When is it enough?

“You people … you love our way of life, you love our milk and honey, at least you can pay a couple bucks for a poppy or something like that,” Cherry said. “These guys paid for your way of life that you enjoy in Canada, these guys paid the biggest price.”

-- Don Cherry

What Don Cherry said is not true. Factually, not true. Most people understand the importance of Nov. 11th and care regardless of their ethnicity.

Some people - of all ethnicities - don’t care or are too busy surviving to pay attention in the very specific way that Don Cherry was demanding.

Remember also, if we’re going to "our way of life," the OUR is the White population of Canada.  And if we're going to speak about skin colour, we should remember that both World Wars were entirely European (yes, White) in origin and nothing to be proud of because they led to the death of millions of people.  Six million of these were also said to be not like us but Other.

The fact that previously colonized nations (African, Asian of the Commonwealth); previously enslaved people (Black Americans) fought and sacrificed their kids for the Wars should be enough.

The fact that people who were targets of genocidal intent (American Natives) and then joined the war effort and became instrumental in the Pacific as code talkers (Navajo, Cree...) should be enough.

The fact that 2 million Indian soldiers were a part of the war effort in Asia and 89,000 Indian soldiers died, should be enough. But it’s not; and it isn’t enough for a Canadian icon.

I’m sad for the loss of Cherry’s place as one of those people that we could point to and say, yep, he’s Canadian and he makes Canada and me more recognizably Canadian. Sad, because he was so damn unique and quick witted and funny and a straight shooter. And annoying. Mostly good annoying.

But at the end of the day, enough is enough.

Cerene's Retirement Party

Working in a large organization, you get used to attending baby showers, wedding showers and retirement parties.  And last Friday, many of us gathered in the morning to celebrate Cerene’s retirement.

By inference then, you should know that Cerene has worked at Surrey Place for a damn long time. You should also know that Cerene may be many things, but she is definitely not serene; and lastly, you should know that Cerene was diagnosed, out of the clear blue, with 4^th stage cancer just over a month ago.  And so, last Friday, that one word – retirement – was heavy with meanings and emotions that are not usual to it.

Some of us lined the hall leading to the room, waiting in anticipation, as one would for a dignitary.  Others, sat in the meeting room designated for the occasion, waiting.  I expected to hear sadness, to hear a few words spoken by the guest of honour about beginnings and endings, chapters and turnings, sadness tinged with hope for the new things to come, talk of bitter-sweetness and doors opening-closing.  I expected someone would remind everyone how wonderful it has been to work with Cerene, how lucky we have been, what a fount of knowledge or pillar of strength she was and will be.  How those strengths can now be directed into activities of family, community and in pursuit of interests, perhaps, put aside for decades.

Apparently, Cerene had not seen that memo or read the script; Or if she had, she must have promptly burned one, the other, or both.

As soon as she made her entrance, Cerene jumped into the deep end of Dolly Parton’s, “Eagle When She Flies,” a song played at her party, by her own request.  Nothing was as expected.  She was not as much singing the lyrics as she spoke them with a depth that was confusing then discomforting.  What to make of this woman that we knew and didn’t know and were about to get to know?

Cerene came to celebrate, to laugh, to reminisce, to scold, to humble, to humour, to cry, to make us cry, to teach and to preach.  Cerene taught us that it’s okay to be fully yourself with no apologies.  She came to show that dressing to the nines – black gown, gold high-heeled shoes and hair done – is okay even at 9:30 in the morning.  Just because.

She said, ‘remember, employees are people and not just numbers; that changes in our work place are a chance to re-tool, transform and most of all, to be bold.’  I heard, ‘move forward,’ as she is doing, with eyes wide open, even with trepidation, but hopeful; above all, hopeful.  By action: do not be afraid to show, not share, just show, your faith; and reveal something of yourself because it gives others permission to also be fully themselves.

And then, she danced!  A song solely chosen by her, for her.  Some clapped along, some cried and Cerene, with eyes closed and hands raised high, praised God and showed us what fortitude and forbearance and just plain not-giving-a-damn-‘cause-life-is-too-short, looked like.  Life affirmed.

Out of breath, she sat, and it was clear that the cancer has indeed taken its toll.  Not plainly seen, not yet anyways, it still made itself manifest.  There was no time for chit-chat and small words.  Cerene needed to leave; nurse’s orders.

She asked someone to cue up a song, her extro music.  She left the room as she had entered, on her own terms, by her command.  She left us all to finally get back on-script with our cheese and crackers.  And she did the one thing no number of team building exercises have ever done, she brought us all closer together.

And the lyrics of that Dolly Parton song?

Her heart's as soft as feathers
Still she weathers stormy skies
And she's a sparrow when she's broken
But she's an eagle when she flies

Foregone chapter 1

Read this slightly revised piece tonight at Firefly Creative.
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Foregone -- adjective

1. that which has gone before; previous; past.
2. determined in advance; inevitable.

He will come to you, unbidden.  Gentle as a breeze through a window screen.  A fish breaking the glassy, silvery surface of your hard-won peace.  Maybe you will be sitting on a weathered muskoka chair at the end of a long dock.  Watching dragonflies chase meals in the summer light.  The clatter of dishes from the neighbour your only complaint.

You will hear perhaps the sound of tires rolling slowly over gravel; an engine running a few seconds longer than it should.  Unbelieving.  That engine: you would know it anywhere.  The precise three second run-on.  Thunk.  Thunk.  Before you even turn, your senses, muscle memory, feel the crazy-truth of an old familiar pang.  Up through layers of sedimentation, obfuscation.  Years of therapizing, trees and trees of books, (such defences!), blown away like tiny, yellow specks of pollen.

