Otherland: 2018

Sunday, December 30, 2018

Another Year Gone By

When I was a boy, a week seemed to last for a month and a month seemed to take an entire year. Time moved slowly and so did the calendar. Now that I have grown, a month feels more like a week has passed and a year flies by in the blink of an eye. It’s often quite strange how aging changes your perspective. When in a youthful state, we rarely even give time our attention. It passes without the slightest concern. Time is not as friendly to an aged person. It’s like a countdown to being dead and gone. It does not drag, it races. We spend our youth chasing everything else. Life tends to be about the now, now, now, rather than a simple emplacement. While it is important to seize the day, there is more to living than just living in the moment. Young people seem to have difficulty learning from their past and don’t seem to give a shit about tomorrow. If you’re going to dwell in the present, you still need yesterday to ground you and the future to lead you home. Some people get to a certain point in their lifespan when, just like as a child, time becomes somewhat irrelevant. It’s not that more mature folk stop recognizing that the end approaches, some don’t seem to care. You would think this state of ‘beside the point’ would flourish under optimal conditions. It is rare and apparently quite random. As the New Year approaches, time becomes a little more important. At least, for ten seconds or so. We count down the last year and welcome in a new one. We have hope and are resolute. For some, it is a different story. The New Year means one less year, one less time and one less everything. It brings sadness in its reminder.

“So many twenty-fifths of December

Just as many fourth of Julys

And we’re still holding it together

It only comes down to you and I

I know that you can still remember

Things we said right from the start

When we said that this could be special

I’m keeping those words deep down in my heart”

I spent my first decade celebrating New Year’s while being rushed off to bed. Starting in 1973, everyone wanted to stay up and watch Dick Clark’s Rocking New Year’s Eve but I was not allowed. Regardless of whether I laid in bed awake all night, I’m not sure if this restriction was due to my age or my parents simply wanted to spend the last few moments of any given year alone and in quiet. No kids screaming seems a valid enough reason to me. I remember how the 5 of us kids interacted and we were most certainly noisy and much more than a handful. Eventually, as puberty approached, I was allowed to stay up and watch the festivities. We gathered around the television just after the news and we waited. There was popcorn and some candy and even a highly valued can of Coke (which would later become Coke Classic). Everybody made it an event, some even took the time to make it a grand occasion. Usually one of us younger kids fell asleep on the floor in front of the television set. I was always sort of blah to the entire thing. The actual event always seemed anticlimactic to me. Even during the first time I was allowed to stay up, I asked myself why this was all necessary? Live in the moment but enumerate the seconds. I didn’t get it, I have never understood what the big deal was. I still don’t. The first night and the proverbial countdown took longer than I expected. The moment the ball fully dropped, I was shuffled off to bed with the rest of them.

“Another year has gone by

And I’m still the one by your side

After everything that’s gone by

There’s still no one saying goodbye

Though another year has gone by”

Like with Big Sur in California, New York City has always garnered my attention. I have always been a city boy, even if I haven’t lived in one for many years. The mythos of NYC influenced me with the same intensity that the landscape did. I love the look of New York, particularly Manhattan, but it was that romantic feeling, that sense of wonder, that always drew me back to the place. I have been to New York City 3 times and can’t wait to return after Trump has been ousted. In my youth, there was a magnificence to the Big Apple which I found hard to ignore. I have been drawn there over and over. I recognize that New York seems to be everywhere. The films I favoured all took place there. Many of the series I watched on television were based in New York City. In 1975, Saturday night became “live from New York.” This theme lasts even now. The city calls me whenever I am exposed to more of it. I grew up wanting to explore Washington Square and Hell’s Kitchen. I longed to see if the neon lights are actually bright on Broadway. Dick Clark’s Rocking New Year’s Eve seemed to solidify my love for all things New York. Even the city of my birth (Toronto) does not hold as much favour as Manhattan and New York City. Sitting watching thousands of people scream was one thing. For me, the backdrop was more to my liking. For as far back as I can remember, the spot has always made for a spectacle. All those people crowding into Times Square activated a part of me that has not faded since then. Year after year, the crowds, the confetti, even the new stupid host all seem to activate the New Yorker within me. I am often in a New York State of Mind. I paid attention as good ole’ Dick used to welcome in the New Year. The signs, the landmarks, even the architecture danced with the host as he intro’d this guest and that guest. I did not really appreciate Mr. Clark while he was alive. I even disregarded him as an entertainer after his stroke. His death and replacement (Ryan Seacrest) convinced me that I should have appreciated him more while he was alive. After all, if I was home, he was on.

“I never been much for occasions

But you never let a birthday go by

Without announcing how much you love me

But the truth was always there, right there in your eyes

And we’re still holding hands when we’re walking

Acting like we’ve only just met

But how could that be when there’s so much history

I guess that’s how true lovers can get”

Throughout my teen years, I spent most of my New Year’s sitting alone in the basement, lost to the world around me. The depression I felt at the time may have been part of being Bipolar, but that seems irrelevant now. As I found myself put into the working world and started my post-secondary education, I found it easier to be around people when I felt that way. One year, I went to a formal function with my “beards” Wendy and Joanne. The Spoons, a Canadian pop band, played for us all as the night reached its pinnacle. When my first partner came along, the activities we participated in became less important. It was having someone to be with that became the priority. Spending 3 hours in the freezing cold to watch firecrackers set ablaze was not my idea of

good time but that is beside the point. As Victoria Park filled with watchers, we waited. My toes even began to freeze. The rooftop of City Hall in London, Ontario erupted in bing and bang and boom. Midnight came and went with much fanfare. I can still see the two of us regretting our decision and fully agreeing not to do this again. The New Year’s Eve before his death found me and my sister drinking from a punch bowl of Blue Sharks (the drink, not the creature). A sip here and a sip there and my sister was as swollen as a stuffed turkey. At least, her reaction was cosmetic rather than something serious. A few years later and I went to Niagara Falls, Canada for a free outdoor New Year’s concert. It was colder than a witch’s tit. I got to see Canadian bands Blue Rodeo and The Philosopher Kings entertain the huddled masses for over 2 hours as we waited. The top of the hour did nothing to unfreeze my fingers and toes. One of the most interesting celebrations I have attended was spent with my current partner and the paternal side of his family. It was a quaint but crowded affair. I even got to be verbally abused by Ben’s late grandfather. I have to admit, it was different and I have never forgotten the evening.

“Another year has gone by

And I’m still the one by your side

After everything that’s gone by

There’s still no one saying goodbye

Though another year has gone by”

(Another Year has Gone By, Celine Dion 1998)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=8WcWjP_z3JI

There is proof that I am aging along with my body. I would rather spend New Year’s Eve watching When Harry Met Sally than dancing until midnight or chasing some event while freezing my ass off. Canadian winters can be so harsh. When we lived in that 16^th floor apartment in Kitchener, Ontario, City Hall was within walking distance. All we had to do to celebrate with a bang was watch the fireworks from the safety of our enclosed balcony. There was no reason to go outside. The same rule applies with my current predicament. It’s not the celebration bash that matters, it’s being with someone that matters the most. Like when I was a boy, I struggled o stay awake until the ball dropped. These days, I am usually in bed before the end of the annual event. I am lucky, I suppose. I don’t need confetti or noisemakers to mark that I have made it into a New Year. I don’t need to be so piss drunk that I can’t even remember how to count anything let alone count down with the Times Square crowd. I have gotten to the part of life where I see things for what they are. As a child, I was always suspicious. I still don’t understand why we make it such a big deal. These days, my New Year’s Eve is uneventful for the most part. It is quiet and I often feel like my parents did when they sent us off to bed as kids. I would rather be sleeping. People spend so much time, in the days after New Year’s, making resolutions they will never keep. I do not turn to such superstitious things. I make no deals and I don’t bargain, hoping for better in my life. I do not need to add or take away anything. I already have all I could possibly ask for.

