Excess to it all?

Moving on

2008-06-17T14:48:00.002-06:00

Questioning the relevance of this post, as I don't think this blog has had a hit since 1974. Still, if any of you out there are actually still checking here, you should know that I have followed the herd and migrated to wordpress. You can find me here.

Waiting...

2007-09-28T10:47:00.000-06:00

Snow on the mountains. I hadn’t expected it yet, but suddenly there it was, brilliant white against the tired grey flanks of the rockies; a marker of the season’s passing. Not surprising that it would come now, at the tail end of September, on one of those exhausted, overcast days that define the transition between fall and winter. All around me sprawled the gritty expanse of the city, stretching itself awkwardly towards the jagged spine of the horizon as if it wanted a closer look at the pristine blanket left there by the receding clouds. I stopped and stared for a moment, feeling the edge to the wind bring a realization that the domineering grasp of winter is much closer than I realized.

I have known for well over a month that summer was over. I’m not sure what it is about the seasons that speaks to me so directly, and especially the fall. Something about the fall resonates deep within me, communicating with me on a level I am not sure I understand. It was sometime during the third week of August that I walked out to the garage to get something and felt the change in the air. It wasn’t subtle at all; more like nature’s equivalent of a brick to the face. In an instant it was painfully apparent. The grass was a little less green than it had been, and the water pooled on the kids’ play structure carried an icy sting that had been absent only days before. The sky now displayed, if only slightly, the telltale grey undertones that speak of a coming change in the weather, and the air, of course, felt different; as though something immense and threatening had turned over somewhere far beyond the horizon, and was starting to wake up. Summer was most definitely over.

Sometimes I feel funny telling people when the change is coming, because the reactions I get vary wildly. Sideways glances, sarcastic nods of the head, or even outright ridicule are not uncommon. It seems that as with so many other things, what cannot be felt firsthand is often dismissed outright as the overactive machinations of an undisciplined mind. Perhaps that is, in fact, the case; but then there is the curious matter of my accuracy. On more than one occasion, I have been laughed at outright when I voiced my feelings about summer coming to an end, only to see the same people shivering a week later beneath the cooling advances of the same autumn they had denied not seven days earlier. Still, I take no satisfaction in being right. It is not a matter of right or wrong, or being to predict something before anyone else; it is more a matter of what simply is.

I guess in the end it doesn’t matter if I know it’s coming or not. It will come just the same, with all the grace of a plane crash. I just find it funny that I feel so tied to this time of year. Maybe it’s because this is when I was born. Maybe it’s because the fall has always seemed to be a time of great transition; the return to school, beginnings and endings of so many friendships, and ultimately leaving home, going to university, and taking those first uncertain steps into adulthood. I have quit jobs, moved from house to house, and struggled through the collapse of serious relationships, and when I look back on the timing, it has seemed to happen, with alarming regularity, in the fall. Then again, maybe this is reading too much into things. Maybe it is, once again, something that simply is.

Looking up today and seeing that sheet of white on the eastern slopes, not glittering in the sunlight, but reposing almost stealthily beneath a grey sheet of cloud, made me wonder what else is just beyond the horizon. What else, when the fall ultimately cedes its tenuous grasp to the relentless advance of winter, will take its place?

The Sweet Smell of Decay

2007-07-06T13:36:00.000-06:00

I guess it's really easy to get used to the idea of nothing being around forever; to quietly accept that we live in an encompassing mindset of transition and impermanence. We readily and consciously design and anticipate throwing things away, resigned to the non-negotiable fact that nothing man-made endures longer than absolutely necessary in order to fulfill whatever short-sighted purpose we may have had for it. This concept of planned disposability intrigues me. I was once a student of architecture; impressed and inspired by the beauty and expression of mechanical and artistic creation. I am still awed by the soaring cathedrals and intricate stonework of ancient masons that endures to this day in many parts of Europe and the "older" places of this world, but I am equally interested in the North American mindset, where obscene amounts of money are spent to erect towering edifices of steel and glass that will have a lifespan of maybe sixty years - much less than the average human being.

I've been scraping along the jagged edges of this post for a better part of a year. The thought process began around the same time I became interested in urban exploration, or UE. For those of you out there who are unfamiliar with the term, UE involves "exploring" urban structures such as abandoned buildings, storm drains, utility tunnels, construction sites, and those dark, forgotten recesses of the city that people have either forgotten about or really just don't want to remember. It is a gritty, secretive, dangerous, and misunderstood activity. More often than not, it involves an element of lawlessness, as regardless of the fact that these locations have been abandoned and left to crumble, more often than not they do belong to someone and that someone usually is not wild about the idea of people poking around in their unattended and probably quite hazardous private property. What really piqued my curiousity about all this was the fairly rigid code of ethics that most serious urban explorers live by. Though technically they are trespassers, they are not petty criminals looking for a thrill by breaking and entering. They do not steal, they do not destroy. They do not "tag", or leave graffiti. They are there simply to discover and to observe; and many of the things that they see are disturbing, nostalgic, or truly magnificent.

I am a firm believer that buildings, inanimate objects though they might be, have personalities all their own. Some are good, most are fairly neutral, and some make you want to run screaming into the night. I have stood in places that made my skin crawl; felt irrational fears and feelings that truly can not be explained, and have instantly felt comfortable and at home in places that I had never been before in my life. I have often wondered if it is possible for buildings to gradually absorb bits and pieces of the lives and events that play out within their walls, and to retain those feelings and share them with anyone in tune enough to listen. If so, perhaps some buildings speak louder than others.

Shortly after becoming interested in UE, I discovered several web resources dedicated to the Buffalo Central Terminal. This building nearly leaped off the page at me the first time I saw it. I began to research its history and learned more about its former glory and tragic descent into dereliction. Constructed during the heyday of passenger rail travel, it boasted a throughput capacity of 3200 passengers per hour, or 200 trains per day. As passenger train service began to decline, so did the fortunes of the terminal; until it was finally formally abandoned in 1977. The only reason it still stands today is that the city of Buffalo’s tenuous financial situation does not permit the expenditure of the estimated $12 million USD that would be required to raze the terminal and its surrounding buildings. The building itself is striking; a monolithic art deco landmark that dominates the surrounding area. The interior was once spectacular, and now is so overcome by the ravages of time and the elements that it was recently used as the setting for a horror movie. From the moment I learned of it, something about this building called to me. Even though it is half a continent away and there is every possibility that I will never see it in my lifetime, I still feel strangely drawn to it. As I looked at the photos of the precarious, rusting walkways and crumbling walls that were traversed by the individuals exploring the building, it became quite apparent that touring the Buffalo Central Terminal would entail quite literally risking one’s life. I was surprised then, to feel strangely like I understood the motivation for doing it. The building is so dilapidated that it is truly frightening; almost sinister. It is only when one looks closer and begins to see beyond the grime and decay that masks the once-proud pieces of yesterday that the building begins to tell a story. It is a story of progress and technology; of society and its evolution. It is illustrated by faded, cracking paint chips, and carved stone letters now devoid of their gold leaf definition. It is told by an empty newspaper stand that will never sell another newspaper, and by the empty pedestal that once held a magnificent statue of a Buffalo, welcoming travelers from far off destinations to its namesake city. Filtered through stained and broken windows, the light plays across these things and paints them with a mood that is all at once ominous, thought-provoking, and beautiful. There is something in the ruined shell of this building that refuses to be forgotten. It is a microcosm of an urban life cycle; both an inspiration and a grim warning.

Although my involvement with UE has been mostly from the sidelines, I still find it interesting to follow along with these adventures from behind my computer screen, amazed at some of the places these guys have been. Some of these buildings have tremendous histories; interesting, mysterious, and sometimes violent and bloody. Exploring them seems to be a way to touch on that past, and maybe to learn something from it. It is a way of finding beauty in decline and even death; of assuring oneself that although nothing lasts forever, it doesn’t need to be forgotten either.

It kind of hit home for me last night when I was standing in the parking lot of West Edmonton Mall. Once the largest shopping mall in the world, I am still amazed at its size and scale. I can remember as a wide-eyed 14 year-old, stepping under the loops of the roller coaster and trying to summon the courage required for a ride on the “Drop of Doom”. I remember spending all night wandering through the seemingly endless corridors of that mall and still not seeing it all. I remember how new everything seemed; how shiny and new and impressive it was. Last night, as I was leaving the mall, I stopped to watch a kids’ hockey game being played on the rink near the east entrance. I can’t remember what it was that drew my eyes upwards, but I was surprised to find the painted trim underneath the glass dome overhead to be discoloured and showing the telltale greasy-looking spots that are the early signs of mold. At first it didn’t really register, but as I walked out to my car I began to notice more indications of disrepair. The concrete detail work on many of the fountains was chipped and broken, even if only slightly. The faux-marble floor looked worn and tired, and there were long and evil-looking rust streaks streaming down the once-immaculate glass canopies over the main entrances. As I reached the car, I noted that many of the lighted signs on the mall’s exterior were partially burned out or were missing letters. The sign for the Bay looked as though it were disintegrating from the inside; its dirty yellow letters streaked with grime and flickering softly. West Edmonton Mall, the glowing temple of commerce I remember from my youth, is rotting.

The drive back to the hotel seemed longer than it actually was, because something about the mall’s decline really disturbed me. It felt almost like someone I knew had fallen sick, and for some reason I knew that they would not recover. Images of the Buffalo Central Terminal came to my mind, and I began to imagine what the mall might look like some years from now when the price of oil crashes and interest rates bankrupt those of us who are currently riding the wave of the boom and living well beyond our means. I could see the lagoon around the pirate ship, long drained of any water and populated only by the peeling paint of the concrete coral formations and a few rusting scraps of metal that used to be the guide rail for the submarines. I could picture the dry, discoloured recess what was once the wave pool, the glass overhead dome dirty and broken in several places, no longer shielding the cracked tiles of the former pool deck from the elements. I could imagine the cavernous expanse of what used to be the amusement park; the concrete floor cracked, broken, and punctuated only with rusting bolts protruding from footings that once anchored some of the most spectacular rides in the country. The Mall itself would have become nothing more that a rotten shell; its once brilliant corridors and storefronts now subject to the elements and at the mercy of the vandals and vagrants that would easily penetrate the crumbling exterior walls.

I wonder if it will ever come to that. Thinking about it conjures up images of a Mad-Max type, post-apocalyptic society, but in many ways it really isn’t that much of a stretch. In many ways, society is already in decline. From a physical perspective, it only makes sense that we will take our monuments down with us. The only real question to be asked is what will we learn from it? What will the urban explorers of tomorrow think as they are picking their way through the wreckage of what was once the mightiest shopping mall on the planet? Will they mourn? Shake their heads in disgust? It is a question with an answer that only somewhere like the Buffalo Central Terminal knows.

Coming down

2007-06-29T00:04:00.000-06:00

I'm not sure what it is about electrical storms that I find so engaging. There is something mysterious and powerful about watching jagged bolts of lightning rip open the night sky; something both intriguing and humbling. My oldest son is afraid of the thunder, as many children are. Strangely, I have never been afraid of storms. In fact, I have always been inexplicably drawn to them. I can remember as a small child making the midnight walk to the large plate glass window in the dining room of the home I grew up in to get a better view of the tempest outside. Sometimes, in later years, I would sit there at the table for hours, watching the rain pound off of the rooftops across the street and turn the gutters into a muddy torrent. As chaotic as a storm usually is, there was a peacefulness to them that I simply cannot explain.

That feeling has followed me for years. I have written about it before and have never been able to capture even a small part of what it actually feels like, and I won't even attempt to do so now. I guess it may seem strange to some to have such an attraction, or even attachment, to a meteorological phenomenon. I would explain it if I could.

Tonight there is a colossal electrical storm going on right outside my hotel window. More lightning that I have seen in a long time. So what am I doing? Sitting at this computer, two floors from the top of what it the tallest building for miles. Darwinism anyone? Still, I couldn't help but write something down, because that's what you do when something inspires you and what is happening outside is nothing if not inspiring. For some reason, it makes me feel closer to home. Watching the violence of nature's rage makes me think of my family, safe at home in our tiny house where my boys are asleep with their stuffed animals and glowing mobile of the solar system, and my daughter is sacked out, snoring, with her feet up on the wall beside her and her sippy cup full of warm milk from bedtime still clutched in one hand. Where the sounds of the city at night have faded to an indistinct murmur outside the window of the bedroom where my wife sleeps; exhausted, but happy that I am coming home to her tomorrow. Lightning or not, it's the same sky out there watching over all of us.

Being in such a large building, I can't really hear the rain even though it is pouring. Rainy nights seem somehow calmer; maybe even softer. I hope it is still raining tomorrow when I wake up.

Some glorious return

2007-06-25T20:09:00.000-06:00

I have been debating what to do with this blog for some time now. I have seemingly lost the desire to keep it current, and consequently it has lost much of its relevance. Rather than making great and terrible promises to post daily, (even monthly might be a stretch at this point) I am wondering if it might not be better to just let it die.

