pound and the Vet estimated her age as four to five weeks. She wasn’t yet weaned and spent the better part of two weeks trying to nurse; thankfully she took to solid food from the moment it was offered.

I’m surprised at how quickly this little Tasmanian devil has become a fixture in my life … it’s nice to be greeted with some enthusiasm when you get home after a day in the trenches. While I’m content to live on my own, I have a well-read copy of Eric Klinenberg’s, “Going Solo: The Extraordinary Rise and Surprising Appeal of Living Alone”, it’s nevertheless nice to share your space with a warm bloodied companion. At the very least I now have a built in excuse for talking to myself.

Now if I could only get her to get me a beer out of the fridge.

You never know ...

Last night she wrote her phone number on the bar. That was cool. This morning I found ninety dollars in the pocket of a pair of jeans I haven’t worn in weeks. That was pretty cool too. I immediately went out and bought a lottery ticket … hey, it comes in threes.

Just say'in ...

There are people who love to hate Toronto. I meet them all the time; they are always quick to express their litany of dislike. They slam the traffic, the drivers, the crowds, the noise, the pace of life, the crime, the smog, the people, the hockey (okay that’s legit), pretty much everything. Once satisfied they’ve made their, more often than not, unsolicited evaluation they then wax eloquent on their corner of the country. It’s beautiful, it’s quiet, it’s safe, it’s relaxing, the people are friendly, there’s no traffic, and everything is amazing.  And I’m sure it is, in fact I know it is. I’ve lived, visited or travelled throughout this incredible country. I’ve found beauty everywhere and I’ve meet lots of wonderful people. I’ve lived in rural settings, small towns, medium sized cities and large cities; downtown, uptown, suburbia, and in the middle of nowhere; been there, done that.

Now everyone is entitled to their opinion, apparently. Regardless of how ill informed, insensitive, stupid or narrow minded. That’s the beauty of free speech. You get to say pretty much anything. Not that I’m saying that those who express their dislike for the world’s most ethnically and racially diverse city, are ill informed, insensitive, stupid or narrow minded. That would be presumptuous, unfair, untrue and possibly elitist. But I will say this; I don’t come into your city, your neighbourhood or your home and tell you, unsolicited, that your city looks shabby, that your neighbourhood is sterile and boring, and that your house smells like wet dog. In fact even if you asked me I wouldn’t tell you that … because, well it’s just plain rude.

Toronto is all the bad things haters say it is … but it’s also much more. Toronto is a city of ravines and trees, of diverse neighborhoods, restaurants and theatres, art and life, blue-flag beaches, boardwalks and history. Its streets are filled with people from every corner of the world, good and decent people. It’s a city worth knowing, try it, get out of the car, walk the streets, stroll the parks and ravines, eat in the restaurants, visit the galleries, swim in the lake, sit on the beach, watch the people, go to the theatre … after all … it’s your city too.

Of course if you don’t want to experience the city, no problem. But could you manage to do one small thing for me? Be a nice polite guest and try not to blurt out that my house smells like a wet dog … I already know … but it’s my dog and I love her.

New beginnings ...

This past weekend I attended my ex-wife's wedding. It was a lovely ceremony, held in an intimate and charming venue. She was a dazzling bride; her dress was striking and her smile radiant. Our beautiful daughter was one of her bridesmaids and our handsome son stood alongside his new step dad and brothers. The room was filled with family and friends, a number of whom I hadn't seen since we separated a dozen years ago. A dozen years; a lot happens in a decade plus. We went from an estranged couple to friends and partners in the raising of our children. Mind you it was my former bride who took the brunt of that chore. Separated not only legally we were separated by distance, my part challenged by that space and time. But we did the best we could do, we tried and I think succeeded, to put our children first. Of course it couldn’t have happened if we didn’t let some things go. My everlasting gratitude to my former sweetie for forgiving me for the disappointment I caused her so many years ago.

It wasn’t always easy for either of us to get to this point, but we did it and because we did it, our children know they are loved. They know that they will never need to navigate some hopeless and unbridgeable gulf between the two people who brought them into this world. For them it’s one less challenge on the emotional journey we all make through life. Hopefully they will also see that it’s possible to fail with grace, and that failing is just another step towards a different than imagined success. That love has many ways to be expressed and once expressed should always be respected, but more crucially, that we are never more important than those whom we create in love.

Coffee shop ...

He's reading his book out loud, quietly, a murmur really. His voice is soft and measured. He's seated, hands clasped, his body leaning and hunched over his book which sits open in front of him on a small table. He's sitting in one of those comfortable chairs of which there are always too few in coffee shops. Every now and then he sits back and seems to consider the passages he's just completed, speaking now to the book instead of from it. I imagine he's challenging it or asking it for clarification as if he's in a two way conversation with a pupil. I say pupil because I associate him with my notion of a university professor. He's older, perhaps in his sixties with a full head of curly greying hair, a bushy, equally greying mustache and simple framed glasses perched on his nose. He has a note pad unopened on the table and an uneaten croissant, which I assume he has purchased as the price of admission. He's dressed casually in jeans and a clean pressed shirt; all of these details seem to reassure me that he's only eccentric instead of, well, crazy.

We all have expectations of how others should behave. We have all learned over time how we should look, how we should act and speak, or not, in certain public spaces. When we do present differently we can evoke equally predictable behaviors from our fellow spinning rock passengers.  Depending on the space, those reactions can range from bemused looks to open hostility. In my case I created this non-threatening story of an introverted mind grappling with a piece of important literature, a Woody-Allen caricature, that allows me to safely go back to my own book and read it like my mother taught me; in my head.  

But, primed I suppose by what I’ve been watching and listening, I begin to want mimic the professor, to hear out loud the words I’m reading ... but leery of escalating this affair into some type of coffee shop read off that ends with tomorrow’s headlines screaming “Professor Blasts Perspicuous Blogger”, I compromise and in lieu simply move my lips to the cadence of the little voice in my head.  

So here we are the professor reading out loud and me moving my lips. Out of the corner of my eye I catch a woman looking up from her newspaper, her slightly furrowed brow signalling her silent judgement, and then ever so slightly shaking her head she returns to her paper, leaving the two crazies to their strange little worlds.

Now seems real ...

Every day I wake up thankful ... I know it sounds a bit holy-roller; I promise I will not break into a puesdo-religious rant. It's just that at this point in my life, living in the moment seems the best strategy going forward. I have had my fill of wishing and wanting both forward and backward. I have found that mostly this just distracts from right now, so I guess I've come to the realization that I really can't change what has happened and that I have no clue nor real control over what will happen tomorrow or ten minutes from now for that matter. All I have, all anyone ever has, is what is happening right now. So rather than waste my time on what I can't change or what hasn't happened I'm good with just this very minute ... now I can still make plans and I can think about what has already passed to find insight for how to deal with the right now ... but really plans can change in a heart beat and yesterday ... well, that was yesterday. Live now.