HAPPY NEW YEAR !!!

Photo

https://www.limescountrylodge.co.uk/events/new-years/

Sunday, December 23, 2018

No Holy Night

Long before I was romantically involved with anyone, I used to stand in front of the tree on Christmas Eve and I would talk to Jesus. I believed, at the time, that he was an intermediate between myself and the Godhead that history called Yahweh. Quite often, I would attend church with my family on that night. It was an annual tradition. Once I met my first partner, things changed a little. For many years, I still went home on Christmas Eve but I stopped attending those services. It had nothing to do with doubt, or dogma or even the church’s position on homosexuality. Church became irrelevant. There was nothing I couldn’t just stay home and do. I still stood in front of the tree but I stood all alone, at least in my mind. If I was going to pray to Jesus, it would be on my terms, not some dictated requirement for my salvation.

When Doug died, so did my relationship with God (at least the Christian God). Given time, the result was cumulative. It took a little while for the old man in the sky to die. This was not a literal wish. For me, the God I had been raised to believe in and the God that I knew from scripture no longer worked in my life. They all made things so much worse. God and Jesus and the Holy Spirit all wrecked it for me. I’m not an Atheist. I consider myself an Agnostic Theist. I still believe there is a god but I don’t have a clue that would help me define him. Perhaps, there is no definition. Christmas without the spiritual was a little bit weird at first, but I got used to it. I have always been fully engaged with Yuletide tradition. Putting up a tree (a fresh cut tree), decorating in November and a wreath on the door meet me every year and yes, they still do. I pretty much do the same things I always have at Christmastime. From the outside looking in, you would think I was a good Christian boy. It’s just not true.

The day itself is what it is but I absolutely love the very North American aspects of the entire season. From Christmas in July (on the 25^th), to cutting down the tree, to New Year wishes, the in between I wait for all the year long. Turkey, parades, spending too much money, it is in all our blood. The mixture of pagan influences, Christian and secular influences, blend together like a Toronto neighbourhood. The star, the wise men and the King of Kings born in a manger all still have great appeal to me. They still hold their place but much like Santa does. I am sorry to say, they are charming but I just do not believe. There are remnants, I suppose. It’s like losing a loved one. The actual person isn’t there but the memory of them always will be. I have Jesus scribbled on my heart and he just won’t go away. He is no comfort, just a constant reminder that I stand alone every Christmas Eve. On December 24^th, I do not go to my parents’ home. I haven’t done that in years. I stand in front of my tree while It’s Wonderful Life plays in the background. I gaze in wonder but it’s no holy night.

A sad tradition on Christmas Eve started over 23 years ago. Without fail, by darkness, I am at the cemetery. Now, like then, I make sure I go to see him at Christmastime. I went on Christmas Day for many years but it was rather inconvenient. So off we go in the mid-afternoon, December 24^th, up to Stratford, Ontario. Yes, I said we. Every year, Ben goes there with me, he always has if I let him. He knows that grief is like Christmas memories. You may recall some part of them but mostly they are gone. He has never once complained about Doug being everywhere. Doug even has a few ornaments that hang on our Christmas tree. I think Ben realizes how sharing with a ghost goes. I hope Doug does not end up my Marley. On one of those occasions, we travelled in the dark, slowed by the snowstorm before us. We kept going. By the time we got to Stratford, it had stopped snowing but the blanket was dense and very deep. As we rounded the bend near his grave, the snow camouflaged a 2-foot drop to a new drainage grate. They failed to tell anyone and did not put up a sign. The CAA can be such a blessing, even if by your own hand. It was a long and cold wait.

Every year, I place a miniature wooden Christmas tree in front of his epitaph. My mother gave it to him as a gift, after he passed. I have never forgotten to bring it, not once. It is a part of our Christmas Tradition. A few years ago, I began hanging a lantern on a metal garden hook every Christmas Eve. You have to embed the hook in the ground by early November, before the ground freezes and you can’t. The lantern is black cast iron and dangles with the wind. It holds that wind at bay. The candle lasts and lasts. Come morning and it is a melted mess, a testament to its time spent glowing. Just before we head back home, I light that candle and I walk away. I always end up feeling the same way. I am somewhat empty, and somewhat lost inside. All the way out of the cemetery I look for its light, a beacon that I was there.

In my mid-twenties, I worked as an Early Childhood educator. I only lasted 4 months. It wasn’t the responsibility, or other caregivers, that was the problem. It was the kids. I really don’t care for snivelling, whining brats. Unfortunately, most kids these days are just that. There have been a few children I have come to embrace over the years. Before she turned into the Grinch that she is, my niece Jessica held much favour. My favour has always been the same way with my nephew Matthew. I suppose long-term exposure to both simply conditioned me to their presence but I think it was love more than anything else. Almost all of my nephews and nieces are grown now. Jensen, my brother Alan’s new grandchild, is all that remains of any semblance of youth. He is the last boy in a dying lineage, the end of my family history. Even Ben’s cousin Erin has a fully grown son. I met the lad when he was a wee blond pup. He sure has grown. Erin also has three young children that Ben and I seem to adore. The two young boys are unique and happy and funny too. We give them great gifts.

I have to admit, it is Erin’s daughter that holds my favour. Bella is a lovely, talented and enthusiastic young woman. She is going to be a heart breaker. She has a love of performing I have rarely seen in someone so young. She is a dancer, a gymnast and she gives me hope that not all children in this modern world are connected to a Smartphone. I guess if I am forced to care then I usually end up doing just that. While I worked at St. Luke’s Chapel in London, Ontario, I was the first male to enter the field in the entire city. I didn’t feel special. As Christmas approached, they asked if I would play Santa for the kids at the daycare. I sat for 3 hours, while one demon after another kicked me and jabbed me and crushed my nuts. I loved it (the hugs, not the ballsing). Just for a moment I understood why people have children. Some can be so lovely, so pure. Some can be like a burden that carries through. I am glad to have a few young people in my life. It doesn’t really keep me young but it could one day. It has been fun to play the guy who gives the best gifts. If I had been heterosexual, I believe I would have 47 children. Being Bipolar almost guarantees that.

The drive home from Stratford is usually solemn and quiet. Once we get home, on go all the lights. On goes the Christmas Tree. On go the DVDs. We watch It’s a Wonderful Life every Yule. It was Doug’s favourite and it is one of my favourites. It is then Ben’s turn. We watch A Christmas Carol, the 1951 version starring Alistair Sim. We snack on a smorgasbord of treats: boxes of chocolates, all kinds of nuts and jellies, so many jellies. Christmas Eve has turned from a reverent night into a recreational night, a secular night. I would like to point out that I have never danced naked around the tree. I will admit, there are times while I am entertaining the season that I miss having something ethereal to have faith in. How can you miss something you just don’t believe? Tell that to the Nativity placed carefully on a shelf or the crosses throughout my home. Tell it to the Crèche hanging in the Christmas Tree. Go tell it on the mantel. It’s no wonder I just can’t escape Jesus, he is freaking in my face, he is everywhere. It’s hard to move past something that won’t go away. It does me good to have tinges of the believer I once was. It makes me feel warm inside. We go to bed when the movies are over and we awaken early to exchange our presents. We spend the rest of the day eating, at one place or another. Gifts and celebrating are nice but I think Christmas Eve is my favourite time of the season. It is soothing and retrieves fond memories of the way it used to be. They hold little comfort but they seem to give it anyway. Somewhere in the night, I always end up weeping. It’s the presence of something more that makes me sigh. The tears are not heavy, merely little pools in the corner of my eyes.

