Merry Christmas

I, at one time, five years ago or so, would rush home from work on a Thursday night to take my boy to his swimming lessons. I would sit on the bleachers and watch the little ones tread water. Each week they were able go a little longer before they had the need to grab the deck at the feet of their encouraging instructor. One thing that always struck me as funny was that when the whistle called them from the water into the cool air, they would all clasp together their hands at their chests. It looked to me like little monks lining up and joining in a chattering, shivering, prayer.

It makes me wonder about the origins of this almost universal gesture, that of hands pressed together, held to the body, an outward indication of prayer. Do we humans do this in order to warm our spirits?

2009 was a chilling time for a lot of people in this world. Many found hardship and challenge. I hope that if the whistle blew for you, and you were forced into the coolness of the air, that you found a way to keep your spirit warm. I also hope that 2010 will afford you plenty of time in the pool.

Merry Christmas

Be Inspired

This will be my first sort of guest post on my blog. On Friday my Uncle Wilfred was granted, or he excepted, I'm not sure of the exact term... Perhaps had bestowed upon him, a well earned degree. I could not get away to attend the ceremony. My cousin Jane Curtis sent me an email saying that she would take some pictures and share them out. That not being enough for me I asked her to write something. Pictures are never enough, I need to hear a story.

With Jane's kind permission, I will share what she wrote for me with you. Take this story of my Uncle Wilf and use it when you feel like your best days are behind you, when all opportunity seems missed. Use the story when you need to cut the grass and weed the garden, but just can't find the energy.

Thanks Uncle for the inspiration, and thank you Jane for taking us there.



A Day to Remember
October 30, 2009
Wilfred Gregory Tschirhart receives his
Doctor of Philosophy in Geography at he age of 88
 
Today was a rare and special day. My Uncle Wilfred Tschirhart achieved his Doctor of Philosophy in Geography and quite remarkably at the age of 88 years of age!
The Wilfred Laurier University convocation took place at the Waterloo Recreation Complex with a graduating class of approximately 500 students.
I met up with my Uncle Wilf’s son Cousin Chris, along with my sister Judy, cousins Ed and Bill and then we were joined by our cousin Mary Jane who is Wilf’s daughter. As we sat waiting for the ceremony to begin we laughed and joked as we always do when we get together. We had excellent seats right next to the stage.
The arena facility was transformed with red carpet and a very large stage and a band played music to set the tone. Later we found out that all the musicians in the band were graduates of Laurier.
When the procession started there was Uncle Wilf right near the front in his beautiful gown and cap. He looked like a true scholar. His seat was near the front and second from the aisle on the side where we sat so we had a great view. The convocation began with the Chancellor for the University making a speech about education and future goals.
The Doctorates were recognized first and Uncle Wilf was the second to go on stage. As he proceeded to the stage the speaker remarked that he had achieved all of his educational degrees after the age of 65. At that moment the entire graduating class rose to their feet for a standing ovation, the only one of the day! This moment brought a proud feeling to my heart and a tear to my eye. What a remarkable achievement, extremely inspirational.
Uncle Wilf was also given a special gift from the book store.
After the convocation we got together to take photos and then the majority of us proceeded to a restaurant called Kennedys in St. Agatha where Uncle Wilf lives. We were joined by Cousin Ed’s wife Pauline and Mary Jane’s daughter Jessica and her boyfriend Phil. Jessica and her sister Rebecca had mid term exams today or they would have been there for their Grandfather’s marvellous achievement.
We had a lovely meal and further time to talk about the day. After the meal we went to Uncle Wilf’s for some more socializing and he opened up his gift to discover a book on the brain.
He remarked that he saw us all sitting together as soon as he got near the front and that having us there made his day more special.
He is truly inspirational and I can’t even begin to imagine all of his efforts toward this day.
I will never forget this once in a lifetime event.
 