It's tough to write without a focus, and more and more often lately I feel like I'm running hard up against that big, brick, fourteen-foot-tall "I don't have a focus" wall. Family takes up whatever time work doesn't, to the point that not only have I stopped pursuing my other interests, but rather alarmingly I find that it has now been so long since I was involved with them that I find that I don't miss them nearly as much. It kind of feels hollow, in a way.

Maybe it's just the timing of it all. New job, lots of travel, ugly strike and subsequent month-long sejour in Regina, (of all places) and the suffocating advances of a certain day in October that will confirm what I already know to be true: I am getting older. Honestly, I'm OK with that, but it sometimes hits me in an unpleasant "you can never go home again" way that somehow makes me feel really crappy. By and large I've done pretty well with my life so far; hottest wife in the universe, great kids, good job that I actually enjoy, and fantastic friends. It's just that sometimes you get to feeling that there could be something else out there that is just passing you by- something that maybe everyone else sees and whispers about behind your back, wondering how on earth you can be so oblivious. What is it? If I had any idea, I wouldn't be writing this, would I?

Maybe this blog needs something to pull it into focus. More humour, more gravity, more humanity; more direction. If I had any idea how to inject any of those things into these writings, I would have done it months ago instead of waiting so long between updates that I forgot the password to my own Flickr account.

The long and short of it is that writing can't really be forced if it is going to end up being anything worth reading, and lately I just simply haven't had anything to say. Even this post, when it all boils down, is really just a poorly-worded diatribe about having nothing to post. Its one redeeming quality is that if you're still with me at this point, I have managed to keep your attention long enough to waste between two and three minutes of your day before actually telling you that you're a sucker for wasting your time reading this. (I even spelled out the numbers 2 and 3 in that last sentence so it would take longer for you to read them) Maybe next time you'll think twice about checking back, eh?

Mmmmmm.....mashed potatoes

2007-05-07T23:24:00.000-06:00

Sometimes, it's so perfect I couldn't have said it better myself. Eat your heart out, David Suzuki. (Get it? EAT you heart out?......never mind) I'd better go put on some bluegrass music; my neck is feeling a little red.
For some really good entertainment, check this out.

Soundtracks

2007-04-29T14:30:00.000-06:00

It's been almost two full months since my last post; by far my longest lapse since starting this blog. In celebration of my glorious return, I have decided to post something completely shallow and irrelevant, yet mildly entertaining. I have always loved music and have often wondered what the soundtrack to my life would sound like if for some crazy reason someone decided to make a movie out of it. I could have spent hours poring though my music collection weighing out my options, but just couldn't find the time (and quite honestly, the desire) to bother doing it. Lo and behold, my friend Alicia posted this on her blog a while back and I just had to take the easy road and post it again here. Nothing I love more than someone else doing all the heavy lifting for me.

If you're in to this kind of thing, I wholly recommend giving this one a shot. Some of the results are actually strikingly appropriate- others, not so much. Enjoy.

If my life was a movie, what would my soundtrack be?

So, here's how it works:

1. Open your music library
2. Put it on shuffle
3. Press play
4. For every question, type the song that's playing
5. When you go to a new question, press the next button
6. Don't lie and try to pretend you're cool.

Opening Credits: Prime Time Deliverance by Matthew Good Band
Waking Up: If You Could Only See by Tonic
First Day At School: Desert Rose by Sting
In Love: Sucker by Lincoln (I’m not kidding)
Fight Song: Heavy by Collective Soul
Breaking Up: From Yesterday by 30 Seconds to Mars
Prom: Photograph by Nickelback
Life's OK: XXL by Mylène Farmer
Mental Breakdown: White Flag by Dido
Driving: Bring Me To Life by Evanescence
Flashback: Precious by Depeche Mode
Getting Back Together: Closing In by Imogen Heap
Birth of Child: I Love You by Sarah McLachlan
Wedding: Parallel Universe by Red Hot Chili Peppers
Final Battle: Dead Souls by Joy Division
Death Scene: Shackled by Vertical Horizon
Funeral Song: Building a Mystery by Sarah McLachlan
End Credits: Song for Holly by Esthero feat. Danny Saber

Hmmmm. Parallel Universe? I'm sure my wife would be impressed. Keep on rockin', kids. Hopefully it won't be another two months before my next post.

Out into the world

2007-02-20T22:19:00.000-07:00

So here I sit in a Kamloops hotel room, wondering if I have lost my mind completely. I am two days into a job that will be my life for the next two years; 48 hours and I have already lost my taste for restaurant food. This is certainly going to be an adventure.

It certainly came with all the trappings. Company cellphone, company laptop, company credit card, expense account....the works. A golden extravaganza of potential involving travel to such exotic places as Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, and Cranbrook, BC. A daunting cycle of weeks spent in rail yards capturing variances to operating plans and managing the pent-up angst of employees with 30+ years of service who are trying to do the right thing but simply can't or won't understand the direction the company has chosen to follow. A challenge, for sure; but one that will certainly bring with it a wealth of experience and a lot of war stories.

It was strange leaving the NMC for the last time on Friday morning. Walking away from the desk knowing that I wouldn't be back was sobering; almost saddening. I will definitely miss the guys I worked with, as well as the job itself. It was hell on many an occasion, but it was never boring. I suppose this won't be either. All in the name of progress.

I am not really sure what the coming months will bring. I can already see how the travel will be draining, and I am beginning to understand exactly how little time I will have with my family and I'm not sure I like what I see. I guess I knew coming in that there would be drawbacks, and that now I will have to buckle down and bear with it for the next few years so my family and I will be able to realize the benefits of doing this.

I have never really enjoyed change, which is strange for a man who requires variety in his work or he gets so bored that he loses interest and ultimately stops caring. I suppose it is rooted in me; a deep-seated desire to stay close to what I know. Funny then, that I search for the things that will destabilize what I am familiar with. Perhaps I feel a need to expand my horizons, push the envelope a little, and stand on the precipitous edge of my comfort zone. Maybe it really was just born out of a desire to do what was best for my family. Maybe I'll never know.

What I do know is this. At 6 am on Friday mornig, as I walked out of the NMC and back to my car after finishing my last night shift, the air smelled like spring. It was the middle of February, but there was the unmistakable scent of fresh growth and life beginning anew. For a moment I almost expected to drive down the ramp into a brilliant June sunrise, bathing verdant treetops with the pale golden light of a new dawn. It was only when I closed the car door and settled back into the musty grit of a long Alberta winter that I realized that the sensory deception was just that. Still, it sparked in me the realization that it doesn't really matter where you're at with your life; things can and will always change, and they will do it with or without you. What happens next is all a result of how you choose to deal with the differences and what you make of the situation.

Here's to change.

Ridiculous

2007-01-26T16:19:00.000-07:00

This is among the most disgusting things I have ever read. These people need severe beatings. If this makes you as angry as it made me, get involved. Make phone calls, write letters, leave comments on sites like CBC that actually pay attention to what their readers are saying. It is high time we stopped rolling over and playing dead in the name of political correctness. If you stand for something, don't be afraid to tell someone else what it is.

The Road Warrior

2007-01-13T02:54:00.000-07:00

I often have to take a step back and shake my head at the twists and turns life throws at us. After some four years and change of agonizing over how on earth we were ever going to afford to buy a house, suddenly the new year dropped the possibility of doing so almost immediately right in our laps. The catch? (because there's always a catch) It's going to be in another city.

Just like that, out of nowhere, I've been promoted. While I'd love to tell you that it's because I'm a highly intelligent and motivated individual and that this promotion is the result of my employer realizing that I'm simply too good not to promote, the reality is that I have worked many long and tedious hours to get to this point, and suddenly it is being recognized. The job itself came as a bit of a surprise. I saw the opening in early December and was offered an interview shortly after I applied, but due to the holiday season I didn't actually get the said interview until last Wednesday. The shocker was that I was offered the position on Thursday- less than 24 hours later. The upsides are many: great opportunity, better money, huge visibility. It is not at all a stretch to say that this particular job is one that, if done well, could become a catapult for my career. The downside is the travel. The job is 90-100% travel. I get on a plane Sunday night and go to work in some remote location, then fly home on Friday to spend the weekend with my family. I am not exactly a stranger to travel; in fact in my previous job I used to do it regularly. The difference is that I was single then, and now I have four other people to worry about. Enter the move.

My wife and I discussed this at length before I agreed to accept the position, and I am grateful to havea spouse who is so encouraging and supportive. We decided that since I am going to gone most of the time, it doesn't really make sense for us to continue living in Calgary. As much as we like it here, the spiralling cost of living in this city has effectively priced it out of our reach. The next best thing to being here is being in Lethbridge, so we have decided to relocate there. It really makes nothing but sense for us. The cost of living there is much lower, my wife will not have to work and will be able to stay home with the kids full-time, we have many friends there, and both my wife's parents and my own parents live there. Paramount to the whole deal, we will actually be able to purchase our home.

I cannot honestly say that I am without reservations. The travel, although not as daunting to me as one might imagine, represents a challenge. I will miss my wife and kids a lot, and am not excited about spending so much time away from them. I cringe at the thought of the school concerts and birthday parties that I will not be present for, as well as the tiny evolutions in the lives of my children that I will more than likely miss. It will become extremely important to ensure that the time I do have available is spent in ways that will allow me to maintain and build relationships with my wife and children, because there will be precious little of it. I can already see how the travel will be very tiring. On the other hand, in some ways I am looking forward to it. Sitting in a hotel room alone every night won't be terribly entertaining, but it will allow me to do things like finish the magazine articles I've been working on for the last three years, or maybe start playing my guitar again.

As far as the family goes, there will be ways to minimize my absence. Cellphones and the internet have made the world a much smaller place, and technology such as webcams and laptops will allow me to communicate nightly with my family. I am lucky enough that the company has agreed to fly me home every weekend to the city of my choice, so I will never have to go more than five days without seeing my family even though I may be working in the opposite corner of the continent for the rest of the week. With the hotel rewards points and air miles I'll be racking up flying back and forth, I should have enough by the end of the year to take my family on a pretty decent holiday. Maybe my wife and I will finally be able to take that holiday to France we have been dreaming about for the past six years.

Honestly, I'm not really sure what to expect. Obviously there will be pros and cons to the situation, but from our perspective right now the positives seem to far outweight the negatives. Besides, we figure, we knew that at some point I would likely have to either relocate or travel extensively. Better to do it now while the children are relatively young than wait until they are older and have things like hockey games, music lessons, and scout camps in play. Hopefully by the time that happens, the travel phase will have played itself out and I will be able to transition to a position with a more stable schedule. Maybe it will be back here in Calgary; maybe someone out in the field, but wherever it is, it will be home and I will be able to enjoy it with my family. This could well prove to be one of those "short term pain for long term gain" opportunities. Whatever happens, it will be an adventure.

Happy frickin New Year

2007-01-09T14:02:00.000-07:00

So here it is, the dawn of a brave new cycle. 365 untarnished days, 365 blank pages on which to scribe a story of decision, triumph, and disappointment. Another chapter in so many lives already reading too long, or a glorious beginning to those yet to open the cover of the volume that will document their existence here. 2007, here we come.

Really, I suppose this should have bee written ten days ago, but in keeping with the hectic nature of my life over the past few months, I'm just getting to it now. So much for that resolution about putting things off.

New Years used to be a bittersweet time of year for me. Sure, it was exciting heading off in to the great wide unknown, but there were always memories of people, places, and events that I was loath to resign to the often-musty rooms of the past. What was so great about a new year anyway? Why was I celebrating something that more than likely would play itself out with the same vigor and emotion as the one preceding it; whether the results be positive or negative? For all I knew at the time, I may well have been celebrating a death of a loved one or some other life event that I could not possibly have forecast at that particular juncture. Yes, New Years had always felt awkward to me. Not good, not bad, just unsure. Here was everyone around me celebrating and having a great time, and for some reason I never could decide exactly how I should be feeling about all of it.

About six years ago I just stopped worrying about it. Stopped caring, really. It was New Years Eve, 1999. I had friends up from Lethbridge and we were all set and determined to party like it was our last night on earth. For all we knew, it could have been; the threat of the Y2K bug loomed large and we half expected, half hoped that the stroke of midnight would bring with it something truly catastrophic. We went out. We ate, we laughed, we sang along with Silverchair's "Anthem for the year 2000" at the top of our lungs. Expectations for the evening were high. Then, unimaginably, nothing happened. The dance yeilded no new prospects, there was no New Years kiss, and midnight came and went unceremoniously; like a theif in the dark. While we had been waiting anxiously on the proverbial front lawn to celebrate its arrival, the new millenium had snuck in through the back door, made itself some mac & cheese, and settled in to watch a hockey game. It was as though we had come back inside, tired of waiting, only to discover that the guest of honour was already there. The car was much quieter on the way back to my condo, where we discovered with some disappointment that the computer still worked just fine, the phone was still in service, and the TV still dazzled us with its cable-fed glory. The digital clock on the microwave hadn't even reset itself. The arrival of the year 2000 had been the most epic of letdowns.

We went to a party around 3 am, where we encountered much of the same. The girls were the same as they had been three hours earlier, the music the same; the mood the same. It could have been Halloween, or any other generic calendar holiday excuse to throw a party. It felt empty. I left that night feeling more tired than I had in along time.