The worst Christmas Eve I have ever known involved my mother and a Giant toy for my sister. It is here that Santa died for me. I spied my Mom, from my bunk bed vantage point, carrying gifts down to the Christmas Tree. Down she would go, then return to take more. At one point, I saw her carrying a rather large box containing one rather large doll. The next morning it was marked from Santa. My relationship with him has never been what it was. My innocence was lost. The same thing sort of happened with Christianity. At one point, I realized that like Santa, it was mostly high myth and fabrication. Yes, the stories hold a message, a lesson one could take from them but that doesn’t mean those things actually happened. Growing up stole my assurance and it stole away my faith. The long cold days of December dance with the most wonderful time of the year. A crisp clean sheet of fallen snow is as pretty as it could be from the living room window. On Christmas Eve, there is a hush. I think it may occur all over the world but I will never know. What I do know is that I find Christmas Eve as charming and as lovely as I always have. I cherish my memories and I cherish my hope. I still believe but the substance of that belief has shifted. It’s like running out of gas on a country road. Eventually, when all other options have run out of juice, you just might have to get out and walk all on your own. Christmas Eve is still my favourite night of the season. It brings me comfort and it brings me joy but it is not the same.

Photo

https://www.pipestonestar.com/events/topevents/christmas-eve-2/

Tuesday, December 18, 2018

Frozen

“Our favourite amusement during that winter was tobogganing. In places the shore of the lake rises abruptly from the water’s edge. Down these steep slopes we used to coast. We would get on our toboggan, a boy would give us a shove, and off we went! Plunging through drifts, leaping hollows, swooping down upon the lake, we would shoot across its gleaming surface to the opposite bank. What joy! What exhilarating madness! For one wild, glad moment we snapped the chain that binds us to earth, and joining hands with the winds we felt ourselves divine!” (The Story of My Life, Helen Keller 1903)

A winter’s day in a deep and dark December. They trudged through it regardless of the deep, regardless of the dark. The snow was what they had come here to find. The five of them cut through the local schoolyard then along the old riverbed. Rounding the woods, the group came upon it. The clearing gave way to the slope and the slope fell into its valley. It was a good run to the bottom. The hill was massive, most certainly considering its location in the heart of the city. To the top of it, three of the four children walked alongside the large wooden toboggan. Each held their own method to the madness. On the board sat a young lad, restricted since birth. He came for the ride and they made sure he would have his ride. They all walked with their Dad, talked with their Dad, they spent the day with their Dad. The new snow was hard white and the sun glimmered off it like a flashlight pointed into your face. They were all pros at this game. They had come here to play. They lined up beside each other and they pushed off into the thick of it. Down the hill, up the hill, what a thrill. The second round found the oldest sibling grappling behind the youngest and pushing the two-plank toboggan into the drop. They did not just slide down the hill, they soared down the hill. For a moment, just a moment, all things were equal. It was all momentum and movement. The young lad raised his arms as they plummeted down, down, down. He begged to do it again and again so they did just that. The trip back up was a bit of a bitch but eventually everyone united at the top. The game went on for hours. It’s not a toboggan day if your toes aren’t frozen. Years later and it is times like this we remember the most. There was no special event or dramatic episode. It was just a father with his children, letting them be kids. It was plain and it was simple and it was a good day.

It’s not often that one gets access to a golf course in the winter. Irrelevant since they let them all in. Kids from all over pranced about the 18 holes like they owned the place. The two decided they were in it for the long haul. They had heard that there was a Master Slope somewhere near the 15th hole. The pair trudged on, toboggans following closely behind them while looking for Nirvana. Eventually, all the footprints disappeared and it was clear that no one else had ventured this far. They grew excited at the idea of a virgin territory. One foot after another followed into the snow, even though their toes had begun to freeze. The snow was deep and they had to stop several times so they could catch their breath. The golf course ran alongside a rather quaint and hidden river. It flowed down into town and puddled into a small lake near the old high school. As the pilgrims marched through the icy snow, a large blue heron dropped out of the sky and landed in a spot where they could see him. Surprised at its presence that far into the winter, they stopped and took notice of the beauty around them. They stood there for the longest time until onward, onward and upward. They walked past almost everything that could be considered civilization. It was like they had journeyed to the end of a very white world. There was nothing around them but snow and sky, white and gray for as far as the eye could see. It was peaceful, it was lovely. It was, finally, the 15th hole. They both stood with their mouths wide open. Before them was no master slope. You couldn’t really even call it a hill. They tried to make the best of it but that wild bird held more excitement for them. This was amateur crap and they were both more than annoyed. If there was no reward, why the hell did they come so far for nothing? Life works that way even if you brought your own toboggan.

The tradition had gone on winter after winter for years. 4 months into his freshman year and he stood ready for the initiation. The back of the old high school dropped off rather sharply once you got past the smoking area. The cliff was eroded and added a little more slope with each passing season. This was a good thing. Come the first accumulating snow, and dozens of students (mostly male) grabbed a tray from the cafeteria and headed out back to continue the custom. His brothers had both gone this way a few years before him but that was not the reason he wanted to have a go. It was always about the thrill and the challenge, and fuck all the social bullshit. It didn’t matter if they liked him or even that he fit in. The brown cafeteria tray was tucked under his arm and he snuck it out the door that led to the back of the school. The fact that he might get caught did not concern him. Tray after tray met the snow and the ice yet no one seemed to care about that. The entire process did not garner one complaint or even one teacher coming out to end the fun. He felt safe following all the others. He stood and watched, noting style and form and position of the tray. The muddy slope was glazed over, any snow that had fallen the night before was gone now, crushed and pushed into a sheet of silvery ice. He got in line, approached a launch site, then plunged down into it. He had taken this ride before, many times in fact. With family, with friends, even with strangers he had spent hours going up and down from top to bottom. He knew it like the back of his hand. With the snow came bitter temperatures. The cold never really bothered him but after a few turns, well over an hour on the hill, his toes began to feel frozen. This only meant that he had been doing something right. Soon, other appendages began to tingle, and not in a good way. He eventually headed inside to thaw and get his bearings. It would be years before he returned to ride that slope again. He walked by it in the summer and sat on it come autumn, but he did not feel the need to partake again, at least for the rest of his stay at the high school. Every year, things repeated. The tradition went on, even after he graduated. Eventually, all things pass, most things fade away. This is the price we pay for living. So too, the high school closed and access to the hill was restricted. If you wanted to slide down slope, you had to find somewhere else to do it.

“Cold toes

are not like frozen fingers

which can linger intertwined

in the fingers of another.

Cold toes freeze alone.”

The golf course will soon be gone. They are putting up condos and leaving only a shell of what used to be. He heard it would be closing and construction would start in early spring. He came back for one more hello and a final goodbye, not only to the place of a memory but of his friend who passed away in the late summer from cancer. He tried to walk exactly as they both had many years before. He thought about the deep snow and the wonder of a blue heron come full winter. He thought about that useless rise. The disappointment they felt then became laughter and cherished memory later. They talked about this time whenever the wind picked up and snow began to fall. It bound them together for years. Like with winter, the sting of life fades as time passes. This did not hinder his mission. There, like before, stood that tiny hill, just to the right of the 15^th hole. He pulled a garbage bag out of his coat and proceeded to mount it and engage the rather simple slope. The entire motion was anticlimactic, just like it had been back then. He smiled as he walked way. His toes were frozen.