 

Ten Foot Pole

Yesterday I was painting a difficult ceiling, it was above a stairway and it had a strange curve to it .
There was no way to use a ladder and I had no scaffolding, so I took out my telescoping pole and attached my roller to it. The job was going well, but when it came time to cut into the corner where the wall met the ceiling on the curve, the work began to slow down. I had to tape my brush to the pole and slowly, carefully, with great concentration, trace the contour.

Last night as I slept, I dreamt that I had come upon an installation of performance art. A woman sat in a chair behind a low barricade. Leaning against the barricade was a long bamboo pole with one end covered in a soft fabric. I picked up the pole, and with its soft end I traced along the contour of the woman's face, down her long neck to the V shaped depression where it met her upper sternum.

When I awoke my first thought was of blogging and the Internet. It occurred to me that the writing and the reading of blogs was somehow like reaching out and touching someone with a pole.

Poke, poke.

Quintana Roo

Quintana Roo is the name of a Mexican state. It is also the name given to the daughter of the American writer Joan Didion, I knew this for some reason, I had read it somewhere I think, perhaps in the lines of a book dedication. When I first heard the pronunciation of the name it was an Anglicized version, very much the way it appears.

When I went for a vacation in Cancun I notice the state name on the licence plates. I ask our driver the Mexican pronunciation, and he replied, (Keentawnaw Row) the last syllable was clipped short like it had been barked by a dog.

Anyway to the purpose of my post: I'm giving away this book, Miami By Joan Didion It's a first edition. The book was gifted to me years ago buy my brother in law Dave, maybe for Christmas I can't remember. I think that Didion is one of Dave's favourite writers. The guy is very serious about books, even the funny ones :), He has been a bookman all his life, or if you prefer the gender neutral, but less romantic term, bookseller.

I have read this book at least three times. I am rarely a person to read a work of fiction more then once.

If you wish to have your name in the jar for the chance to win this great read, all you have to do is add a comment sharing with us a person who you think has an unusual name. You don't have to be a regular reader of this blog to participate, you can be just passing through.

Lastly I should give credit to the person that I stole the idea from, Kendalee from Dance of a Painted Lady blog. I don't know how to form a hyper link, but if you give the girl a Google I'm sure that you'll find her.

Good luck all.

What's for Supper?

Curried beef Kabobs with potato. The recipe is totally off the cuff. I'm going to put them in the oven at the minimum safe temperature and let cook slowly while we go for a hike at Rattlesnake point with our pals the Reddins. When we get home we'll dig in. I'll let you know how it turns out.

Inside the Box

When trying to solve a problem, the personal development gurus will suggest that we get creative and think, “Outside the Box”.

I'm fine with this, I think it's a great idea, but the thing that they don't tell you is that you should take a peek “in” the box first, nine times out of ten thats where the answer is.

Thats where you left your keys...

Chicken Pie

I was at the supermarket yesterday with my son. His mother was pushing the cart far from us down an unknown aisle and he and I were doing what we do best, joke around. He has my sense of humour or perhaps you could say that we share a common one.

The store had advertised a sale on beef so he and I headed to meat department. We saw something that appealled to our chuckle headed nature. Around the beef display area there was a crowd of shoppers all digging through the cello wrapped meat, searching for the best looking chunk to take home. I grabbed my son by the arm and told him that they look just like lions on the African plain, feeding on a fresh kill and he and I were just a couple of hyenas too timid to take a bite.

We bypassed the hungry pride and found a nice small chicken, it wasn't on sale but it looked good and our family can get three meals out of a small chicken.
Bird in hand my son and I went off to find his mother and the cart. We were laughing, laughing like hyenas.

The Grand River

The Grand River of my early youth was nothing like it is now. For the greater part I would say that its health and beauty have greatly improved. There was a time when the river was a polluted vein of ugly water that ran through our town carrying sewage and agricultural runoff from lands and settlements along the way.

To eat fish from the Grand was unthinkable, there were so many phosphates in the water that huge amounts of grey brown foam would form on the surface of the churning waters below the Park Hill dam. On very windy days this awful stuff could be seen blowing around on the streets nearby.