By six a.m. we were all back at my condo falling uneasily into our first sleep of a new year, a new century, and a new millenium. I laid awake in my bed for about a half-hour, then rose, dressed, and retrieved my car keys from their resting place atop the microwave. There was something I had to see. I drove up on top of signal hill, just behind Canada Olympic Park, and parked the car facing east. Then, fighting off the persistent advances of fatigue, I waited.

1 January, 2000. 8:09 a.m.

Gradually it came. First the sky seemed to almost unknowingly lose its heaviness, the soft black-blue of the tired night fading to a deep ultramarine and finally to azure. The clouds, if they could be identified as such, hung immobile in ragged sheets; as if they had been there all along and were oblivious to the changing of the hours. The sky appeared to be torn in several places, bleeding colour as though it were a poorly-done watercolour painting. A sliver moon watched idly from above, not seeming to care that its careful watch had almost ended.
Finally, deep scarlet fingers reached skyward, changing the blues to reds, oranges, and pinks. The tired bulk of the sun eased its way slowly from the horizon, and the new millenium had begun at last.

Just as it had every morning for the twenty-five years I had previously spent on this earth, the sun came up just the same. After all the hype, all the worry, all the anticipation, and all the celebration, the morning came just the same. As I returned home and finally yeilded to the comforting numbness of a much-needed sleep, I came to the realization that regardless of its position on the calendar, New Years is just another day.

That was the last time I celebrated New Years with any real effort. The next year I would be in a car in northern Ontario, on my way to Montreal with my fiancée of two months. The year after that I would be married and watching movies with my new wife. 2003 was probably the most effort we put out; we drove to Banff with our six week-old first child and treated ourselves to the New Years Eve buffet at the Banff Springs hotel. We rang in the new year with a kiss on the frozen, moonlit shores of lake Minnewanka, and it was everything a new year should be. Beyond that, I can't even remember what I did on New Years for the past couple of years. This year I worked until 7 pm, then came home and played cards with my wife and my brother & sister.

I think it is folly to choose one day to celebrate an entire year. We should celebrate each day of each year as if it is our last, and live our lives in keeping with the same idea. I hope every day of 2007 is cause for celebration for each one of you; whoever you are. I wish you strength through your challenges, joy through your victories, and hope through your dark times.

And the sun rises.

All I want for Christmas

2006-12-17T02:39:00.000-07:00

I can assure you, it certainly is not my two front teeth.

Christmas is a funny time of year. If you let it, the obvious paradox between religious touchstone and commercial extravaganza can drive you mad with disgust. Instead, I choose to concentrate on more important matters; like what exactly is inside those packages under the tree....notably the ones with my name on them.

My wife and I have an understanding at Christmas. We don't go overboard, and we don't go into debt. It is also understood that I will break both of those rules while expecting her to abide by them. I love double standards. I am incredibly easy to buy for; all I really want is books or model trains to add to my collection. Amazingly, I rarely get either of those things. The books because I am known for opening one and spending the rest of the day reading it and ignoring everything else, and the trains because apparently nobody is confident enough to try and pick ones that I'll like. I figure it's pretty easy. If it has flanged wheels and a build date any time after 1970, it's a pretty safe bet I'll like it. Still, the problem remains.

My wife has a standing order for jewellery, which she has done pretty well with. Last year she got furniture instead - at her own request - but otherwise nary a year has come and gone without the glint of gold and/or diamonds. The obvious predictability aside, it simplifies my Christmas shopping greatly. One phone call to her mother (who works in a jewellery store) and I'm done! It does, however, complicate matters on another front.

Christmas should be all about the surprise. Unfortunately, my wife usually asks for something particular or even goes one step further and chooses her own present. While this has the advantage of ensuring that she'll like her gift, it completely destroys the mischief and subversion that comes with trying to surprise her with something great and unexpected. In short, it wrecks my fun. Although my wife usually has a pretty good idea that she's getting at least one piece of jewellery, she rarely knows which one. To try and keep her guessing, I am forced to take to deception each December to try and convince her that perhaps this will be the year the jewellery will give way to something else. In keeping with this theme, I try to diguise her presents and come up with new and inventive ways of changing their shape in order to conceal the true nature of the object within the gift. It makes me feel better, if only slightly, that at least surprise will factor some small part into her Christmas morning.

I suppose I would be somewhat amiss if I didn't admit that I usually have an excellent idea what I'm getting as well. Although my wife is prone to the temptation to buy me clothes instead of toys, I generally have some input into my primary gift. This year, however, she has given me a taste of my own medicine. I have absolutely no idea what I'm getting. In her typical prepared manner, she has already finished her shopping and has everything wrapped and ready. I have seen, felt, and hefted the gifts in question, and for the first time in my adult life I am completely stumped. Either I didn't get anything I asked for, or my wife has developed a wicked ability to disguise things- something that was never her strong suit before.

The reality of it is that I really don't care. I would be happy if she threw a pair of socks at me and said Merry Christmas. I've been telling her that what I really want is a weekend alone with her without having to worry about the kids catching on fire, but that unfortunately is seemingly harder to come by than enriched plutonium. Still, I am intrigued. I want to know what is inside those damn packages, and my wife knows it too. She has been walking around the house with this smug little look on her face because she knows she's got me. I have tried countering with a flirtatious "I know what you're getting for Christmas", but she won't bite. She has completely turned the tables on me this year and it sucks.

I can't wait for Christmas morning.

Just what the doctor ordered

2006-12-16T03:39:00.000-07:00

I love Dr. Pepper. Just thought I should get that out of the way right up front.

It wasn't always that way. In fact, my first encounter with the good doctor was in the United States when I was probably about twelve years old. We were on the way to Salt Lake City and stopped in Great Falls, Montana for some junk food. (as anyone knows, it's not truly a road trip until there is junk food) In true American style, the junk food was cheap and plentiful. The supermarket where we stopped had chocolate bars three for a buck, and six-packs of pop for something like a buck fifty. Needless to say, we came out of that place loaded for bear. In addition to the dozen or so chocolate bars I had chosen, (remember, this is back in the late 80s before American candy was widely available in Canada, so this was a huge novelty for us) I had decided to take a chance on a 6-pack of Dr. Pepper; something I had never even heard of before but my father assured me tasted just like cherry Coke. Sounded pretty good to me.

Unfortunately, it tasted nothing like cherry Coke. In my opinion, the taste fell somewhere between cheap generic cola and Buckley's mixture. In other words, it was one of the worst things I had ever tasted. I got about a third of the way through the first can and decided that I had made a serious error in judgment. I dumped the remnants of the can out the window, swiped a can of my brother's cream soda to wash away the taste, and relegated the nasty-ass Dr. Pepper to the floor under the driver's side seat of my parents' station wagon. For all I know it may still be there, rusting away with that car in some forgotten junkyard.

It was years before I would try Dr. Pepper again. I remember seeing it when it again became popular in Canada and wondering why anyone would subject their taste buds to such a horrible concoction. I stuck to my grape Crush and shook my head whenever I saw someone buy a Dr. Pepper. Poor people didn't know what they were getting themselves into.

Everything changed one day at the 7-11 near my high school as I was skipping seminary to go play pool with some friends. It was customary to stop for Super Subs and Jalapeno corn dogs on the way to my friend Ryan's grandparents' house, where the pool table was located. Usually I would wash it down with my customary crush or a slurpee; but this particular day, the stars were aligned for something drastic. I ate the Sub, played a quick round of Neo-Geo with my friend Tyler, and gulped down a corn dog before realizing that I was out of money. In the days before bank cards and Interac, once your cash was gone you were out of luck; and my cash was gone. Unfortunately, the jalapeno corn dogs had been unusually hot that day and my throat was begging me for a drink. I asked Tye to spot me a dollar for a slurpee, and he countered with an offer that at first glance seemed more cruel than offering ice cream to a freezing eskimo. He would lend me the dollar, but I couldn't buy a slurpee with it. I had to buy a big gulp, and it had to be Dr. Pepper. Tyler was a confirmed Dr. Pepper addict, and I had taken great delight in pointing out how disgusting his favourite drink was on numerous occasions. For him, it was the perfect opportunity for revenge. I initially refused outright, but the persistent feeling of rawness creeping through my digestive tract urged me to reconsider. Finally I relented. Tye sprouted a mean-looking grin, then proceeded to pour me the Dr. Pepper.

As first I took only small sips, seriously concerned that I might vomit. To my surprise, however, it wasn't as bad as I remembered it. By the time the cup was one quarter empty, I was drinking it freely and trying to pretend that I was really hating it lest Tye think he had gotten the upper hand. Halfway through it I was somewhat dismayed to admit that I actually kind of liked it, and by the time it was gone I was willing to try it again. Things worked out in my favour because Tye was so intent on getting everyone else converted to his favourite drink that all I had to do was say "Gee Tye, maybe that crap you drink isn't so bad after all" and he would immediately offer to buy me one. Meanwhile I was secretly really starting to like the stuff, but it took Tye about a month to figure that out. By the end of the school year I was hooked, and I've never looked back.

The Dr. Pepper addiction followed me to university in Utah, then back home again. In a matter of months, I had eclipsed even Tye's affection for the stuff, and drank it constantly. My mother was concerned that I was drinking too much of it, which was probably true. Just to prove to her that I didn't have a problem, I stopped drinking it completely. Six months later, I started again. I just loved the taste of the stuff.

My mission was tough. Dr. Pepper was extremely rare in France, and extremely expensive when it could be found. Every time I located it, I would spend crazy amounts of money hoarding cans of it- to the tune of 15 Francs, or roughly $3.00 US per can. My return home was celebrated with a Dr. Pepper on the way home from the airport, and I have been drinking it ever since.

About a year ago, I was forced to make a choice. Working in a fairly sedentary job that demands long hours sitting in front of a computer, the sugar intake associated with drinking up to a litre of Dr. Pepper at work every day began to take a toll on my body. I had graduated from Big Gulps to 2-litre Double Gulps, and used to down between 3 and 6 of them in an average week. My once-impressive metabolism had finally met its match, and I began to gain weight. (yes, you're probably reading this going "um, yeah") Not a lot of weight, but enough that my mountain bike racer physique began to soften. As someone who had always been very physically fit, I didn't like that. It was time for a change, and the Dr. had to go.

There was only one option: Diet Dr. Pepper. There was only one problem: it was DIET Dr. Pepper. I hate diet pop, and have been very vocal about this for many years. I hate the aspartame, and the nasty aftertaste, and the whole idea of diet pop. To me, diet pop was an oxymoron. If you didn't want to drink pop and have all the crap that came with it, you should drink crystal light or something. Now I was flirting with crossing over to the dark side. I bought a bottle of DDP and sipped away at it for three days, unable to get used to the taste. A week later, I did it again. Finally, I realized that I had to take a stand. I went to Superstore and bought a 12-pack of Diet Dr. Pepper and put it in my fridge, forcing myself to either drink it or be consumed by guilt over the waste. Slowly, it began to disappear. I bought another 12-pack, and it disappeared as well. I began to notice the taste of the aspartame less and less, and to choose the diet version over the high-test whenever I had the option. Finally, at the end of the summer when I was on the road with the steam train, I was offered a can of regular Dr. Pepper. I could barely finish it. It tasted thick and syrupy, and sickly sweet; almost the way I remembered that first can tasting so many years ago. I had come full circle, and the conversion was complete.

I'm not even sure what it is about Dr. Pepper, diet or high-test, that I like so much. The key ingredient of the flavouring is apparently prune juice, but I've tried to drink prune juice before and lets just say it really doesn't agree with me. (I'll spare you the gory details) The Dr. Pepper, on the other hand, is still my favourite and most likely always will be. If you haven't tried it lately, I suggest you do....but be careful. It may not be your last.

'Tis the season

2006-12-12T02:12:00.000-07:00

Christmas had always been my favourite holiday. I don't know why, but something about it has always captured my imagination. Maybe it was the excitement of all the parties and family gatherings; maybe it was simply a cookies and chocolate-fuelled haze of excitement over having ten days off of school. Maybe it was something more. Something intangible and inexplicable that flavours the fourth week of December with a satisfaction and euphoria that no amount of candy can provide.

My family, as with most things, has always been heavy with tradition around Christmas time. Heavy on togetherness, heavy on celebration, and of course, heavy on food. The holidays brought with them an onslaught of dinners: Christmas Eve, Christmas Day, Boxing Day, New Years Eve, and New Years Day. Ham, turkey, scalloped potatoes, salads, and every type of pie known to man. Had I not been blessed with a metabolism bordering on thermonuclear, I'm sure I would have gained twenty pounds in those ten days.

Christmas represented a lot of things, but chief among them was family. All of the dinners were full extended family affairs, usually with my father's side. It was customary for them to include about forty people, pushing the capacity of our 1200 square foot home. If there was one time in the year that we were assured of seeing our cousins, aunts, uncles, grandparents, and long-lost estranged relatives we had never met before, it was Christmas. Beyond that, we planned a lot of activities within our immediate family. Every year we would do advent strings of gingerbread men to count down the days from December 1st to December 24th. As the six of us sat around the dining room table armed with sprinkles, raisins, chocolate chips, and about five pounds of icing, it was understood that none of us would escape the room without icing in our hair and chocolate stains on our clothing. We baked and iced cookies together, and hand-dipped chocolates together. We drove around the city together looking at Christmas lights, and put together treat trays of baking for friends of our family.