And because there is no redemption in suffering you reach into the cupboard and fill your cup. Bismillah. Drain your cup. Fill it again and repeat.

Forget the promises – broken, if not now, tomorrow.  Forget the hope, best left to the naïve; and what is naiveté but stupidity ringed with daisies?  Forget the ultimatums, the purview of children and the childish.  Forget the companionability; the gnawing need; the genetic imperative; the sense of belonging and the addictive sighs of contentment.  Forgotten too should be the slope of his shoulders, his veiny hands, the knobby knuckles that you soothed with your own hands and the wine stain next to his belly button.  The warm moisture of his breath mingling with yours.  Forget.  Forgotten.  Forfeit.

You dare not turn. Use the darkened screen of your reader to surreptitiously view what’s behind.  Should be behind you.  So clever.  So clever and fearful.  A car, the colour of which is obscured.  Late model.  The occupant unseen; a conspiracy of light and shadows.  You drop your over-large sunglasses down over your “big-big” eyes.  Beautiful eyes, “cow’s eyes”, he used to say.

Reach into the cupboard to find his razor and toothbrush.  The green floss sticks you’ll never use.  The travel size shaving foam.  Let your hands do the hard work; don’t let your eyes rest on any one object too long. Avoid sniffing the cap of shaving foam.  Wipe off the stains from his coffee cup, the dried signs of his toothpaste in the sink.  Shut your mind and casually drop everything in the bin.  Tie the bag off tightly.  Once, then once again…just to be sure.  Bismillah.  Drain your cup and fill it again for a job well done.

Turn now.  You must turn.  How old are you?  You’re not some little girl after all!  Sitting at the dock, frozen.  Who would dare to come to your aerie, your redoubt?  The one place that you give yourself over to with no misgivings!  Turn now.  Turn.

The car door shuts, daring you.  And then, silence.  Not the sound of footsteps or a clearing of a throat or a simple “hello.”  Maybe you stood up from your camp chair or still seated turned around in the chair.  Your first sight of him after, what, a decade?  More.  Tall, lanky, a little older looking; but still the same somehow.  Cautious smile on his face, khakis sitting a little too high as usual by the grace of that chipped old brown belt. Moss green henley shirt, it’s sleeves rolled back to the elbows.  Left hand squeezing the other.  Nervous.  One glance, a gestaltic snapshot. 

Ah, the old familiar pang.

As he approaches the dock, eyes down, paying careful attention to his footing, you are not standing stock-still.  Your hand moves to the chair’s back to still it’s shaking.  Your eyes are watering, traitors, unfaithful, obscuring your vision.  Blinking now, your hand moves under your glasses to clear your sight.  The sight of him.  Unready, unsteady, undone.

Finally, he says, “Hi, Emma.  How’ve you been?”

Your eyes shut.  One-two-three-four-five.  You open them, adjust your glasses.

"Seb?" you whisper: a question? A greeting maybe?

"Hi, Emma."

Your heart is beating too loud, too fast. You're trying to remember to be present.  Just as quickly as you take a deep, bracing breath, your skin heats, outracing your abilities to calm yourself.  Build the walls now, as fast as you can, against the oncoming tide.  Buttress, fortify, jam supports into place!  And just as  quickly as you do this, your breath blows those ramparts out.

You stand two arm lengths away, years apart; And yet here.

"Sebastian-fucking-Coe. What are you…?”  You stop and try again, Suspiciously, you ask, “What’s happened?"

"I'm not sure.  I was…I needed to see you."

Be Nice, Just Ask

I’ve often said to my son, that a smile, a bit of kindness and simply asking when you’re in need can’t hurt and often has a very happy outcome.  People are usually nice if you give them an opportunity to be nice. 

A few cases to the point: We checked into our hotel in Cleveland to find we three were in a one-bed room. The Manager already having told us that the inn was full. He was clearly a nice guy and we were disappointed but pleasant...’Cause shit happens and if you can’t control the situation, you change your thinking or wallow in misery. Once we got into to the too-tiny-room, my daughter and wife’s demeanours were, uh, deflated. Wife was quite quiet and the girl said with sarcasm, “I’ll just sleep in the tub.”  I said, “Don’t settle in. I’m going to go talk to the front desk.”

At the front desk, just as I began to plead our case, the manager says, “Give me 15 minutes and I can move you to a room with two beds.  One just came free.” Thank you serendipity. 

Case to the point two: I decide to walk to a Starbucks a long block from the hotel. It’s pouring rain. I almost step out of the awning’s protection with my not so water resistant jacket and then think, ‘hmm, can’t hurt to ask...’  Walk to the front desk and sheepishly ask if perhaps, maybe, they have an umbrella to lend a guest down on his luck. Turquoise, lady at the front desk, turns quickly around, ducks into a vestibule and returns with a honking big golfer’s umbrella!  I say, “That’s an umbrella made to make a short man proud.”  She smiles and says, “Bring it back whenever you get back.” Thank you impulsivity!

Case to the point three:  Starbucks. I get my order,  settle into a club chair and realize that reading with the music so loud just is not working for me. Before I stand, I think, “what’s the worst that can happen?”  And so I ask. Politely. The barista is only too happy to turn the music down a bit: “Oh, yeah yeah sure.” I thank her and go back to Archie Bunker’s seat, settle in, eat cake and sip my coffee and no one is worse off for the asks.  Thank you hard-won-cranky-pant old-fart courage.