The story of my river is to me a reminder that not all things get worse. If you care about and care for something it can be made better, decay is not always inevitable.

When I was a boy you never saw the graceful heron stalking small fish in the shallows at the rivers edge. Today their numbers high, to see them is common, though they are less rare, to see them is still a delight.

Each Brick a Prayer

When my son was very small, maybe three years old , he had a tough time falling asleep. He was afraid of ghosts and monsters and for some reason that I can not explain... hobos. I made up a story to give him comfort. I told him that in 1960, when our house was being built, the mason who laid the bricks was so much more then just a bricklayer. The man was a shaman, a priest, a holy man. I told my son that he didn't just mindlessly lay the blocks in mortar. I said that with each brick he placed he uttered a prayer, an incantation. He said, “ May no evil pass or dwell within these walls.”

This week I have been busy working on my front entrance. I ripped out the old rotting oak threshold and cast a replacement in concrete. I'm going to replace the door with a modern unit, fitted with a leaded glass window.

After I pushed and bumped the heavy, new threshold into place, I spoke the words, “ May no evil pass or dwell within these walls”.

Oak

Oak trees have always been a favourite of mine. I like how they stubbornly hold on to their brown, crisp leaves well into winter, like an old man with a full head of hair. Where there are oak trees there is wildlife, acorns are a great source of food. I once read, somewhere, that oak trees are the most likely to be struck by lightning. No wonder the ancient Celts revered them, for they are chosen by the gods of the sky.

I understand that French oak makes the best barrels for ageing wine. I've tasted it, in a bottle of Bordeaux, I must recommend it.

Have you ever noticed that the fruit of the oak, the acorn, has a tiny little hat, like the beret of a Frenchmen? The connection to wine in the light of that fact seems all the more appropriate.

The largest oak that I know of in Cambridge is an ancient one at the northern end of the cricket field in Victoria park. I could take two or three of you and join hands and we may still not encircle it's trunk.

The Means of Production

I wonder if manufacturing in Canada is dead or at least terminally ill. The area that I live in Cambridge, Kitchener, Waterloo was at one time heavily industrialized. Now I see that our rate of unemployment is higher then in Halifax Nova Scotia. Five years ago if an economist made that prediction he would have been thought a lunatic.

Take a look at the photograph above its taken in a factory that is no longer a factory. It speaks to the way thing have gone. My father worked here for thirty five years. He helped make things, important things, large fans for the mining industry. I would imagine that some of the things that he skillfully built are still turning away helping to pull raw materials from beneath our northern frontier. Only now more and more of those raw materials are moving across the sea to build things that we once built for ourselves, providing people like my father a good job to help support his family.
When I was about ten my fathers union negotiated dental benefits in their contract with the company. Those benefits were hard fought for, I think that they came at the end of a strike. I know that many people are ideologically apposed to trade unions, but I have to say that I enjoy having my teeth now because of them.

The factory now is an outlet mall. Mostly everything in the place is made in Asia and then shipped to our shores. The place employs many people in its shops and shoe stores, but I don't think that many have dental benefits.

I'm small, tiny, insignificant before it all, but I'm flying.

Silly

I once loved a girl named Lily

she had a lovely sister named Rose

Lily was a perfect beauty, though

she had on each foot, six toes.

Lily left me standing at the altar

I guess she was mine to lose.

She found out that I was a poor man

and couldn't afford her special shoes.

Now I have myself a pretty wife

my silliness she always handles.

She may not share Lily's beauty

but she sure looks great in sandals.

Life

Small whirling winds are our spirits that hit the plain in the heat of a summers day.

Our bodies are the chaff and dust picked up and moved along, we are dust devils.

Temporal, temporary, ephemeral, we settle back to the field, but our winds blow on.