Chief among the traditions was the stake nativity pageant. It started out being our ward only, and I remember the first year it ran. I played a shepherd boy, and was outfitted with a fake beard that was so difficult to remove at the end of the night that I think it took three layers of skin with it. My family tried to get involved every year, although in later years that became more difficult due to the growing number of people wanting to play a part. The one constant was my father. A trained light & sound technician, he handled the technical end of the pageant for nearly fifteen years straight. His thanks for spending every night of the week before Christmas huddled in a freezing cold, four foot-square wooden box perched atop a rickety tower of scaffolding was the assurance that he would not get home until at least ten pm on Christmas Eve, missing the huge dinner and most of the festivities. It never seemed to bother him. As a child it used to bother me somewhat, but as an adult it stands as one of the best examples of service I have seen; and an indicator of the kind of giving that Christmas seems to squeeze out of even the most resistant of us.

I am reluctant to admit that while I recognize the opportunity to use the holiday as a way to reach out and support others or to give to those who are in greater need than I am, it is still the selfish indulgences of spending time with my own family doing the little things that define our Christmas traditions that matter to me the most. I look forward to the family outing to see the nativity pageant on Christmas Eve. My family no longer plays a part in the production, but we go to see it every year. I can't wait to see my childrens' faces on Christmas morning as they try to contain the excitement of opening their presents; of which I'm sure there will be far too many. I know I will enjoy the late night discussions with my wife and parents as we sit around the living room by the light of the tree and discuss the ills and joys of the world over cookies and hot chocolate. It will be a time for catching up with friends I rarely see, enjoying a rare opportunity to spend some quality time with those that I do see regularly, and making the most of ten whole days with my family, away from work and the demands of everyday life. I can't wait....

The Firing Line

2006-11-12T20:34:00.000-07:00

Anyone out there heard of the Waltons? They're a folk-rock group from Saskatchewan that enjoyed limited success in the early 1990s. I discovered them when they opened for Barenaked Ladies during the "Gordon" tour, and they pretty much put the ladies to shame. I saw them twice after that before they ultimately fell victim to the unyeilding blades of corporate music's production cost to album sales ratio. Their debut album, "Lik my Trakter" was brilliant. The second-last song on the album, "A Fine Line" seems strangely relevant for this weekend, specifically yesterday:

Maybe this doesn't mean a thing
Maybe it's just a stupid thing to think
about all the awful things in life
while I'm alright here

Nothing bad ever comes here
or grows out of the flat young lands of home
Just never leave and sure you will grow old
We'll grow old

Maybe I don't know a thing
Maybe it's just a stupid thing to think
about all the awful things in life
and I'm alright here

Nothing bad ever comes here
or grows out of the flat young lands of home
Just never leave and sure you will grow

I've got my rights to be me
I've got no fights to displease my soul
will never know the dis-ease of
standing in a line, a firing line
Standing waiting in a line, wasting my time
Oh, time....

Maybe I should learn some things
Maybe it's time I learned something about
all of the awful things in life
while I'm alright here

Nothing bad ever comes here
or grows out of the flat young lands of home
Just never leave and sure you will grow old

I've got my rights to be me
I've got no fights to displease my soul
will never know the dis-ease of
standing in a line, a firing line
Standing waiting in a line, wasting my time
Oh, time, oh time
It's not to late
It's not to late to say

I've got my rights to be me
I've got no fights to displease my soul
will never know the dis-ease of
standing in a line, a firing line
Standing waiting in a line, wasting my time

I have been so protected all my life. I have never gone hungry because my family was unable to purchase food due to supply line shortages or conservation efforts for a major war effort. I have never been forced to wield any weapon in anger, or to attack another human being with the intent of taking their life. I have never heard the sound of air raid sirens warning that people I know would soon be dead and the familiar streets of my neighborhood would soon be an unrecognizable mass of rubble. I have never huddled in a dark room underground with my family close by, hoping and praying that all of us would still be breathing in the morning. I have been so blessed, and so lucky.

I'm not sure what it is about Remembrance Day that moves me so deeply. I have always felt strongly about it, and those feelings were only reinforced when I was in France and saw the reminders of the terrible destruction of war firsthand. Even as a child, I remember being unable to really enjoy Remembrance Day very much because it always felt like a Sunday to me. Instead of playing, I always felt like I should be going to church or praying or something. I remember being bored in the Remembrance Day ceremonies, but still feeling like I needed to pay attention anyway.

As I grew older I began to understand the meaning of this day more clearly. I still at times struggle with the enormity of the sacrifice these men and women made. To go off to the other side of the world with the aching knowledge that there was every possibility that you would never come home is nearly unimaginable to me. The strain and urgency of having to fight for your life in a land you had never seen alongside people you had never met is something that I perhaps will never fully comprehend. I sit on my couch in shock watching "Saving Private Ryan", and it is absolutely beyond me that people lived the experience that I can barely stand to see on a TV screen. Even more amazing; the ones who survived came home and lived normal lives again. How could you put that all behind you? How could you just shove it aside and go to wife doing something as mundane as selling insurance or delivering the mail, when every time you closed your eyes you remembered watching someone explode into a bloody mist when they stepped on a land mine, or having to pick pieces of your comrades' bodies off of yourself after they found themselves on the recieving end of a mortar shell? Every time you washed your face, you would remember how long it took to remove the blood from you face after D-Day, when the doors of your landing craft opened and the three rows of men in front of you melted under a withering hail of machine-gun fire. Every time a car backfired, or someone lit a firecracker, you would jump in reaction. Even those who were not killed in Europe still lost their lives.

My wife and I took our children to a Remembrance Day ceremony yesterday. We wanted to go to one of the big gatherings at the Museum of the Regiments, but typically for our family, we couldn't get out the door on time. We ended up at a park near our home, where a small group of veterans had gathered to place a wreath. The area we live in was once part of a Canadian Forces base, and the development has been built around that theme. The park is called Peacekeepers park, and it features a life-sized broze statue of a peacekeeping soldier with a little girl, surrounded by a granite wall of names of all of the Canadian soldiers killed while performing peacekeeping duties. It was alarming how many names have been added to that wall this year. The group consisted of about a dozen elderly men and women, with most of the men wearing their dress uniforms. At first we didn't want to intrude, but we didn't have time to make it to another ceremony and I wanted my children to take part in something to show their respect. There was a brief service, then a wreath was laid at the base of the wall, and we observed our two minutes of silence. It was humbling for me to stand there with my privileged children in the company of these men who have given so much for our country and all that we enjoy here. My children seemed to recognize the gravity of the moment as well; I think it is the only time I can remember that all three of them have gone a full two minutes without opening their mouths.

At the conclusion of the ceremony, one of the veterans approached us to thank us for attending, and we countered that it was us who owed the thanks to him and his comrades. Our boys both said thank you to him as well, and he stayed to talk to us for a few minutes. The Bear noticed his medals, and asked him what they were. His eyes clouded over as he said "oh, these are from when I had to go and do a few things...." and his voice trailed off. The things that man must have seen. The things that man must have had to do. I am eternally grateful that because of the sacrifices these brave souls made, my children have never known those horrors. Because they were willing to pay the price for freedom, we live a charmed life today. We truly owe them a debt we can never repay.

Lest we forget.

Community

2006-10-25T01:12:00.000-06:00

I am alternately amazed, surprised, and sometimes a little alarmed at how many people I know in "real life" who also keep blogs. What is especially concerning about that whole situation is how seemingly easy it is to identify them, even though many of them don't use their real names. Most times it is simply a matter of seeing who has links to who's blog, and who is talking about how many kids they have or the new house they just bought. It's amusing really when you think about how many of us wander around in the blogosphere using code names for our family members and attempting to retain some degree of anonymity so we can feel at least a little bit like the things we're writing on these pages won't come back to bite us in the ass. Meanwhile, someone is sitting in their den not so very far away, reading through your entries and thinking smugly: "I know who you are..."

It hit home exactly how recognizeable we really are when a fellow blogger who has visited this page on occasion approached my wife at church on Sunday to tell her that I thought she (my wife, not the other person) was hot. (note to that person; I think she knows. Helloooo, we have 3 kids...) My wife, who lives more or less in happy ignorance of this blog, was a little taken aback. Not offended or anything, just a little concerned that her husband could be writing all kinds of crazy things about her on the internet. I decided when I first started blogging to just use my real name and get on with it. I mean, the way I see things, if I don't feel strongly enough about my views to attach my name to them, then what business do I have posting them all over the internet for other people to see? The potential problems arises in the fact that I have a family, and whatever I attach to myself also sticks to them. My wife is a very private person, so for her this was a little unnerving. I had to sit down with her and explain the purpose of the blog, (what is it again?) and try to put her fears to rest.

On one hand, I can understand her concerns. I also decided way back at the beginning that I would not make our kids' lives public, and in fact dedicated one of my early posts to the logic behind the decision. It still stands, and I don't use our kids' names in my postings, nor do I include any photos of them or my wife on this blog. (or my spiffy new flickr page) There are a lot of reasons behind this, first and foremost being that they have a right to their privacy. Besides, anyone who might be reading this who knows who we are already knows what we look like anyway.

Ultimately, we reach a point where the whole idea of blogging this way becomes a bit of a paradox. You're sharing experiences and situations that occur within your life and involve those who are dear to you in quite possibly the most public forum on earth, yet at the same time you are trying to keep them a secret. Makes sense eh? The truth of the matter is that if you know me, you know my family. Still, I feel a sense of responsibility to shield them from the prying eyes of those who would do them harm or use their images for inappropriate purposes. I am quite sure that any predators out there looking for kids to target aren't going to be spending a lot of time reading blogs like this one, but sadly in today's world you can't be too sure. My kids are too important to me for me to expose them to something that I am anything less than 100% positively sure about. They'll do enough of that on their own when they get older, so I'm going to try my damndest to keep them innocent for now.

The funny thing about it is that most of the other blogs I read are written by people I either know or used to know quite well. Others are acquaintances or friends of friends. A surprising number of them live in the same city as me, some within a few miles. You would think that instead of spending a bunch of time in front of the computer reading about their lives, I would just pick up the phone and call them, right? Wrong. That isn't how it works. We are much more inclined to be honest or forthcoming when we write. I don't know exactly why, but most people have no trouble writing things that they would never dream of saying to someone's face. That's why journals are so effective, and why people return to these pages day after day to find out what new epiphany has just blessed the thought processes of their friend three doors down. Through reading blogs, I have learned things about people that I never would have expected, and I'm sure that they have learned at least as much from mine. (like, for instance, that my wife is a supreme hottie)

Curiously, it all leads to a strange sort of fellowship. You check up on people and read their posts to see what's new with them. You are concerned when they seem down, happy for them when they seem up, and you wonder if they're OK when they don't post for a few days. The simple act of pouring one's thoughts out through a medium singled out by many as cold and inhuman can actually bring people much closer together than they would have become communicating by conventional means. Blogging develops a sense of togetherness; of being a part of a group and participating in something much larger than yourself. It provides an outlet for expression, while allowing others a tiny window into your life. It's up to you exactly how large and how transparent you want that window to be.

I wonder sometimes how long I'll keep doing this. I've tried to keep journals before, and never had much success. In fact, this is the most regular journal I have ever kept. That alone must be worth something. Even when I'm not writing though, I'm still reading. There are good people out there living good lives and having good experiences, and it's a privilege being allowed to share in them. I'm sure those people know who they are......and so do I.

Giving thanks

2006-10-05T11:30:00.000-06:00

My family is heavy on traditions. Some last for a few years, some a few decades, some for generations. Some are timeless, some suitable only for a specific frame of our lives or a certain reoccurring situation. The only thing that is constant with them is the ongoing struggle to incorporate them into our increasingly busy, ever divergent lives.

My family began the Thanksgiving weekend Waterton camping trips while I was on my mission. In this part of the world, October in the mountains usually mean snow or at least cold and probably a lot of wind. When they sent me the pictures, I found myself asking myself why on earth anyone would want to camp at this time of year. The Thanksgivings of my childhood were warm, celebratory affairs laden with turkey and pumpkin pie in quantities that bordered on obscene. Due to a strange convergence in our family, we usually ended up focusing on the dessert aspect of the holiday. My birthday usually falls within a week of Thanksgiving, so my mother would make a black forest cake to go along with the pumpkin pie. As if that weren't enough, my brother hated pumpkin pie so my mother would bake him an apple pie. My Grandmother, not wanting to be left out, would usually come to Thanksgiving dinner with several pies of her own; usually of the cherry, blueberry, or mincemeat variety. When coupled with the gargantuan turkeys my parents cooked, Thanksgiving Day usually turned into Thanksgiving Week at our house, at least on a culinary level.

After the decadence of years of these overwrought dinners and their whipped-cream topped conclusions, the idea of going camping on Thanksgiving signalled a paradigm shift in my family's mentality. Granted, by this point my Grandparents had passed away and the whole idea of the large extended-family dinner had faded away somewhat. Still, it seemed strange to see photos of my family hiking in a snowstorm when they should have been gorging themselves on pie in front of the fireplace. It was almost unbelievable that they would be off on a camp kitchen eating chips and hotdogs instead of turkey, mashed potatoes, and the usual litany of vegetables & salads. Times had very clearly changed.