Before the high school closed, he ventured back to this hallow place to have a few turns at the hill one more time. He had not attended it for many years. With a few family members beside him, he took his turn once again at riding the beast. At one point, it was like they owned it, all alone, with the deserted high school as a backdrop. The icy path to the bottom was familiar to him. It looked like it did the day he discovered a cafeteria tray is as good as any toboggan, especially if the slide is just right. They played for the longest time. They stayed for so long their toes began to freeze. Eventually, he coupled up with his nephew, intending to give him the ride of his life. Back and forth, up and down, the child screamed out in joy. Over and over the pair danced with the ice and snow but neither element could stand in the way. When the high school was dismantled, a senior centre went up in its place. He found it ironic that a space which brought such youthful energy would now know nothing but a lack thereof. There is a new high school, just out on the edge of town. The old school was literally torn down for the new retirement home at the top of the hill. Come winter, whenever he drives by the old place, he looks for revellers and adventurers in ice. He hasn’t seen a soul in years.
They made a decision to find out if the hill was still there. It was a good idea and they both agreed to winter terms. Before they left the house for the snow, it became all about layers. If you didn’t wear the right amount, your toes could freeze. Each grabbed their rollup sled from the backseat and adjusted themselves for the walk in the cold. It was like the world completely reverted when they reached the top of it. It was still pristine, just like it always had been. It was just like childhood told, an otherland of cold. They came here for this purpose. Many times, this hill and the experience of it was shared around the dinner table or at a party with friends. It was a cherished idea that once came to be. They readied, unrolled the plastic then positioned for the best momentum. They had to flop down on them before they blew away. The hill was exactly the ride that it used to be. Nothing had really changed. The snow would blow in your face, the wind biting as you commit to the glide. The pair went down together, in their wake a new memory and a new story. They did not know that this would be the last time. The hill is not the same these days. The entire bottom of the slope is nothing but row house after row house. The hill just ends and apparently, it ain’t coming back. It was like they amputated the valley right off the face of it. Some of the descent is still there but there is no option to exit, not safely at any rate. The sight was heartbreaking when he saw it last. A few years and everything shifted, it changed and not for the better. Sometimes you can go back and rediscover a treasure you once knew. More often than not, you cannot. What once was is rarely ever what is. Time is fluid, never frozen.

“My toes are cold

I lost my nose

I think it froze

Right off my face

My ears are red

Hands are numb

This is going to be

Fun fun

Playing in the winter sun”

I am not much for winter sports. I don’t mind watching the Winter Olympics but I would never participate in them. I don’t ski, although I have attempted both downhill and cross country. I cannot skate and I have never been able to. Although I fared well with street hockey as a child, not being able to skate was a general deterrent for me when it came to the true sport. My ankles were always so weak that whenever I tried to skate, it was like watching Goofy give it a go. Hockey was out and so was figure skating. Not that the latter was of interest to me. I always thought it was kind of gay. I do not own a snowshoe and I have never worn a snowshoe. The closest I have gotten was trudging through the snow, pulling my toboggan. This was my sport, for lack of a better term. Riding the snow and the ice on a toboggan from Canadian Tire was the one winter activity I excelled at. I had never really felt like a good Canadian boy but at least I was good at something homegrown and wintery. Winter and sport is like cake and ice cream to many a Canuck. It was humiliating nonetheless. My inability all lies with my feet. I’m not even that good while simply sliding on ice. Whether for fun or for circumstance, I usually fall and bruise my ass. All in all, I have many memories of my life in the snow. Each one is cold but warming just the same. When I think back on all my days on a slope, even my toes feel like they are frozen.

Photo

https://www.martelloalley.com/products/copy-of-pulling-the-toboggan-home-lg

Sources

https://hellopoetry.com/poem/178275/cold-toes/

https://allpoetry.com/poem/395407-Frozen-Toes-by-P.-W.-Blackwell

Monday, December 10, 2018

How The Grinch Killed Christmas

The Grinch tried to change, it was easy to see

All the Whos down in Whoville seemed happy indeed

No more thief in the night, no more playing with the facts

The Grinch was quite pleased and so was his dog Max

With Christmas day ending, away went the feast

Away went the bounty and the last of the Who-roast beast

Away went the Who-pudding, away went the Who-hash

They filled the Who-fridge with Who-Christmastime stash

The Grinch sat watching as the Whos all made haste

Not a morsel of Christmas would dare go to waste

All the dishes and garbage were so much to carry

By the end of it all not one was Who-merry

The Grinch knew it was over and he grew sort of sad

This day was the best Christmas that he ever had

The end of it all found the Grinch sitting, staring

He just wasn’t used to this Who-Christmas caring

The yuletide frenzy was over, and so all went to bed

Even visions of sugarplums slept in their heads

The room that they gave him was warm and it was cozy

It felt like home and turned his cheeks rather rosy

In the place where he rested and laid down his head

He smiled to himself, then turned over in bed

With Max at his feet, he fell off to slumber

There was comfort from the sheets he was now sleeping under

The Grinch closed his eyes and he shut out the light

He settled right down for a Who-winter’s night

The Grinch had to pee, he just couldn’t hold it

He got out of bed and went off to unload it

He crossed the Who-complex and sat down to go

This way was much better than using the snow

He sat in the darkness as no light was shining

And suddenly heard an abundance of whining

Betty Lou Who is Cindy Lou’s mother

He thought he might warn her but then didn’t bother

He sat and he listened to all that she said

The things that she said made him wish he was dead

She told her friend Myrtle, in the hall on her cell

That the day that they spent with the Grinch was pure hell

Nobody liked him and they hoped he would leave

But the Grinch just sat eating, his new heart on his sleeve

Betty Lou was quite certain that he had garlic in his soul

She said she would not touch him with a thirty-nine-and-a-half foot pole

She called him a mean one, a nasty, wasty skunk

She said he was a garbage bag filed with Whoville junk

He was vile and a foul one, a seasick crocodile

The Grinch sat on the toilet, he sat there for awhile

Every word that she said, it cut him to the core

The Grinch sat and listened until he could take no more

So what happened then, down in Whoville they say?

His heart reverted and Who-joy slipped away

He was now back to normal, a miserable punk

The entire situation it stink, stank, stunk!

Betty Lou did not realize the Grinch had been listening

She headed off, back to bed, and left the Grinch wrestling

He fought with his feelings, he fought with himself

As he sat on the thing he lost all mental health

He jumped to his feet, left the room in a rush

The Grinch did not happen to wipe or to flush

He crept out to the kitchen, just like some slippery eel

In the deep dark of night, it was easy to conceal

The Grinch stood at the counter looking at the room

There was no Christmas spirit, just despair and gloom

In the twinkling of an eye, the Grinch gave in to madness

There was screaming in his head, to “end all of this gladness”