Canada Day 09

I remember working with a couple of guys a few years back they were first generation Canadians. Their families had immigrated from Europe when they were young children. I can't remember what we were talking about, but I said something about Canadian culture. The guys just laughed at me and one of them said that the definition of Canadian culture was ketchup on kraft dinner.

I thought that was a funny line. It made me think. Canada doesn't present the greatest culture to the world, nor does the US. I'd have to give that title to France.

I love living in Canada, enjoying the rights of a citizen that can only be had in a liberal democracy, rights guaranteed under a strong charter.

This is a nice place. Coast and woodland, prairies, mountains and a North that is more then just a direction, its a place thats vast and wild.

Tonight I'm cooking chicken the best way that a person can...Italian. I'm be drinking the finest beer...German. I'll be doing this in the best place for me and my family...Canada

Happy Birthday Canada!

Ritual

Beans are ground, their rich aroma fills the kitchen.

A a spoon is heated, the flick of the lighter echoes in the alley.

Water is drawn, heated and passed through a filter, steam forms.

A solution is pulled into syringe, a ligature tightens on an arm.

A cup is filled.

A vein is found.

Coffee passes the lips.

Heroin enters the blood.

One man wakes up.

One man falls asleep.

Remembering

There was a prominent family from my home town called the MacGregor's they had an estate which had been past through inheritance to several generations. The house sat on a large pie shaped lot bordered by the streets of St. Andrews, Osborne and Victoria avenue. The house was shielded from view by huge lilac bushes the gardens were delightful, three large pines stood at the thin edge of the wedge shaped lot . I don't remember ever talking to Mr. MacGregor. I have a hazy distant memory of the man walking around the edge of his property wearing suspenders and a hat, picking lilacs in the sun of May.

Mr MacGregor died or his wife died, then he, I can not remember. Rights to the property past to a nephew from out of town. The nephew was not interested in living in the house, so the property was sold. There was a huge auction on the grounds of the estate, many antique dealers were in attendance.

I was about seventeen at the time and had a love of old books. I spotted a set of five Kitto's Daily Bible Illustrations. I didn't know anything about the author or the content, but I was attracted to the antiquity of the volumes and the wonderful prints inside.

There was no competition in the bidding, maybe it was the religious content that scared away the sinners from the big city. I won the bidding and paid for the books with a crisp, orange, two dollar bill.

So now this heirloom from a family that is ingrained in the history of my home town, sits on my bookshelf. They've been there twenty seven years now and never once have I read them, but I can say the I have looked at every single picture.

Scrambled Eggs and Afterthought

What arrived first, egg or chicken?

Lets hear your speculation.

What arrived first, chicken or egg?

Were there feathers before ovulation?

I used to work with a man who earlier in his life worked in a poultry processing plant. He would work all night killing, plucking, gutting, chilling and packing young chickens. The chickens would ship to the counters of grocery stores or find themselves turning on the rotisserie at restaurants.

Every once in a while they would receive an order to process a group of older laying hens who's production had fallen off. These birds were prepared for a company that made soup, meat for soup making need not be overly tender. My friend told me that often when slaughtering the hens they would find eggs within the bodies of the chickens. The crew would divide the eggs up at the end of their shift and bring them home to feed to their families.

I eat lots of eggs and enjoy chicken soup, either canned or homemade, but I found this story to be rather disturbing. I know that my eggs are not gathered by pretty maidens in bonnet and apron. I know that large scale production keeps prices down and puts protein on the plates of children who would otherwise have very little of it, but there's something about the industrialization of agriculture that is undeniably nasty.

If you are a carnivore with a conscience,

eat less meat, though eating meat be seductive.

If you happen to be an older laying hen,

then for goodness sakes remain productive!

The Golem of Galt

What is it about dolls that unnerve me so?

there eyes hold no life, but seem to glow.

They sit in silence, just sit and wait

for Mrs. Shelly's lightning to animate

I know that these things are made for play,

but to me they are golems of rags and clay.