It surprised me again when they went camping again the following year, and I began to realize that perhaps the Thanksgiving camping trips were not just a blip on the radar. By the third year, I was home and actually looking forward to seeing what made these late-season excursions so appealing to them. As it turned out, it would completely change the way I thought about Thanksgiving.

The weekend itself was more or less miserable. It was freezing cold and rained the whole time, which is pretty much what I was expecting. I slept in the back of the Suburban with my brother, and it was extremely uncomfortable. By the end of the weekend I was thoroughly exhausted and had caught a cold, but it had surprisingly been a lot of fun. The food had evolved into a respectable albeit somewhat downsized Thanksgiving feast, prepared with the help of the propane stove & oven in the trailer. The cake and pies (only pumpkin this time) had been prepared in advance and were just as good as I remembered them. We spent the weekend walking around town, going for hikes, and riding our bikes. It was the best weekend I could remember having in a long time.

That was 1997. Every year since, we have tried to spend Thanksgiving weekend together as a family in Waterton. When I think about it now, it makes nothing but sense. A holiday devoted to the idea of giving thanks for the good things in your life should be spent in the midst of the most important of those things. Even the location could not be more perfect. With my family's long history in Waterton, there is no other place on earth I would rather be. It's a perfect place to celebrate togetherness.

There have been changes over the years. Sleeping in the Suburban went the way of the dinosaur and we tried our luck with tents. Three years, two wind-shredded tents, and one torrential downpour later, we abandoned the tent idea as well. In later years, once spouses and children entered the picture for some of us, accommodations changed yet again. Some of us brought our own trailers, and some of us stayed at a bed & breakfast in Mountain View where we would still be within a 15 minute drive of the park. Making the weekend work required some flexibility, but we did our best to work things out. We missed one year completely when my mother was sick in the hospital, but rebounded the following year.

The weekend spawned some offshoot traditions of its own. One of the earliest was a family hike, born out of my mother's impressive determination. The very first year they went camping, while I was still in France, my mother grew tired of the grumbling of a certain sibling who was not impressed at being confined to the trailer for the weekend and marched the entire family up the side of a mountain in the middle of a blinding snow storm. The story became a part of family legend, and the hike was repeated every year regardless of weather. In 2000, I invited some friends to join us for the hike and they came up for the day to meet us. One of those friends was a woman who would become my girlfriend a week later and my wife within a year.

The mountain biking also took on a life of its own. My brothers and I started making an effort to go for a ride every year on one of the three trails in the park that are open to mountain biking. The first year we tried Akamina Pass, and ended up riding through a foot of snow trying in vain to stay on the trail. We had so much fun that we decided to make it an annual event. The "Fall Ride" began to be a focus for us, and our numbers grew as friends and roommates would make the trip down, even if only for the day, to join the ride. Our crowing achievement was in 2002, when we rode all three trails in a single day.

In 2003, we added another element to the weekend. I had recently taken up golf and wanted my brothers and my father to come with me. We went to the Waterton golf course and shot a round of nine holes, the last three of which were in the middle of a developing snow storm. (see a pattern here?) We all shot horrible rounds, but we had a great time laughing at each other, and the Turkey Cup was born.

As great as these weekends were, they were not without their problems, and the Thanksgiving weekend tradition almost did itself in on more than one occasion. Bad weather, close quarters, and personal complications almost killed a few trips in very ugly fashion, but we always seemed to be able to work things out. It wasn't until recently that an additional strain began to appear as the weekends began to become victims of their own success. My parents told some people in their ward about our family tradition, and they liked the idea so much that they invited themselves along. Then they told their friends how much fun it had been, and the next year we had half the ward camping alongside us. The weekends began to lose their ambience and took on a life not dissimilar to the chaotic throes of a ward campout. People began pressuring my parents to plan meals together, and trying to coordinate activities that 40 people would enjoy became a headache rather than an enjoyable weekend together. Of course, since my parents had started the trend, it was assumed that they would also spearhead the planning. It seemed to us that people were missing the point completely. Our fun "family" weekend had become a huge overblown production, and finally, exasperated, my parents decided to pull the plug on the whole thing.

Last year, there was no camping trip. We stayed in Lethbridge and broke routine completely. There was no hike, no Fall Ride, and we played the Turkey Cup at a crowded golf course near my parents' home. It felt all wrong. We left feeling like we had missed something; it had been nice to see our families, but the weekend just hadn't been the same. Thanksgiving had lost its lustre.

This year, we're starting over. There may or may not be a Fall Ride, a hike, or a Turkey Cup, but we will be camping in Waterton. If there are other people there, they will be there on their own and won't be part of our group. We're returning to the roots of our tradition; going back to the things that matter. I'm glad that we are resuming the tradition. It is important to me, and it's something I want to pass on to my children as well. There are precious few times during the year that enable you to really stop what you're doing, take a step back, and appreciate what you've got and where you came from, and I'm glad that we aren't going to let that go. Tomorrow night we will back our bags, load the car up way beyond capacity, and head for the hills. I don't know exactly what we'll do all weekend, but I do know two things for sure. We'll have a lot of fun, and it will probably snow.

My wife is HOT.

2006-09-29T17:04:00.000-06:00

It may seem shallow and sexist for me to say, but I love that my wife is a supermodel. I was never realy the guy to want a trophy wife; in fact for years I maintained that I would never marry at all. It was just happy circumstance that the woman I fell in love with happened to be uncommonly beautiful.

last night, she was on her way up to the airport to pick up her brother, who needed a place to stay the night. On the way there, she stopped by to visit me at work and brought me a slurpee. I have to admit, it made me laugh how pretty much every man in the room stopped what he was doing to watch her walk by. Yup, she's a supreme hottie.

I'm still not sure what I did that somehow landed me such a gorgeous wife, but I'm glad I did it. Wow, she is spectacular.

Mercury morning

2006-09-28T01:26:00.000-06:00

The glass felt cool and impossibly smooth against his forehead; a perfect plane of resistance for the turmoil inside his head. Beyond the window and far below, the lights of the city hung shimmering in the darkness, like tiny tarnished beacons dancing in the sultry depths of the early July morning. Watching them ebb and twinkle through a haze of sleep-deprived exhaustion, the man realized with a sense of resignation that he had literally and figuratively outstayed his welcome. It was time to go home.

The tiny apartment with its fantastic view of the city centre did not belong to him. At that particular moment, he was no longer sure he really knew the person it did belong to at all. It was three a.m, and he felt for all the world as though some malicious, unseen giant had taken his body in one of its massive invisible fists and begun to squeeze. As he struggled to shake off the feeling of oppression that threatened to settle over him and leave him helpless against the window, he turned his head slightly and suddenly realized that she was still standing in the corner of the room. As his eyes caught the reflection of her thoughtful face looking after him from behind a tangled mass of blonde curls, he felt the bottom of his stomach flip-flop with uncertainty. He had been in that apartment for far too long.

She was the reason he was there. In fact, she was pretty much the only reason he had done much of anything in the past three weeks. She had taken him by storm, and had made each day seem new and exciting. She seemed to understand him, and he had responded to that quickly. Maybe, it seemed now, a little too quickly. It had been difficult not to: she seemed to instinctively know what made him tick. Music, literature, film, art; even sports. It had been a long time since he had felt a connection to someone that had been so immediate, and he had allowed it to take flight right from the first encounter. Now it was all coming to an end.

Reluctant to leave the window as though the city would vanish into the night once he was no longer there to watch over it, he slowly lifted his head from the glass and exhaled heavily. It was difficult to accept, now that he realized that there was no future in any of it. In one evening, the possibility of anything lasting had evaporated with the last rays of the setting sun, filtering painfully away to the sound of a three piece jazz band playing in the basement of a little-known restaurant somewhere between the downtown buildings that he was watching now. For her, the experience of the initial encounter had apparently run its course, and her interest had migrated to the tall blond man playing the trumpet on that tiny stage, almost obsured by the cigarette smoke swirling below the poor lighting.

He turned away from the window and looked back at her, his eyes heavy with both sleep and disappointment. Even now she looked like an angel; the delicate features of her face looking somehow softer as her eyes followed him silently across the room towards the tiny kitchen counter. The apartment seemed still, as though a careful balance hung between its walls like the tension on a body of water that one dared not disturb. Only the quiet, mournful strains of Lisa Gerrard's "The Mirror Pool" filled the space between them; the perfect soundtrack for a moment heavy with regret and unfulfilled potential.

As he moved retreived his car keys from the counter, the click of the metal as he lifted them into his hand seemed deafening and out of place. She looked at him questioningly, as though she wanted to say something but the words just wouldn't come. Instead, she sat down on the couch and stared at the floor for a minute, then cast her eyes towards his once more. It was all he could do not to be frozen in place. He could remember the last time she sat in that spot; so close to him that he could feel the rise and fall of her breath. He could remember the touch of her hand, cautious but playful, as she secretly entwined her fingers with his as their friends laughed along with the movie they had rented, oblivious.

As he reached for his boots, he remembered the last time he had left this place. She had followed him quietly to the door and waited until he had finished tying his shoes and stood to leave, and she had pulled him quickly towards her and kissed him. Something about that kiss would stay with him for a long time. It had been urgent, but not aggressive. Soft, but passionate. There had been something in that kiss that he had been unable to place; something intangible and indescribable. Now, as he struggled with his laces, it seemed a beautiful but excruciating goodbye.

He had been sure that this time would be different. Something about it had seemed so new and fresh, and unlike anything he had experienced before. Now it all seemed like a lie; like a cruel illusion of something that simply was not what it seemed. He was tired. Physically, emotionally, and psychologically tired, and he wanted more than anything to forget all of it. There was nothing else to say; no more apologies to accept and no more excuses to make. The cycle had simply run its course, and it was time to go.

He looked back one last time at that beautiful face and could sense the fatigue in her eyes. He knew that it had not been an easy thing for her to do, and somewhere deep inside of himself, he was glad. It would be a long time before he would be able to rekindle the friendship, and they would never be close the same way that they had been; but that was the way it had to be. With heavy eyes and a heavier heart, he wordlessly opened the door and stepped out into the hallway. It was going to be a long walk home.

Fall

2006-09-20T06:26:00.000-06:00

The sky is strange blue-grey today
more grey than blue, I think
Summer is dying in the air around me
its traces vanishing in the blink
of an eye

Seasons balance on a rocky cliff
the world is changing, I think
The trees are crying, their tears fall gently
their bony arms raised accusingly
at the sky

Mottled carpet blankets the earth
I can sense its spent life in my bare feet
Musically it shadows me with its crispness
fragmented thoughts of warmer days follow
close behind

I walk out into the trees, feeling
relief, pain, dread, apprehension, joy, life, and death
I feel time slip into rings a millimetre wide
My memories fade into blue-grey and I cry
yellow tears

I can feel the passing of the season, and
I am deathly afraid that the ground wll freeze
I bury my feet into the damp, cooling soil
raise my arms achingly to the sky
and wait for winter.

-September 24, 1994

Where are the words?

2006-09-19T02:40:00.000-06:00

I have had the worst case of blog aversion lately. For the past month, every time I sit down to try and write an entry I just can't seem to think of anything worthwhile to say. I guess it's one of those slow periods where I just don't have anything earth shattering to share.

It's not like things have been uneventful lately. In fact, the past six weeks have been arguably the busiest so far this year. Due to a co-worker being injured, I have been working ridiculous hours for the last month. On the few days that I haven't been required at the office, I have been out of town on other work-related projects. I have only had two weekends off of work since the middle of July, and one was spent in Medicine Hat and the other in Edmonton. I'm beginning to forget what my kids look like.

Apparently I'm not the only one having a hard time keeping my entries up. Several of the blogs that I used to follow have gone dead, so I have removed their links from my page. If I ever have the time to hunt for some new ones, I'll be sure and add them as I discover them. In the meantime, I'll keep doing my best to avoid having my own blog join the forgotten ones in the sucking void of cyberspace.

In the meantime, I have been underscoring my days with an incredible soundtrack: Imogen Heap's newest album, "Speak for Yourself". I highly recommend checking it out. I was introduced to Imogen's music about six years ago by a friend of mine, and was immediately impressed. Her first album, "I Megaphone", was a little uneven but still very good. Unfortunately, her label was absorbed into Sony and she was dropped.. After spending a couple of years as half of the critically-acclaimed duo Frou Frou, she decided to create her own label in order to produce her next solo album. Having total creative control over the music has yeilded some amazing songs. I've had the album for about a month now and it hasn't left my CD player yet. If you want to check it out, you can give it a listen here. You can actually stream the entire album from the link in the middle of the page.

Now that I've done my duty to pass along this vaulable information, I can feel myself falling into the "I don't really have anything else to say but this doesn't quite feel finished yet" trap. In the interest of not wasting your time, I'll wrap it up right here rather than drone on for another four paragraphs about things that may or may not be relevant. Enjoy the music....