Every Who down in Whoville, was cursed in his way

Even little Cindy Lou would meet revenge this day

He gathered some items and tried to be stealth

He went completely bonkers and was quite beside himself

He slithered back to find his pet where he left him

He woke up Max, who thought he was jesting

He wrapped the dog’s head with the same wooden stick

Just the way that they did when the Grinch played Saint Nick

The Grinch just stood there, a blank look in his eyes

In that moment he knew all the Whos had to die

The Grinch was overtaken, the voices egged him on

He meant to kill each one of them and then he would be gone

Again he stood a scoundrel, a knife in each hand

and that’s when he came up with a terrible Who-plan

This is the point where in this Grinch’s story

It turns rather nasty and really quite gory

He went from each room and he killed every one

He slit all their throats and then just for fun

He took all the bodies and with Grinchey glee

He placed the dead Whos under the Christmas tree

The best one he slaughtered was Betty Lou Who

Then just for good measure he killed Cindy too

The Grinch was all mangled-up in tangled up knots

His heart a tomato with mouldy, purple spots

By the time he had finished killing them all

The blood on his fur was the colour of Fall

He was drenched in the stuff as it started to dry

When he stabbed Cindy Lou he got some in his eye

Not far in the distance, he had left Max to sleeping

But the dog was awake and had heard all the creeping

Max peered from the doorway and watched some of the killing

He said to himself, “Someone must stop this villain”

The Grinch was still reaching, adjusting a corpse

When Max started running, at him, in due course

He sped cross the room with his gleaming horn

And in that moment, a hero was born

The Grinch did not know that his beast was attacking

Max raced at the Grinch, his fear was quite lacking

As the murderer brought in another blood covered Who

Max, without doubt, knew what he had to do

Max rammed the monster with that antler on his head

It entered his heart, then the Grinch dropped dead

A few days later and they all met their rest

They decided a mass funeral would serve them all best

When the service was over, at the end of the day

They took the Grinch’s body and they took it away

To the top of Mount Crumpit they carried remains

At the top of the mountain there was no refrain

No longer a reindeer, Max took his place

Then pushed the Grinch off using just his face

The body fell over then dropped out of sight

Max finally met freedom as he waited for night

The dog anticipated the Grinch would arise

So he sat and expected but there was no surprise

Max returned to the town and they greeted him there

Killing the Grinch showed the town that he cared

They adopted the mutt and filled him with glee

This was the way it would now always be

Welcome Christmas. Toss the dead

They pushed the Grinch off by his head

Here’s to all those that survived

Each one happy to be alive

Now December 25^th has lost its meaning

The Grinch killed Christmas and left the Whos reeling

Christmas Day will never be

Even if we all have we

Welcome Christmas stained with mud

Reindeer antler drenched in blood

Heart to heart and hand to hand

Whoville was never the same again

Photo

https://www.deviantart.com/raimonso/art/eddie-the-grinch-46004522

Monday, December 3, 2018

Scenes from Early December

Just like for most North Americans, early December is a busy time of year in our household. I think most people wait until after December 1^st to initiate Christmas. We tend to start a little early. It’s only slight decorations, small touches, but it is routine for us to do so. Every year we repeat, the same set up, the same objects of our affection, all laid out (thanks to Facebook) for the entire world to see if they so choose. Only a few days before December, there is a prelude, a simple way of beginning all over again. We celebrate, we imitate American Thanksgiving but these days it is only for the food. It’s not that we don’t appreciate their festivities, it’s their current boss we have a problem with. It’s hard not to be turned off by this country when almost half of the Amercian public still supports a faux President and his pseudo ‘advisers’. Trump, simply by existing, has tainted any yuletide jubilation that might have come from traditions like the Macy’s Thanksgiving Parade and the lighting of the tree at Rockefeller Center. It is all just distraction now. Some traditions begin slightly ahead of the December date. We have a Santa Claus that counts down the days until Christmas morning. He is set out on September 17^th and we then move backwards from 100. Each day finds one less day, one more day closer to the big event. He is a constant right up until we put him away after the New Year. We go through Halloween and the two Thanksgivings (American and Canadian) then settle down our brains for a “long winter’s nap.” Autumn brings a clean slate, a new ending that harkens upon an old friend and the new beginning that comes with it. On December 1^st, all bets are off. The leaves are gone and frost has made a few appearances. This year we have had snow and cold temperatures since early November. It is all a harbinger of that which is to come. Sometimes, you wake up and are bewildered by a foot or two of snow. In Canada, it is not unheard of to have ice storms and raging blizzards even before the winter solstice. Early December folds into late December as Christmas accumulates throughout the month. It hits the crescendo on Christmas Eve. It can seem to be over before it begins. The actual day itself is somewhat anticlimactic, in a sense, since it all started in early December.

“Cold, my breathing like a fog

Summer’s over

No more birds to sing their song

Steps, my dirty tracks left in the snow

Bruised and battered

I’ve gone as far as I can go

I can see you and your candle

A light beyond the trees

Hear a voice from in the distance

Calling out to me”

On Wednesday, December 6^th, 1972, the grass was still green and not even a few flakes of snow had fallen in the Greater Toronto area. I ran home from school wishing I had taken a heavier jacket. A storm was brewing somewhere off in the distance and the cold front moved in rather quickly. I got home, said something trivial about the weather and headed right upstairs to do my homework. Throughout dinner, I intentionally behaved myself. Come evening and Rudolph would make a visit. Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer first debuted on Sunday, December 6^th, 1964, just a few months before I was born. It originally aired on NBC but the rights were bought by CBS in 1972. This early December night would be the first time that Rudolph aired on CBS and on a Wednesday, which it still does to this day. The Rankin/Bass production was the first of many stop motion animation programs that involved the Christmas season. Santa Claus is Coming to Town, the Little Drummer Boy and several others had become staples in my childhood Christmas glee. With no streaming, or video, years before VHS, all kids had was the TV Guide and the annual event. Before YouTube, one was forced to hold a standard tape recorder up to the television speaker, hoping to catch the tunes. With one hand you held it and with the other you pressed that large red Record button and Play at the same time. My arm would get tired but I trudged on. Each song was captured, to be played over and over again. I can still sing every word of every song from every one of those Christmas specials. Yes, you only got the one view, one time, once a year, but the music would easily last until the next December. There was no way I would have even considered missing it. Come early December, Rudolph started it all and a smorgasbord of Christmas programming immediately followed. I went to bed holding my cassette. The moon was still shining through heavy but quickly moving cloud. The winds seemed to have died down. My Mom, however, had to close our window because the temperature had dropped to freezing. From what I can recall, my Dad woke me and my siblings around 3 AM EST. We moved about like drunk penguins. My parents shuffled us all to the window and the new fallen snow, as 2 feet of the stuff twinkled below. Everything was covered in a dense but beautiful blanket of white. I stood there, captivated by the sight and the sheer enormity of the snowstorm. When I hearken back on this time of my life, I remember two things. I remember just how significant the effect television had on me then and how some simple snow carved a deep groove into my memory. It’s odd sometimes what you remember clearly. Every year, it is early December that accelerates my Christmas cheer and leads me into yuletide splendour. Recently, while researching this blog, I discovered the most interesting thing. I had no idea that all the sound recordings, for all those shows, were done in Toronto, Canada. I was rather inspired by the idea. I had no idea that Rudolph actually lived down the street.