I found this evil pair outside the locked door of the Goodwill donation centre. They were just left there, the centre was closed and I guess the donor didn't wish to have them in their house after the sun went down. I don't blame them.

I left them in their cardboard coffin and finished my errands at the plaza. When I returned home I made sure the door was locked.

Perspective

He looked down at her and thought... My goodness, what beautiful eyes.

She looked up at him and thought... look at all that nose hair.

Find someone close to your own height, life will be easier.

Taste

The Kid: Hey Dad, whats for supper?

Me: Well, we have Caribbean inspired chicken, grilled on a bed of fresh chives, a zucchini sauté with shallots and mushrooms, and some basmati rice.

The Kid: I don't want that, Dad. I want one of those pizza pockets from the freezer.

Me: I want a DNA test.

Long Weekend

I like to take pictures of churches, architecture in general, but especially churches. This is one that I have photographed on several occasions. Every time that I go there I see something new, another angle.

I have no one near me that shares my interest in photography so I go alone or with my dog Jacques.

When Jacques is with me he always finds his way into the photo.  

Have a happy Victoria day long weekend.

Ne Me Quitte Pas

In the Pink

When we think of the health of a plant, we think green.

When we think of the fitness of the carnal, pink is the colour.

Why does the the magnolia mimic the flesh?

You beautiful plant, you have my attention.

Careless Master

I never cut my right hand

it's the one that holds the knife

I always nick the left one

it's been that way all my life.

My left hand is the helper

it holds things like a vice.

My right is a careless master

it's helper it will often slice.

When we carelessly cause pain

a friendship we can sever

We better find a way to say sorry,

express love and sound clever.

Public Transit

Jacques hates the bus. He barks and growls at it every time it goes by. He sees it the only way that he can, as a huge horrible monster with an awful mouth on the side of its head and an anus further down its long body.

Poor Jacques, he has witnessed this monster stop and swallow people whole. On other occasions the beast has stopped and pooped them out.

Poor Jacques, he lives in such a frightening world. It's a good thing that he and I look out for one another.

String Theory

I wanted to teach myself to make a Flemish string for my bow. I thought it would be easy I had seen it done before. I built a jig that would free me from the measuring of individual strands and cutting them to the proper lengths allowing for an even stagger of strand ends in the bundles. That was the hard part, I thought, but I was wrong.

It turns out that learning the technique of twisting string has to be learnt twice, once by the brain and later stumblingly, by the hands. Like plucking a difficult series of notes, knowing can only come to you by doing.

More About Jacques

My dog can talk, well he almost talks. He sometimes lets out these weird vocalizations. We live on a quiet, dead end street that has very little traffic. Whenever a large truck comes down our way, to empty the recycle bins or make a local delivery the noise disturbs little Jacques and he starts to make sounds. In the three years that he has been my friend I've heard him say, Wow, Now, No, Ouch, Mama, and just yesterday he said, Bark Obama.

I asked him if he really thought that Obama's approach to the economy will work, whether it was the right way to fix the current troubles. He just look at me and said nothing.

Perhaps the reason that he and I have remained such good friends is because he refuses to talk about politics.

Heres a link to a video af him going for a walk.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z00IlLgeH8Y

Crossing Wires

This bike appeared in a Kijiji ad that I placed on Sunday. The asking price was $150.00 I didn't really need to sell it, but I rarely ride it anymore preferring the comfort of my mountain bike on my not so youthful body.

I received much interest. It's a bike that would be good for an athlete on a budget or someone looking for a good touring bike.

My first offer was for $40.00. I hate low ballers, why do they bother? I returned a message to him/her thanking them for their interest, I declined their offer

Next up was a guy named Mike he offered $125.00 and gave me his number. He was in the 905 area. In my add I had indicated that I could deliver the bike. I sent him a message to say that I could not deliver to the 905 Area for that price. Here is an exchange of our emails:

Mike:No problem will pick up tonite or tues anytime

905 xxx xxxx its a cell phone,Im coming from Waterdown

Thanks mike

Could you meet me at Tim Hortons 6 and 401?