Strangers in a strange land

2006-08-18T22:25:00.000-06:00

It is surprising how easy it is to unknowingly distance yourself from those who are closest to you.

I am a very lucky man. I have a wife who loves me, three beautiful children, a good job, and enjoy the comforts of what is for all intents and purposes a very good life. The problem with the equation arises when the different elements of that life collide. There is simply not enough time in the day to spend time at work, time with the kids, time with my wife, time fulfilling my other responsibilities, and still maintain a margin of time for myself. It simply is not possible. Sure, it would be easy to spend ten minutes watching TV with my wife and then cross that off the list, or to sit downstairs with my kids while they play on the computer and call that spending time with them. Unfortunately, it's not that easy. People, and relationships, need quality time.

That's where I run up against the wall. My job is extremely demanding, both in time and energy. When I work days, I leave the house at 4:45 am and I'm usually not back until almost 7 pm. It is absolutely draining to come home after a fourteen hour work day and still try to find energy to take the kids out to the park, play with them, clean up, and wrangle everyone to sleep. By the time I get home, usually all I want to do is hide for an hour to collect my thoughts then go to sleep, because I know I'm going to have to do it all again the next day.

The problems with this are numerous. One, I feel like I'm missing out on my kids growing up. I never wanted to be one of those dads who never had time for his kids, but as the weeks go by and the camping trips we had envisioned never materialize and the days I wanted to spend with my boys watching trains and eating junk food never seem to come, I slowly begin to realize that I am becoming the parent that I swore I would never become. Although I enjoy my job, it takes a lot out of me. I am also coming to the realization that it is also taking a lot from me.

I am fortunate enough to have a very good relationship with my wife. We don't fight, and in fact it's fairly rare that we even disagree over anything. Sometimes though, it's hard to keep from feeling like we've lost ourselves in our family. As exhausting as work is for me, watching the kids all day is equally taxing for her. By the time we get them to bed at night, we usually end up sitting in the living room together watching TV until one or both of us fall asleep. I miss the way things were before we had kids; when we used to go out and play tennis, or go running, or go floating down the river on the weekends. I miss jumping in the car and driving to Banff for dinner just because we felt like it, or going out to the mountains and going hiking for the day. We used to DO things. In fact, I very rarely used to watch TV at all.

I suppose that the changes come with the territory, and that once our kids get older and our finances aren't so tight we will be able to start doing fun stuff again. It's not like we never do anything, but we don't really have time for ourselves as a couple or as individuals anymore. Sometimes it starts to feel like we are in slavery to our children, existing for no reason than to change diapers, feed and bathe them, and make sure that they are safe and relatively happy. Although parenthood can be gratifying, it can also start to feel like it's slowly sucking your soul away. I can now understand how people say that they don't know what to do with themselves once their kids move out. You spend so long being completely focused on them, that once they leave home you no longer remember who you were before you had them.

I don't want to end up like that. I don't want to be fifty years old and end up living in an empty house with a spouse who barely talks to me anymore because we're both so damn tired all the time. I don't want to end up not understanding my children because I didn't have the time to spend with them that I would have liked. I want to be able to take them camping or up to the mountains for the day. I want to have fun with them and get to know them as they grow up. I want to be able to have a regular date night with my wife so we can stay close. I want to be successful at work so my family will want for nothing. Last but not entirely least, I want to have time to learn and pursue my own interests in order to retain what's left of my sanity. I don't want much......do I?

So what's the solution? If I knew, I wouldn't be writing this right now. I suppose it becomes a question of prioritization, and of setting some things aside in order to make time for others. Cruelly, it seems that there is no easy balance to be found. All I know right now is that I am not willing to let my family fade away into the background while I try to figure it out.

Souviens-toi

2006-08-15T10:19:00.000-06:00

With all the fighting in Lebanon and Israel over the past month, we have been inundated with pictures and video of bombs dropping, roads and bridges in ruins, and buildings collapsing. People crying, people screaming, people shooting at each other. It leaves me to wonder if humanity will ever wake up to the reality of its unbelievable inhumanity. If anything, it seems to me that if there is one thing that human beings are incredibly good at; it is killing one another.

Conflict is not new. In fact, it has been around since the first handful of people on this earth; given a violent birth at the hand of Cain as he slew his brother Abel. Not much has changed since. Although I do not have a personal stake in the war in the middle east, it bothers me all the same. I find that I am increasingly disturbed by people's ability to rationalize violence, death, and destruction.

My wife and I have often spoken about the need to educate our children about the horrors of war and those who sacrificed their lives in the hopes that we would never have to experience them. Remembrance Day occupies a place of respect in our home, and both of us agree that it should never be celebrated as simply another day off of work or school. As the generations change and the veterans of these battles pass from this world, it becomes increasingly easy to forget the atrocities committed during the great and terrible wars of the last century. We must not allow this to happen. It has been said that those who ignore history are doomed to repeat it; and this has never been as true as when speaking of conflict.

Perhaps I feel more strongly about this than most North Americans because I have witnessed the wreckage of the second world war firsthand. I have seen the blackened bunkers and the bombed-out buildings, and have gained an understanding of the psychological scar that blankets the mentality of anyone who is old enough to remember the fighting. I have stood before the memorials and walked among the endless rows of white crosses, overwhelmed by the number of them. I have visited Oradour-sur-Glane.

Oradour is quite possibly the most disturbing thing I have ever seen. A tiny town on the banks of the Glane river in south-central France, Oradour was the site of a savage attack by German forces on the morning of June 10, 1944. Four days after the D-Day landings on the beaches of Normandy, the German forces were reeling and struggling frantically to send re-enforcements to the front. The French resistance forces, sensing a shift in the balance of power, began intensifying their efforts to prevent the nazis from regrouping. Somehow, the Germans received intelligence reports that a resistance cell was operating out of Oradour-sur-Glane. Fuelled by the frustration of the defeats at Normandy, their retaliation was swift and brutal. They rounded up every man, woman, and child in Oradour and initiated a massacre. The men were separated from the group and brought to the village square, where they were surrounded by German forces and systematically executed. The women and children were locked in the church, which was set on fire. The Germans maintained a perimeter outside the blazing building and shot anyone who attempted to escape. Not satisfied with the carnage they had already caused, the German forces destroyed the public tramway, looted the municipal buildings, and burned the entire village to the ground. When it was over, 642 civilians had been slaughtered.

The village has been preserved as a war memorial, and it is striking. Blackened walls stand solemnly over empty doorways, and the rusty rails of the tramway still lie embedded in the crumbling stone streets. Even on a sunny day a feeling of dread hangs heavy over this place, as if the earth itself is ashamed of what happened here. The rusting hulks of old cars still dot the sides of the roadways, and an interpretive building contains the only remains of those who once made their lives here; pocket watches, clothing, dishes; a child's doll. The entire village has been preserved exactly as it was found as a reminder.

I will always remember how I felt as I walked along those ravaged streets and stood on the same ground where hundreds of men were senselessly gunned down. I still fight back tears as I remember stepping into the charred nave of the tiny church. The pockmarks of bullet holes dot the walls and altar, telltale signs of where the Germans fired repeatedly and indiscriminately into the crowd of women and children in order to subdue them as they set fire to the building. The arched vault of the roof turned the building into an oven, and the resulting inferno was so intense that it melted the bells in the tower above. The bells remain there today, strange and unnatural blobs of copper sitting in the corner where they landed. Perhaps the most heart-wrenching element of the whole awful scene; the rusted frame of a baby carriage sits twisted on the floor before the altar, a poignant physical indication of the extent of the atrocity committed here.

The signs erected at the gates of the village are graven with the words "Souviens-toi", or "Remember". As I left Oradour that day, I was certain that I would never forget.

So what now? Even as I sit writing this, people around the world are being bombed, shot, blown up, or tortured. It seems we never learn. All we can do is to mind ourselves, curb our hatred, and begin each day with the honest intent to do good to our fellow man. There are those who will never follow suit, but the path to change starts in our own homes. We must do all we can.

If you want to visit Oradour-sur-Glane, you can do it here.

Living the dream

2006-08-10T23:21:00.000-06:00

There is something to be said for being in the right place at the right time. Yesterday I had the opportunity to be part of something that has only happened twice in the past eighteen years; a manned pusher operation on the east slope of Rogers Pass, BC. While some of you may take this opportunity to let out a disinterested yawn, for me this was the Mount Everest of experiences. In order to understand why, perhaps a little history is in order.

The Canadian Pacific Railway was originally expected to be built through Yellowhead Pass, west of what is now Edmonton. Had this alignment been followed, western Canada would likely look a lot different today. When the Canadian Government learned of the proposed route, they feared that building the line so far to the north would leave the fertile southern reaches of the prairies open to attack and possible annexation by the United States. The CPR was obligated to choose a more southerly route through the Rockies via Kicking Horse Pass. This complicated matters on two fronts. First and foremost, the rugged valley of the Kicking Horse was by all accounts a terrible pass and presented the railway with a treacherous 4.5% descending grade as the line plunged westward from the continental divide. Second, the new route west of the Rockies would necessitate a crossing of the Selkirk mountain range; through which no known pass existed. Surveyors tried and failed repeatedly to find a viable route, until the CPR in desperation called in one of the most colourful characters in Canadian history: Major Albert Bowman Rogers. Although it took him the better part of two years to do so, Rogers ultimately discovered the pass that bears his name today. His findings came not a moment too soon; by the time of discovery the track laying gangs had already reached Kicking Horse Pass and the company was essentially building westward in blind faith that a pass through the Selkirks existed at all.

Rogers Pass itself is almost as legendary as the man who discovered it. It is wild and remote, and is one of the most savagely beautiful places on earth. Unfortunately, it is as unforgiving as it is impressive, and the railway would come to know its true nature almost immediately. Although Rogers Pass is technically a pass, as a transportation thoroughfare it is terrible. The grades were punishing right from the start, and the winters were terrible beyond imagination. Avalanches claimed dozens of lives and heavy snowfall paralyzed the line for weeks at a time. By the turn of the century, with the cost of operating over Rogers Pass mounting both in lives and dollars, the CPR decided to eliminate the problem by constructing a five mile-long tunnel underneath the summit. Completed in 1909, the Connaught tunnel was at the time the longest railway tunnel in the world.

Rogers Pass remained a formidable adversary. Although the worst sections of the line were circumvented, the snow was still just as heavy and the grades just as steep. From the mouth of the Beaver River west to Stoney Creek, the westbound grade was a torturous 2.2%. As trains grew longer and heavier, CPR was forced once again to look for solutions. The answer was simple: more engines. CPR created a manned pusher district on the east slope of the pass in order to assist the loaded westbound trains. Extra engines would be cut in at the base of the hill and would push the train westward up to the siding at Stoney Creek, where they would be cut off and return to the bottom to await the next train in need of assistance. In the 1970s and 1980s, the operation was spectacular. The Rogers pushers consisted of two dedicated sets of six locomotives, which would be cut into the train about 3/4 of the way back. Westbound bulk trains would usually have three locomotives on the head end and two mid-train "remote" helpers, and would still require the six-unit pusher in order to tackle the hill. With train weights approaching 14,000 tons, the eleven locomotives, yeilding a combined total of 33,000 horsepower, would use every bit of power they could summon to shoulder the tonnage to the top of the grade. Finally, as the mid-1980s brought yet another increase in train weights, CPR decided that the pushers had grown too costly and inefficient to continue to operate. They built a new alignment under Rogers Pass, tunneling for eleven miles under Mount Macdonald and Mount Cheops and effectively double-tracking the line. Hundreds of millions of dollars yeilded a dozen new bridges, a more manageable 1% westbound grade, and two new tunnels; one of which is still the longest tunnel in the western hemisphere. Due to the grade reduction, all westbound trains would begin using the new Macdonald track immediately. The old line became known as the Connaught track and remained in use, but only for eastbound trains that would be descending the grade. Although impressive in its own right, the new line spelled the end for the Rogers pushers and seemed to domesticate the once-forbidding pass. The Macdonald track opened in 1988, and the pushers, like so many stories of the pass they helped to conquer, faded into history.

In 2004, shifting rock in the Mount Shaughnessy tunnel forced CPR to close the new line for two weeks in order to stabilize the walls of the tunnel. Unable to squeeze 24 hours worth of trains into the twelve-hour window when the engineering crews would not be working, CPR was left with no option but to use the old grade. The pushers returned to Rogers Pass. They saw limited use, as the company preferred to use them only on priority trains and ran as many trains as possible during the window outside the tunnel work block. Two weeks later, the pushers were banished once more; presumably forever.

In July of this year, the rock inside the Mount Shaughnessy tunnel had again become unstable to the point that CPR once again had to undertake a massive repair project. Once again, the company was faced with the unpleasant necessity of running westbounds up the Connaught track. This time, however, it would be longer-term. The tunnel work would require between six and eight weeks to complete, and the twelve-hour work blocks would be extended as necessary in order to complete the tunnel work as quickly as possible. I had never witnessed a manned pusher operation and had to see it before it disappeared again, so on Wednesday a friend and I made the trip to Rogers Pass to see a piece of history in action.

I decided that I wanted to write an article about the pushers. (no, this isn't it) I have always enjoyed writing and have often dreamed of being published. I figure that there is no time like the present to start trying, so off we went in search of material.