“Come on in from the cold

Come on in from the outside”

My father grew up in the town of Wingham, Ontario. My parents met there in the late 1950s and his family remains throughout the area. I spent a lot of time there in my youth. It’s been awhile since I ventured to the place but I used to take any chance I could find to visit my cousin and her entourage. Wingham is located 130 kilometres north of Paris, Ontario. With a population of less than 3000, it pretty much stands the same as it did when I was going up there throughout the 1980s and 1990s. It is small town Ontario, without a doubt. A few miles outside of Wingham rests my paternal grandparents’ farm. Now owned by one my Dad’s younger brothers, it too looks pretty much the same as it did when we used to play there. When my grandfather died in the mid-1980s, another son used his land inheritance to build a home on the lot and then put in a trout pond. It lies at the foot of a steep hill that leads up to the main house. The pond is a good size and has a small creek joining it to the Wingham River. You can literally fish there. On December 7^th, 1997, I tagged along with my Dad and a few others to fish in that pond. It was supposed to be like ice fishing but without all of the work. The pond was iced over but I assure you it was not safe to tread upon. Some ice was smashed through and then we all cast into it. The edge was rough and fell directly into the water. You really needed to watch your step. When my brother-in-law cast over my line, I cut in front of him trying to avoid a tangled mess. I dropped like a bag of potatoes would. I went right in, feet first, jacket, boots and all. I instantly started kicking as the cold set in. It was fucking freezing. My Dad and his brothers all reached for me. They pulled me out with ease, it seemed. Still, it was fucking cold. All I remember after that is grabbing myself in an attempt to avoid, literally, blue balls. I cried out in horror, “My dick is frozen!” When I was a boy, visiting Wingham meant a lot to me. My primary reason for such favour was the ingrained memory of early December when I was a kid. Every year, my Dad and us kids would journey from Toronto to Wingham in search of the perfect Christmas tree. A live tree is still alive until you kill it and we were out for tree blood. The hills around the small town are referred to as “The Alps,” with good reason. We would all trudge into the wilderness, pick the very best, then drag it all the way back to Toronto. There was always a charm to this family tradition. For the longest time, I associated these memories whenever Wingham and Christmas were mentioned in the same sentence. I cherished that retention and I still do. At times, even my memories are as frozen as my penis was. I fall in all over again. My association since the trout pond incident rests more with the ice cube in my eardrum and icicles in my pubic hair. All these years later and my nipples are still hard. I am chilled. It’s not necessarily a pleasant memory but I often find it rather amusing. You have to laugh at yourself or everyone else will.

“Wind, don’t see her but she’s there

Dead leaves are moving

Her calling cards across the air

I can see you in the window

A shadow through the trees

Hear your voice now from a distance

Calling out to me”

Cutting down a tree for Christmas has followed me from my youth and into my living room. We had to stop getting a real Christmas Tree (fire hazard) when we lived in an apartment, from 2009 to 2015. The moment we moved into our current home, we resumed this much cherished activity. From the start, Ben and I always procured a live spruce or balsam fir. The first year (1999) we did so was also the first Christmas that we spent living together. My family came to visit just before the holiday and my Mom made several remarks that I have never forgotten. She did not wish to leave once she got to our place. She felt comfort, and joy, and just wanted to curl up and bask in what she called a “lovely sight.” Several of those first years, we spent early December harvesting our tree with my family. Located just outside of Strathroy, Ontario, Poplar Hill is even more small town than Wingham. The tree farm was a crowded house. On one occasion, thanks to congestion, my older brother Alan accidentally dumped my nephew Matthew off a small bridge and into the cold creek below. It wasn’t funny at the time but it most certainly is today. In 2001, we went another way and purchased a pair of balsam fir from White Rose, a franchised garden centre that later went out of business. I was not surprised when I heard the news. Having paid $75 for our tree, and the same for Ben’s parents’ tree, one would have imagined that those trees should last for more than one night. Come the morning and both had dropped every one of their needles. It was not a slow death. For a few years, we drove the 10 kilometres from Brantford to Mount Pleasant hunting for an elusive tree. This tree farm was just okay, very average. In early December of 2003, on the last visit we made there, we chose an 8-footer and carried it to our vehicle. We had borrowed a pickup truck from Ben’s father and loaded the fresh cut spruce into the back of it. Like an idiot, I tied down the tree with the top of the thing facing the truck’s cab. The wind picked up that sucker and dumped it right out onto a county road. We scrambled to get it back on before someone ran over it. We went to a few more tree farms until in 2006, using an internet search, we discovered the farm that we still visit, usually after American Thanksgiving. We came across the Merry Farms Christmas tree vendor in Lynden, Ontario almost by accident. We did not know it was there. We drove by it many times over the years and had no idea. We finally took notice.

Approximately 20 kilometres from where we now live in Paris, Ontario, the 176-acre venue allows one to cut your own or one can purchase pre-cut trees. It is rich with all types of spruce and balsam fir, spread out over 3 kilometres of rolling hills and trees for as far as the eye can see. We are loyal, not that any other tree farm we have been to can match the enormity and selection found at Merry Farms. The tradition has become my tradition, our tradition. I’m not sure of even one other member of my family that continues to do so. My Dad has a fake tree. My sister, my brothers, not one of them heads out to the country to cut down their own Christmas Tree. Like them, we still have the artificial tree that we used for 6 years when we lived on the 16^th floor in downtown Kitchener. I decorate it every year but it belongs where all fake trees belong, in the basement. Come to think of it, as a child, even my parents had this ugly silver concoction which eventually wound up sitting in their cellar.

“Come on in from the cold

Come on in from the outside

Come on in from the cold

Almost losing the daylight”

We take some time picking a tree at Merry Farms but we usually go back to the first tree we thought might work. Every year, it is the same thing. We note, “This one is perfect,” then we spend almost an hour looking for anything that might live up to it. We go back to our long-winded choice, then I crawl under it and I saw it down. While Ben takes a few pictures, I kill the poor thing in less than 5 minutes. It’s nice to have photos for the memorial service in early January. We used to have to carry the beast all the way back to the checkout but these days they have handy carts that make the entire experience much more pleasant. They shake and bind the tree and we load it up and we take it home. The tree rests outside, usually for an overnight. Sometimes it drains sap, but this is not the only reason to keep it out of doors, at least for awhile. I imagine all the spiders that might be hiding within. I just assume there are other bugs in there too. The next day and it is ready to go. We set it up in our living room, right near the sliding doors leading to our back deck. At this point, it all relies on me. I start the lights in the afternoon and finish sometime in the evening. We have over 800 white lights that fill the tree from top to bottom. I decorate our fake tree sometime in November. When the real tree gets lit up like a candle, we turn on the outside lights. These also go up in November. We engage them every evening until the New Year. Around early December seems to be when most people turn on their Christmas decorations. We use red icicle lights and hang them across the length of our garage to over top of our front kitchen window. It is simple but elegant, just the way I like it. Paris is lit up like a Christmas tree. In every neighbourhood, from one end of town to the other, house after house has some form of illumination. Sometimes it is just a small tree sitting all alone in a window but that still counts. It is at this time of year that we used to take drives out in the country looking for electric ornamentation. Now that Paris is well illuminated, we simply have to drive around the block to be bewildered. Coming into town, there is a gentleman who starts decorating his front lawn in early August. By the time he switches them on, on December 1^st, the entire space is covered with Christmas cheer. The trees, the lawn, the house, it’s a winter wonderland to be sure. It is impressive to say the least and I most certainly do not envy his power bill for the month. This house is not the only spectacle in our area. Apparently, the Christmas spirit is well preserved in our little town. Many homes seem to go overboard on the Christmas stuff. I love it, well most of it. One of the best parts of early December is when all the outdoor lights go on.