Me:Hey Mike,

Tuesday 11:00 am at the Tims on six north of the 401 if thats ok. $125.00 and a medium black coffee to cover my travel. Blue Toyota with a bike on the rack. I'll check my email in the am and if it's ago I'll head out.

Thanks,

Peter

Mike:its a go, see ya 11
905 xxx xxxx

will call in morning to say im leaving,I dont have your # thou
will send email in morning otherwise

Thanks mike

Mike:Good morning Peter,see you at 11.00 am Tim Hortons 6/401

905 xxx xxxx Mike

ll be driving a gold Hyundia

Me:Great, My cell # is 519 xxx xxxx. See you at the Tim's 6 and 401 11am. today .

Peter

I left the house without Mike's telephone number, and I can't check my emails on my stupid old phone. I pulled into the parking lot at at the Tim Horton's at eleven in the morning and I immediately spotted a golden coloured Hyundia. I parked and walk pass the car. I see that there is no driver in it. I figure that Mike is just grabbing a coffee or using the washroom. I now notice that there is another vehicle in the parking lot with a bike on its rack.

I go back to my car and wait. About ten minutes later I walk in to the coffee shop and look around for someone sitting alone, I see a young man at a table, he has a book in his hand and he's wrapped up in what he's reading. I ask, “Are you Mike” “No” he replies . “I'm Mark.” I apologize for interrupting him and return to my car. At this point I'm really wishing that I had Mike's number.

Ten minutes more pass and I see a man at the rear of the Hyundia. I exit my car and walk over to him. I say “Mike”? He says, “Yes”, but looks confused. He asks who I am. I tell him that I'm Peter the guy with the bike, I pointed to the bike on the back of my car. The back of my blue Toyota.

A look of disbelief came over his face, He suddenly realized what he had done. In his zeal to find a road bike for the spring riding season he began to communicate with multiple sellers, He managed to twist his brain up in a confusion of emails, and struck a deal with both me and the other guy assuming we were the same person.

I let Mike off the hook and wished him happy riding. I drove home with the bike still on the rack.

We had this further email exchange:

Mike:Peter again I apologize for this morning,had spoken to so many regarding bikes I lost track of who I was talking to.

If you have not sold it,let me know I'll bump up to 140$ to cover cost of you coming out today,if sold send address and what you like on your pizza or beer you like.

I feel badly your time was wasted and I had no cash on me to make it right:(

sorry again mike

Me:Hi Mike there's no need for you to make amends. It was an honest mistake. You are a gentleman for offering to compensate me but I assure you there is no need. I have a funny story to tell my friends. There is also no need for you to own two bikes just because your brain had been over taken by the speed of the internet. :) It's a good bike at a really good price and i'm sure that I won't have trouble selling it.

Thanks for getting back to me,

Peter

This morning a friend of mine had asked me to write her a story. I thought that I might tell her a funny one to offer her some cheer. Two hours later I had my funny story all for the price of a couple litres of gas.

I wonder if the other man with the bike takes his coffee black as well.

Grey

I have a map booklet that I find very useful. Mapart is the name of the company that publishes it. It's well designed and easy to use. One helpful feature is that it has colour coded areas, pink is residential, green is parkland, and grey is zoned industrial.

Yesterday I drove to a grey area. An area that has been scared by heavy industry, but over the last thirty years many of the factories have closed down or been re-purposed. An old canal that runs through the area has been made shallow with the silt of a hundred years, beavers chew mulberry trees along it's banks. Teenagers drain cans of Coors Lite beneath the natural cover that has grown around old slag heaps, piles of rock that were once molten.

When in speech we refer to a grey area we are usually talking about something that is uncertain, not well defined. That is how I feel about my grey area, the place shaded grey on my map.

If I were to clearly tell you how this place is, define it clearly, you may not want to go there. Things and places and people will always have an area of grey to them. I find that comforting.