We found the pusher set at Rogers and spoke with the crew, who referred us to their supervisor. As it turned out, I knew the guy and we ended up talking to him for over an hour. At the end of the conversation, we not only had the information we wanted but also an invitation to ride with the pusher crew up to Stoney Creek and back. Needless to say, it didn't take us long to accept.

I won't bore you with the details, but suffice it to say that the ride was a serious thrill. The train we pushed weighed in at nearly 18,000 tons, and I have never seen locomotives work so hard in my life. With the advent of modern technology, the engines now are much more powerful than they were in the 80s and it now takes seven units to move a train that previously required eleven. Still, the display of power is impressive. Standing on the walkways, I could feel the engines shake as the wheels fought for traction, and I could feel the heat from the exhaust even though it was several feet above my head. The four units pushing for all they were worth made a sound something like jet engines at full power, and it was absolutely deafening. When I walked past the cooling intakes for the radiator, the air was being drawn so hard that it began to suck my clothing towards the intake grilles. It was the first time I have ever been on a train and been able to truly understand the force that is required to defy gravity by moving heavy tonnage up a mountain grade. It was almost like I could sense the inertia in the train, as if the cars were leaning back against us, waiting for an opportunity to roll back and crush us for attempting to force them up the hill. It was, in a word, humbling.

On the way down, the crew told us about some of the changes over the past twenty years. Both of them were veterans of the original pushers, and had plenty of stories to tell. When we reached the famous Stoney Creek bridge, they stopped the engines so we could get out and take some commemorative pictures. That's me on the front of the unit, with 17,600 horsepower rumbling behind the cab and the ground about 325 feet below me. It really did feel like I was on top of the world.

I know that most of this will be lost on a lot of the people who read this, and that's assuming that someone actually will. To that end, let me express my appreciation if you actually made it this far. To you it may sound about as exciting as a full-day marathon of Engelbert Humperdinck music videos overdubbed in Portuguese, but for me it was once more thing I can now cross of the list. Not only was it cool and fun, but I was lucky enough to be a part of history. Next week the tunnel will be not only repaired, but completely re-lined with reinforced concrete. The pushers will be gone again, and this time it is very likely that it will be for good. Even if that turns out to be the case, I will remember them forever.

Play-dough and pipe cleaners

2006-08-08T12:27:00.000-06:00

Heaven knows, I love my children. Some days, however, I don't like being around them very much. Yesterday was one of those days and today is shaping up that way as well. I'm not sure what causes it -maybe the lunar cycle or something- but every now and then they go on a tear for a few days and I absolutely cannot stand their behaviour. Truthfully, it's amazing that there haven't been any casualties yet.

My job is somewhat high-stress, and this past weekend was one of the worst I've had in a long time. Dealing with the fallout of three major derailments on very little sleep can be trying, and when you throw screaming kids into the mix the second you get home, things can get ugly really quick. It's not so bad when I'm on a cycle of night shifts because even on my days off, I have to stay up really late to keep my body in cycle. Those few hours to myself to unwind after everyone goes to sleep are golden, and they keep me sane enough to be nice to my kids again in the morning. When I'm on days, though, it is non-stop. To aggravate matters, in order to help take the edge off of the soaring cost of living in this city, my wife has decided to go back to work part-time. The great thing about her having her own business is that she can schedule her clients during my days off so I can watch the kids instead of sending them to day care. The bad thing about her having her own business is that she can schedule her clients during my days off so I can watch the kids instead of sending them to day care. I'm rapidly coming to the conclusion that I'm just not wired for this "Mr. Mom" stuff.

Today I was running around in circles trying to clean up the kitchen and make sure that nobody was lighting themself on fire when in desperation I threw three tubs of Play-dough and a handful of pipe cleaners on the table in front of them. To my amazement, they took them and actually started playing! Quietly! Together! Without fighting! I stood there in wonder and quietly offered up my thanks for the miracle I was witnessing. Of course, the spell was broken 30 seconds later by the ear-splitting sound of crashing glass as the Frog flipped over the table containing my wife's decorative storm lantern and send shards of broken glass into every corner of the living room. I guess nothing lasts forever.

Processed

2006-08-02T10:51:00.000-06:00

Cheese.

No matter how relevant it seems in your head, thoughts have a funny way of coming out all wrong. You think you're writing something deep and meaningful, but when you read it a few days later you are overcome with the realization that your supposedly novel and intellectual post could very easily find its way into an advertising campaign for the Dairy Producers of Alberta. It started out as food for thought, and it it ended as cheese. Worse than cheese, even. Cheez-whiz. Remember squeeze-a-snack? If not, you're lucky. (and probably in better health than those of us who do remember) It was a bright orange cheez-whiz-like product that came in a tube, and you simply squeezed the stuff out on to your crackers like toothpaste on to a brush. It was a plasticky, chemical experience (with no artificial flavouring or colouring, I'm sure) that was so far removed from any legitimate dairy product that it didn't even deserve to be called cheese. Sometimes, that's what I feel like I'm writing.

To exorcise the dairy demons and feel like a guy again, I'm taking a bit of a departure today. Something light-hearted, off colour, and manly. Yes, it's time for:

ADAM'S TOP TEN HOTTIE LIST

10: Lindsay Lohan. The girl can't act, can't sing, and is generally a train wreck, but she's pretty stinkin' hot. A date with this wild child definitely wouldn't be boring; just make sure your car insurance is up to date before you go. She was in three different car accidents in 2005 alone.

9: Jessica Simpson. Let's hear it for the only blonde girl on the list. The chick is intensely irritating, is completely devoid of personality, and has the IQ of a potted geranium. I can honestly say that there are only two reasons I can think of to like Jessica Simpson.

8. Eva Longoria. OK, so she's short, and vain, and conceited. She's beautiful, and her temperament is just fiery enough to be sexy. If the interviews I've read are anywhere close to accurate, she just might be the one actress out there who really is a lot like the characters she plays. Considering that the only character I've ever seen her play is the one on Desperate Housewives, this chick is a tiger.

7. Sarah McLachlan. I actually discovered her music watching the video for "Possession" because I thought she was hot. I still do. She isn't glamour-queen beautiful, but there is a mysterious attraction to her that absoloutely lights my fire.

6. Angelina Jolie. She might be higher on the list if I wasn't just a little bit afraid of her. I look at this woman and all I can think of is "wow". Then I remember that one of her hobbies is collecting knives for use during sex play and that she wrote her first husband's name in her own blood across the back of her wedding dress, and the wow factor finds its way out the window in a pretty big hurry. I wonder how Brad is holding up.

5. Sandra Bullock. This one almost didn't make the list because of an interview with her that I recently read that shed some light on her personality. I had always heard that she was super nice and down to earth, but Mrs. Monster Garage has some serious attitude. Then I remembered that this is a hotness list and being hormonally driven should be based on nothing more than looks. Jesse's girl gets the nod.

4. Natalie Portman. One of the purest beauties of our time, and she's brilliant as well. The whole Queen Amidala thing will undoubtedly spawn a new generation of Star Wars fantasies, but getting beyond that, the woman is gorgeous.

3. Kiera Knightley. She captured our hearts as the damsel in distress in "Pirates of the Carribean", then showed off her goods in the director's cut of "King Arthur". And what goods they are. This chick has it all. The face, the body, the personality, and lots and lots of money. Besides, English accents are hot. No yo-ho-ho here.

2. Anne Hathaway. I never really paid much attention to this one until I got dragged kicking and screaming to "The Devil wears Prada". Then I paid a lot of attention to her. The little girl from the Princess Diaries has grown up in a big way, and the results are spectacular. Unfortunately, (or fortunately, depending on your point of view) she has decided that in order to showcase her maturity as an actress, she must also showcase that fantastic body of hers. Graphic nude scenes in "Brokeback Mountain" and the straight-to-video "Havoc" have taken her career in a completely new direction.

1. My wife. You didn't really think I'd abandon the cheese, did you? Come on, I lived in France, for crying out loud. For those of you who know us, you also know that yes, my wife really is hot enough to be included on this list. For those of you who don't, well, I guess you'll just have to take my word that my wife is hotter that everyone else's. Points for personality too; after all, she has to put up with me not being able to keep my hands off of her. After three kids in five years, the woman has proven her patience and her inestimable worth. A keeper for sure.

There you go. Hotties, I salute you. *insert "schwing" sound effect. Now if you'll excuse me, I uh, think I hear my wife calling me.....

And the winner is.....

2006-07-30T01:34:00.000-06:00

OK, I admit it. Sometimes I dream of being rich. It's not that I'm unhappy with my life; heaven knows I've got more than a lot of people do. Sometimes, though, I wonder what it would be like to be fricking loaded. Not just well off, but blue-blood, spit in your face, bring-the-rolls-around-front-please-Jeeves rich. I wonder if the money would change me, or even if I would know what to do with it all. I wonder about the pitfalls and benefits that would come with having a bank account large enough to finance a small country for a year.
Sometimes, I wonder about it enough that I buy a lottery ticket. I don't buy them very often; usually only when I get frustrated with too many bills and not enough paycheques, or when the jackpots get ridiculously huge. Ten million dollars could make pretty quick work of those nasty student loans of mine.
I don't generally agree with gambling, and I'm sure that whatever I could say to try and justify the purchase would only be hollow rationalization, but sometimes I just don't care. It's not like I'm going to win or anything. For all intents and purposes, I might as well just flush a toonie down the toilet and be done with it. The average odds of winning a 6/49 jackpot are 13,000,000 to 1. I have read that your odds of winning the lottery only increase by one one hundred-thousandth of a percentile point if you actually buy a ticket. Yikes. For comparison's sake, the odds of being struck by lightning are only 576,000 to 1. From a theoretical standpoint, we can then say that you have a better chance of being struck by lightning 22 times than you do of winning the lottery once. In looking up that statistic, I discovered a lot of other things that are much more likely to happen to you than a lottery windfall. Some of my favourites are:

Odds of fatally slipping in the bath or shower: 2,232 to 1
Odds of injury from fireworks: 19,556 to 1
Odds of being murdered: 18,000 to 1
Odds of getting away with murder: 2 to 1
Odds of dating a supermodel: 88,000 to 1
Odds of spotting a UFO today: 3,000,000 to 1
Chance of dying in a car accident: 1 in 18,585
Chance of dying in a plane crash: 1 in 354,319
Change of being killed by parts falling off a plane: 1 in 10,000,000

In fact, it seems far more likely that you will perish in any number of ways than that you will ever reap the winnings of a lottery jackpot. I was amazed at how low the odds of being killed are. I guess my only consolation is that I am relatively safe from having a meteorite fall on my house. The odds of that are 182,138,880,000,000 to 1. If you like to play the odds, the full list is available here.
I guess I prefer to look at the lottery ticket in another way. Basically, it is a two dollar license to dream. You buy the ticket, and for the next three days you are allowed to create elaborate scenarios in your head about what you would do if you won. Would you quit your job? Move? Travel? Where would you build your home? What kind of car would you buy? Would you give it away? How much of it, and to who? My wife and I have spent three hour-long car trips talking about all the things we would do if we won. I have imagined time and time again how nice it would be to be able to pay off all of our parents' obligations and to give each of our brothers and sisters the down payment for their first home. We have discussed how we would set up trust funds for some of the people in our ward to help them out of difficult situations, and how we could actually donate to a lot of organizations that we would like to sponsor if we had the money. I have imagined buying my truck; a beautiful black-on-black 2006 Ford F-150 FX4, and surprising my wife one morning with a Jaguar XK with a big red bow on the hood.
Invariably, the day of the draw comes and I am forced to deal with the reality that I am still a poor working class stiff and that the only truck I will ever realistically own will be something that is ten years old and has a funny noise in the rear differential that I will never be able to figure out or fix. Sometimes, I don't even bother checking the ticket because I don't want the dream to end.
I guess if I'm honest with myself, I should just stop buying them altogether. It's nothing more than a waste of time and money. The again, what does it really hurt? Is two dollars every few months too much to pay for a little harmless escapism? I suppose that for some people it could become a real problem. I remember my father telling me about some people in his office that would take half of their paycheque every month and put it towards lottery tickets. I worked with a guy named Sean who played every week, every draw, of both the 6/49 and the Super 7. He was religious about the numbers he played too, and spent almost an hour one day explaining to my uninterested ears how he had a plan to beat the odds and maximize his chances of winning. I always looked at it from a different angle. I never choose my numbers; I just get one quick-pick entry and always avoid the money-sucking bonus numbers that they try and throw on there like "the Plus" and "the Extra". I figure that in a game that has chances as remote as the lottery, you're only going to win if you're really meant to win, and nothing you can do is going to influence the outcome one way or another. Who is to say which approach is the right one? To date, neither Sean or I have won.
I guess at the end of the day it comes down to a personal choice, and we all have to decide whether we are going to take the high road and just not play the game at all, or if maybe the dream is worth a silver coin after all. Maybe there are easier ways of getting rich. After all, your odds of becoming a professional athlete are 22,000 to 1, and the odds of dating a millionaire are a mere 215 to 1. Whatever your methods, I wish you luck in the pursuit....and remind you to remember where you got the advice from.