“I’ve been lost and I’ve been broken

I’ve been buried in the snow

I hear your voice and I keep walking

Don’t know, why I walk to you

Got nowhere left to go

So come on in from the cold

Come on in from the outside”

(From the Cold, Amy Grant 2017)

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=e62uVrpqni4

With well over 500 ornaments for the tree, it takes a day or two to polish it all up and make it pretty. It is not a thankless job and well worth the work, considering the outcome. The tree stays up until the day after New Year’s. Putting it up in early December does not guarantee it won’t last until Christmas but watering it every day seems to work. I find the twinkling lights and familiar decorations rather charming, in the very best sense. We always have a lovely tree. Just like at my home, the world seems to turn on the season at the beginning of the month. Here in Canada, we may not have a New York City Christmas but the annual Santa Claus Parade, at the end of November in Toronto, highlights the Christmas that is to come. From the lights along Yonge Street to the display windows at the Hudson Bay Company at Queen Street, the city has always come alive around Christmastime. In the early 1970s, my Mom used to hand paint yuletide scenes in those windows, in my mind she still does. We even have a skating rink at City Hall, just like the one at Rockefeller Center. From the St. Lawrence Market to Nathan Phillip’s Square, come December and the city starts looking a lot like Christmas. From Union Station in Toronto to the Paris Train Station down the street, it is so easy to find Christmas along the way. I much prefer to spend Christmas from my own vantage point. I prefer to be home for the holidays. Sure, it’s nice to get out and see the lights. It’s fun to walk through the city and feel the spirit in the air. There is nothing like the feeling I get sitting in front of a fresh cut tree, basking in the smell of it, while watching It’s A Wonderful Life on DVD. A glass of dry red wine and a bucket of Santa Jujubes completes the experience. There is nothing as quaint as the glow of your own treasures. With the world so overflowing with cheer, it is nice to sit by your own tree. I prefer a real tree, but any tree will do. Some are tall, some are small, but they bring festive cheer to one and all. Christmas is a special time of year and it starts in early December.

Photos

https://www.thestar.com/news/gta/2016/12/31/thousands-to-ring-in-2017-at-nathan-phillips-square.html

Merry Farms

late November, 2017

Lynden, Ontario, Canada

The Living Room

early December, 2015

Paris, Ontario, Canada

Sources

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Rudolph_the_Red-Nosed_Reindeer#Stop-motion_animation_television_special_(1964)_and_sequels_(1976%E2%80%9379)

https://www.sltrib.com/artsliving/tv/2014/12/02/ever-popular-rudolph-the-red-nosed-reindeer-turns-50/

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/A_Visit_from_St._Nicholas

https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Wingham,_Ontario

http://www.merryfarms.ca/

Monday, November 26, 2018

I Am Falling You

There is just something about autumn. It’s ironic, how vibrant death can be. There is the richness of color, the change to cooler temperatures, and the whisper of winter calling your name. Fall used to be my favourite season but against Christmas, there is nothing that could compete. Autumn, however, is my favourite colour. I particularly love the natural process that occurs here in Southwestern Ontario. I have always relished falling leaves and crisp clean air. Some of the best moments of my life involve this time of season. I think everyone can appreciate when a forest becomes a rainbow. There is something charming about corn stalks drying in the fields. There are pumpkins everywhere. Pumpkin latte, pumpkin baked goods and pumpkin candy all make me want to puke. I do not like the flavour, or the texture or anything about them as a food choice. They serve their purpose decoratively but other than that, I would be just fine without them. Pumpkin pie is disgusting, it’s like a giant phlegm tart. The build is anticlimactic. We spend most of the first part of autumn fixated on Halloween. Everything is scary and spectacle and we forget about the rest of the world. Maybe that’s a good thing. Once Halloween is over, the leaves, for the most part, have fallen. The sun is less and the nights are colder. First frost is a harbinger of that which is to come. Sometimes we miss out because we are focused on candy, or costumes and fear, and all that beauty is lost. I try to notice and more and more I am blown away at the raw beauty that all that death can bring. The world can be rather comforting as you drive along a country lane on a sunny fall day. Leaves dance about as you move through them. The skyline is red and yellow and orange and green. Each piece of foliage floats down and then joins the rest. They are tossed and turned as the wind still tells of the winter to come. Harsh November offers much more than the lingering hint of pumpkin in the air. The stars at night are brighter, clearer and shine throughout the midnight sky. Autumn is a wondrous time, if you care to pay attention. It’s a no brainer, if you ask me. I fall for it every time.

I think everyone associates certain parts of fall with certain memories they have.

Any scene one might imagine may inspire us to go there again. Like ringing a dog bell, we become conditioned to this response based on specific criteria. The same things tend to activate it, year after year our past returns. How we think of autumn really relies on how we remember autumn. At times, it doesn’t matter what you think, it is how you felt that resonates the loudest. The fall of 1975 holds much favour in my memory. I liked my school and I liked my friends, I liked the life I had. I did not realize it would be my last autumn in Toronto. I tell myself that if I had only known of my last chance, I would have done more, said more, felt more. We always tell ourselves we could have been better, even though it is usually hindsight that leads us to this place. Normally, we never even try. When I think of the autumn of my youth, I think back on many things. My last November as a Torontonian found me doing what I always did come autumn. It was a little game some of us played on the way to and from school. The bigger the pile, the greater the temptation. We used to ransack everyone’s hard work. You would spot a pile, make your claim, then run through it or jump into it. The point was to make each household have to rake all those leaves back up again. We all thought it was funny but the neighbourhood did not. I thought I was the king of it all. There was no one else who could create chaos like me. I loved the role I played as a child. I stood my ground and made my claim. With only a small uneventful pile left untouched, this would be easy pickings. I walked over to it, turned around and waved at my friends then jumped right down into it. The minute I landed in the refuge, I knew I had a problem. It felt like I had crapped in my pants. I could feel the wet all over me as I sat with some weird look upon my face. My stupidity was the beginning of my own fall. There, like a punishment, my ass was covered with it. I would have liked to kick the dog who left his fresh mess. When I travel back into this time, I laugh and I laugh. Yes, I wish I had known that my life was about to change but I would not want to wreck the memories I do have. Perhaps, the greatest fall memory I have is this. All the Halloweens, all the bonfires and all the pumpkins and I always go back to my buttocks and the special gift I received. I had no idea life could be so shitty.

Once we moved from Toronto to Strathroy, Ontario, my life went pretty much back to normal. I had new friends, a new school and a comic book store about 6 blocks from my home. I half expected my world would be so different but it pretty much went back to the way it was before. I liked the house we lived in until that radiator came crashing down that flight of stairs and crushed my entire left leg and foot. I liked the town itself but I particularly liked our neighbourhood. I have to admit that moving was not the most favourite thing I have ever done. I was rather hostile at first and refused to give the village a chance. When the leaves started falling and the wind changed direction, I started to see how quaint and peaceful the town could be. When we left Toronto, the summer was still in full force. We were welcomed to our new reality with earlier evenings, crisp, cool mornings and rustling, so much rustling. Down the street from us lived a high school teacher, Mr. Howe and his family. My favourite member of that crew was Willie, an aging dachshund who was friendly and fun. We lived in this area as we awaited the construction of a new home in the north end of the town. We moved to Strathroy on August 31^st, 1976 (there’s that date again) and were welcomed by autumn in a different and quaint, quiet setting. At first, it was difficult to get to sleep at night because of a lack of noise. In Toronto, the Don Valley Parkway was mere metres away from our front door. It was not a turbulent time for me, not once autumn started at any rate. The summer faded and the cold brought with it piles of leaves at the side of most streets and roads. Our eventual neighbour, Mr. Howe, was nothing if not consistent. Every other day, he would rake the leaves from his front yard down the green and into three piles at the side of the thoroughfare. Back in the day, people actually had bonfires smouldering day and night at the end of their driveways. Burning leaves were everywhere and the air was rich with the smell. The familiar scent still lingers in my mind. The fires were everywhere. From one end of town to the other, they burned and they burned. It’s illegal to do that now. On occasion, I still catch a flash of the odour. It may be while driving down a country route or passing through some tiny town where nobody actually gives a shit. One hint of my old friend and I am basking in falling leaves and the first snow of the year. It is not just a change of season, it is a memory.

My first partner and I were in the same Radio Broadcasting program at Fanshawe College in London, Ontario. I was a second year student and he was in the first year class.

This is how we met. We made many good and close friends I have not seen or heard from in decades. Still, we both spent much of our time with these now strangers. We smoked a lot of weed, drank a lot of beer and we told no one of our real relationship. We were particularly fond of two potheads from Kapuskasing, Ontario, which lies 1000 kilometres straight north towards 60. We liked Shawn and Eric, so we agreed to go on a road trip with them. We drove from London to Kapuskasing in around 10 hours, stayed the night and headed back the next morning. We were not really there to visit so once they got the “stuff”, we drove back the 10 hours, with plenty of time to go to bed so we could make classes in the morning. To go on this excursion was one of the best decisions I have ever made. The tour was spectacular on a cold October day. The entire trip was pure magic. It was like we had discovered 1000 kilometres of rainbows. The sides of the road looked like used colouring books. It was an unending splendour from start to finish. We both felt free and we felt unburdened, not an easy feat when dealing with a struggling student. Memory of that one simple trip up the ON-11 N Highway to the Trans Canada Highway is now more of an otherland than some representation in my head. I go there often, it’s a lovely place to visit but it hurts to stay too long. I just can’t handle the 1000 kilometres my mind would have me go. Doug has been gone much longer than those old friends I was talking about earlier. We travelled to many more places before he faded away. We later saw Maine in the next September and most of Michigan just before Halloween. While each experience may leave you breathless, for me they do not compare. Doug and I talked about our Kapuskasing road trip often. We would both go on and on about the unending sea of gold and red and green. Miles and miles stretched out before us in an abundant field. It was one of the best weekends we spent together. We were happy, if only for a brief moment.

It can be awkward when something so beautiful becomes a pain in the ass. Life can be easy, especially for a child, but something always gets in the way. When I was growing up, I loved almost everything about autumn. I still do. The one part of the season I never much cared for was raking then bagging all those stupid leaves. They sure are pretty but they require way too much work. All that dead foliage was a constant thorn in my side. I think early on, I was just unimpressed with the duty. I didn’t have to clean them up very often. Later, throughout my teen years, I came to hate it was much as mowing the lawn or cleaning my room. If I hate something, there usually is a good reason. I feel about raking leaves the way I do about Ray Romano or Sheldon. The problem for me did not lie with the property around our home. Spruce and Cedar trees dominate the landscape. There is really only one tree large enough to shed anything inconvenient. The United Church of Strathroy was another matter altogether. My parents both worked for the Church and were responsible for the maintenance of the building and the property. It was a large, well tended space with giant maple and oak trees planted over 150 years ago when the Church was first built. There was an enormous amount of leaves to bring together. Some piles could grow as large as a small automobile. At first, I only had to rake the piles to the side of the street. A match or two meant a small amount of ashes to tend to. It was convenient and honestly, setting them on fire was always a rush. Watching a fire roar is like watching a ballerina dance. The scent was a sweet reward. Things changed when they restricted any burning within the town limits. They snuffed it all out. Not only did I have to rake them but now I would have to bag them all myself. I was not a happy camper. Usually, there would be at least 25 bags to fill. The only part of the entire process I found satisfying was that wafting, lingering scent of a fiery fate, then they took it away. Every year until I moved out saw me standing with a rake in my hands. I sometimes would hear the “Green Acres” theme song playing in my head. From Labour Day to the American Thanksgiving, my weekends were more chain gang than cheery, more drudge than gratitude. Year after year, I just kept doing the duty. It was the least I could do. Even then I realized how much my parents did for me, and continued to do for me. It was my obligation to be there, to lend a helping hand. Even if I didn’t want to.

I am a bit of a pussy when it comes to heights. It is not so much a scenic thing, rather the drop, the steep is what makes me want to heave. I can look out on a clear day, from high on top of a mountain peak, and I don’t dread a thing. Put me to the edge, at the precipice and I feel like I’m falling. My vertigo is not to be played with. I have always continued to face my fear. Rollercoasters and rock climbing have always thrilled me. Just keep me away from any downward view. I have never allowed my fear to restrict me. I may not stand at the edge but I am not far behind. One of the most enjoyable dances with death I have made was at the Mount Nemo conservation area located on Guelph Line between Burlington, Ontario and the 401 highway. Along with its neighbour Rattlesnake Point, it’s like someone dropped two giant rocks straight into the space. It’s funny how glacial retreat will do that. The escarpment is impressive and long. It runs predominantly east to west through the heart of New York State then right across Ontario. Mount Nemo “is one of the most popular climbing destinations in Southwestern Ontario.” On a clear day, you can see the CN Tower over 65 kilometres away in Toronto. The conservation area has “one of the best cliff ecosystems on Ontario’s Niagara Escarpment”. In October of 2013, my partner and I ventured to Mount Nemo. We had been driving past it for years and it was a curiosity for the both of us. We finally gave in. I had great trepidation, he was calm and cool and it sort of bugged me. He mocked me a little when I fled to the safety of lesser ground. I tried a few times to face my fear but I had only brought one pair of pants so I eventually travelled only in the middle. Sometimes you have to know when not to cross a line. Autumn in Ontario is striking. It’s not just the colours, it’s the mosaic. Hiking then sitting with my partner, watching the day, was enchanting. Gazing out over the land before me made me feel like God must feel when enjoying the view. Fall is beautiful. This day was beautiful. We sat for the longest time and just absorbed the atmosphere. Jagged rocks acted as a makeshift couch and fields of gold became our TV. It was loud and it was quiet. It was happy but made me sad. Beauty always reminds me of the cost. We may not have hiked the entire 5 kilometre trail that day but we almost did. The same cannot be said of the man who fell 12 metres off the edge of Mount Nemo on August 31^st, 2018 (notice that date again). He only broke a few bones, lucky fuck. Therein is a clear lesson that I have embraced as I grow older. This is why you never, ever climb anything bigger than the height at which you stand. Never.

Having a garden to care for is a time consuming challenge. I love it. I find myself sitting for hours working the soil, working the land. It has become a form of meditation for me. It is a lot of work, particularly in the fall. With spring, everything comes up on its own. There is very little work to be done. With autumn, everything has to be pruned or completely cut back. The ferns, the hosta, the lily of the valley, all get amputated to the root. I have to admit that at this stage, I get a little weary. It’s not the work, it’s all those damn spiders hiding in the refuge. They are always the worst part. The beautiful trumpet vine that runs along one side of our house dumps its stash like nobody’s business. There is a constant turnover in brown leaf bags. Plants need attention even when they are going to sleep. The first frost finds me harvesting morning glory seeds from the arbour. The maple in the backyard takes its own sweet time changing colors and dumping its load, but when it does, the entire space is covered with the loveliest of decay. What was plush and vibrant is now faded and stark and very much dead. My garden is a microcosm, not only of nature but life in general. The good news is I never have to rake another leaf ever again. I help with the bagging a little but Ben does all the dirty work. Since I pretty much do everything else, it’s a trade off. He cuts the grass, he rakes the leaves and I take care of the rest. I look after the garden and I decorate the house, both inside and out. Halloween comes and goes and so will all the decorations. Winter turns from whisper into roar. Every autumn, I am beguiled, both by the world around me and the scenic view in my mind. It’s an otherland of sorts and very pretty.