A curious balance

2006-07-29T01:58:00.000-06:00

It's strange living on the flip side of society. We grow accustomed to morning commutes and the traffic that usually defines them, morning rituals of self-preparation, and the seemingly mandatory early morning quest for caffeine. We get up with the sun, work through the day, and retire to our homes to enjoy our evenings before the darkness carries us back to sleep. Except for me.
Working nights has a way of turning everything upside-down. You wake up at noon, eat your breakfast when everyone else is having lunch, go to work as the sun goes down, and enjoy your bologna sandwich for lunch- at 3 am. You become attuned to the darkness. In fact, in the winter you rarely even see the sun. When I wake up at 2 pm, the day is already waning. By the time I shower and eat, the sun is going down. By the time I get to work at 5:30 pm, it is already dark. It is still dark when I return home at 7 am the next morning. After a few weeks I start to feel like a vampire. (without, hopefully, the insatiable urge to run around in a vinyl cape biting people's necks) Nights can really mess with your system. As long as I stay on a rotation, I'm fine. When I have to work night continuously, I run into problems. When I first moved to Calgary, I worked for an alarm company doing emergency dispatch. I was hired on for rotating shift work that was supposed to be two weeks of mornings, two weeks of afternoons, and two weeks of night, with every second weekend off. In the seven months I worked there, I never worked a morning or an afternoon, and I never had a weekend off. Not one. At the end of it I was so screwed up that I actually passed out and fell right out of my chair while at the office. Besides the embarrassment of walking around for the next month with rug burn all over my face, I was fine. My doctor, however, recommended that I find a new job.
Seven years later, the 24/7 nature of railroad operations has brought me full circle. This time, however, it's not so bad. I do get every second weekend off, and I almost never work more than two weeks in a row of nights.
Night shift gives you a new perspective. You begin to appreciate different parts of the night almost like you would appreciate certain times of the day. Granted, there are no power lunches or marathon meetings, but that isn't necessarily a bad thing. The Tim Hortons runs happen at 2 am instead of 9 am, but the donuts still taste just as good. The city itself is a completely different animal. Sometimes as I watch the last rays of the sun fade from the plate glass walls of Bankers Hall, I can almost feel it changing. The suits leave the core and hurry back to their $800,000 Elbow Valley homes, and the city's gritty underbelly begins to show itself. The homeless people reclaim the streets and stake out their territory as they scavenge for food or a place to sleep. Women in "work clothes" that don't exactly fit the office dress code fade in and out of the shadows. Kids in cars that are too fast for them to be driving peel out down 9th avenue, hoping to impress anyone who might possibly be watching.
As the night wears on, it becomes apparent that cities really do never sleep. They do slow down, but it never ceases to amaze me that even in the middle of the night, there is a surprising number of people out and about, doing whatever it is they feel like doing at 3 am. The rules are a lot more relaxed at night, and people do things they most likely wouldn't dream of attempting during the day. I've seen some kid who figured he was a DJ crank his car stereo and start a rave on the sixth floor of a parkade. It went on for almost two hours and he must have had over two hundred people dancing in there by the time the police showed up in riot gear and broke things up. I've seen people climbing buildings, trees, and lightposts, and witnessed a man walking precariously along the handrail of a bridge, balanced as though he was on a tightrope, seemingly oblivious to the fact that one slip would send him tumbling thirty feet into the river below. I've seen drug deals happen right in front of me and stumbled across a couple having sex on a completely exposed bench in the middle of Stephen Avenue. When darkness falls, it seems, the fabric of society endures a quantum shift.
There is an upside to the situation. I have always loved the dark, and find a sense a calm in the still of a summer night. When I lived in the mountains, I would often sneak out in the early hours of the morning just to feel the peacefulness of the darkness and the stillness of the air. It seemed to me as thought the world was resting along with its inhabitants, trying to recover a little bit before the onslaught of activity that would inevitably resume with the coming day. The city, although not peaceful in the same way, is still much calmer at night. I often make my way up to the higher floors of my building and look out on the city. After the bars close and the traffic dwindles, the world seems to slow down a little. Rainy nights are my favourite. The rain seems to have a muting effect on everything it touches, and the tops of the towers are hidden in the mist. From up on the twentieth floor, the streets seem faraway and empty. What little sounds remain outside are blocked out by two inch-thick windows, and clouds curl down over the buildings and give everything a surreal, hazy feeling. The city seems softer, and at times it feels almost as though it is exhaling; at last able to stop and relax for a few minutes while nobody is watching.
Morning starts out as a funny grey hue in the eastern sky that gradually lifts the blanket of darkness from the streets and alleys. Bit by bit it grows stronger, until the light begins to reflect itself between the towers. The canyons between the buildings cling vainly to the night, as though they are not yet ready to give up their sleep. From my desk, facing east, I can see the new day rising like an unstoppable storm. All across the city, people are preparing to return to the daily grind, groaning like gears in a tired machine as their alarm clocks call them back to a work of pressure and responsibility. Soon the streets will be alive with activity as they hurry to the office, minds already laden with the expectation of the day's work that lies ahead of them. Cell phones will ring, the marble floors of the office buildings' lobbies will echo with the footfalls of high heels and leather-soled dress shoes, and the lineup at Tim Hortons will reach epic proportions.
For me, I get to watch it begin. As the sky grows ever lighter, I get to see the first of them make their way into the core, park their cars in the ridiculously overpriced parkades, and resign themselves to another ten hours of servitude to their mortgage and car payments. I get to see their faces, sour and bleary-eyed, as they step mechanically from the c-train into the downtown core that will own them for the next twenty years of their lives. Really, it's not any different from what I'm doing except for the fact that they are doing it under the watchful eye of the sun. For some reason, sometimes that makes all the difference.
There is a sort of beauty to being able to watch the process without having to take part in it. It is interesting to see how the cycle works. There is a strange satisfaction that comes from being the one car on the other side of the road, heading home as everyone else goes to work. I have come to appreciate the morning more than I ever did before.
With every morning comes a sunrise. Some are unbelievable dramatic, and some are barely even noticeable; you just turn around and suddenly it's light. All of them have a beauty of their own made even more appreciable by the knowledge that you are witnessing a birth. You are watching the beginnings of a day that will shatter hopes and realize dreams. Lives will be created, and other lives will pass from this world. You are a part of a process that is much, much larger than yourself; a process that has repeated itself since the beginning of time and will continue long after you are gone. On this day, you have the privilege of observing that process as it unfolds. Have a good day.

-And there's a light in the eastern sky ... sunrise!
And there's no place a man can hide, the sunrise
Well, it buries the night, a brave new sunrise
With a sweep of the sword, a blood red sunrise!

-Icehouse, "Sunrise"

Elemental

2006-07-23T20:49:00.000-06:00

I love electrical storms. Some people find them frightening or intimidating, but I crave them. Nothing demonstrates the clear power of nature like watching the sky being assaulted with jagged bolts of lightning and feeling the ground shake under the impossible depth of a heavy roll of thunder.

Even as a child, I was fascinated rather than scared by electrical storms. The more severe the storm, the more I enjoyed it. I can remember coming upstairs from my room in the basement in the middle of the night to sit behind the plate glass dining room window and watch the spidery bolts of electricity dance across the sky. As I grew older, my affinity for the storms grew. I looked forward to them in the forecast and began to welcome the foreboding feeling of a darkening sky on a summer afternoon.

I'm not really sure what it is about them that appeals to me so much. I guess I feel like I can connect somehow with them. There is something very basic and primitive about feeling the rush of wind as the storm approaches, as though the sunshine and blue sky that were there previously are rushing to get the hell away from the coming monster. I can feel the excitement build as the tension gathers on the air and the clouds boil in anticipation. I can almost feel the electricity on my skin. When the sudden calm before the release settles over the city, I can feel a sense of relief, almost like an old friend has come home again.

I have done some pretty stupid things in my lifetime in the name of electrical storms. I have stood on the top of mountains in awe of the approaching thunderheads, unable to leave even as I felt the hair on the back of my neck stand up in response to the charge in the atmosphere. I have stood outside a tent on the side of an exposed mountain in the middle of the night, watching transfixed as the storm swept violently across the nearby ridges, ravaging the peaks with its white hot fingers and proclaiming its power in deep, concussive thunderclaps that I could feel right through to the centre of my bones. I had even gone out to meet the monster, getting on my bike in the middle of the night and riding up onto the highest hill in the city on order to get closer to the storm. In retrospect, I can't believe how foolish it was; riding around the very exposed top of the highest ground for miles on a large metal object. I might as well have been wearing a T-shirt that said "Lightning, strike me please" on the back. Although I shake my head now, at the time I had no feelings of hesitation whatsoever. It was almost like I knew that the storm wouldn't hurt me.

Early civilizations worshipped nature, and at times it is easy for me to understand why. It does not ask for your respect; it demands it. It is not a stretch at all for me to comprehend why people once believed that the elements were Gods. Although I do not subscribe to their pagan beliefs, I am nonetheless in awe of the power that is manifested by a storm. I can feel a strange sense of renewal when the sky releases a deluge of rain, almost like the world will be clean again when it is over. I love the tension in the atmosphere. Storms make me feel alive.

I remember one of my girlfriends once telling me a story that embarrassed her at the time, but to me captured the attraction of the elements in a primitive but poignant sense. She was from a small town on the prairies, where summer storms are often dramatic and severe. One afternoon she was home with two of her sisters, when the clouds began to gather in the west. She said that she could feel the air change through the kitchen window, as the sun fled helplessly before the tempest and the sky began to darken menacingly. Her parents were away, and in typical teenage fashion she had the stereo cranked. She was listening to Enigma, and as the storm began to build and the wind picked up, the song "Rivers of Belief" came on. Her sisters had come to watch the clouds as they boiled and churned into an inky black cauldron, and they migrated to the back yard to get a better view. She wasn't sure who the first one was to begin dancing, but before she knew it the three of them were lost in the moment, dancing as though entranced as the lightning flashed around them and the music seemed to meld itself seamlessly with the voices of the storm. The longer they danced, the more intense the approaching storm became. As if on queue, as the song ended a perfect calm descended over the town. The wind stopped, the air was still and deathly quiet, and even the distant rolls of thunder seemed to have vanished. Breathless, they stood there almost afraid to move as the clouds grew even darker and the stillness became almost oppressive. It was almost as though someone had somehow frozen the earth in place for a moment, and nobody dared to disturb the perfect calm.

With one drop of rain, the spell was broken. The wind returned with a gust that nearly sent her reeling, and the earth shook as the thunder seemed to rip open the sky. By the time she felt the second drop she was already running for the house, and by the time she reached the doorway she was drenched by the downpour that had swept like a wall across the yard, oblivious of anything in its path. She told me how she sat shivering behind that door for over an hour, watching the storm creep across the prairies until the sky began to lighten once more and a thin azure band appeared on the western horizon to indicate that the sun was in fact still there.

This summer has been thin on storms. Some years are better than others, and I guess it just hasn't been hot or dry enough to drum up any really good ones. Tonight on the way into work, the wind began to blow and the sky became heavy and threatening. I was hoping for a storm, but to my disappointment it never really materialized. We got about twenty minutes of rain and a few flashes, but nothing really dramatic. I hope we get another one soon. I'll be waiting.

The ghosts of 911

2006-07-22T00:15:00.000-06:00

Every generation has its touchstone event. World wars starting and ending, Presidents being assassinated, and Men landing on the moon. In my relatively short lifetime, there have been four events that stand out from the rest as being truly important. The first was in November 1989 when the Berlin wall fell. I remember seeing the news inundated with footage of ecstatic Berliners climbing over to one another and dancing precariously on top of the 12 foot-high barrier. I remember the touching but opportunistic "Peace on Earth" commercial produced days later for Coca-Cola featuring an East German and a West German passing roses to each other over the top of the wall. For a kid who had grown up with the suspicion and brinkmanship of the cold war, it was a shocking turn of events.
I would only have to wait another two years before the next big one. In August 1991, I saw the first of the only three emergency news broadcasts I have ever seen on television. They interrupted my programming to tell me that the leader of the feared Soviet Union, Mikhail Gorbachev, had been placed under house arrest and that the USSR was in a state of coup d'etat. It was the beginning of the end for communism, an ideology that I had always been taught to fear and eschew. I remember the strange look on my parents' faces when I rushed upstairs to tell them. It did not occur to me at the time that it was as unsettling for them as it was for me. None of us had ever known a world without the east vs. west political tension that had defined the global mindset for over 50 years.
The third major event was also responsible for the second and third emergency broadcasts. It was summer 1998, and I was languishing in the basement waiting for my girlfriend to call when the TV announced the breaking news that Princess Diana had been involved in a serious car accident and was in critical condition. Although it did not carry nearly the same impact as the other two events, I was nonetheless saddened when the second broadcast, about twenty minutes later, informed me that the Princess of Wales had perished.
Although these events all left an impression on me, none of them impacted me the way September 11, 2001 did. My wife and I had just moved from Montreal back to Calgary three weeks before, and I had only been back at work for about ten days. Just like any other normal morning, we woke up to the sound of Cjay 92's Forbes & Friends morning show. I had just gotten out of the shower when they started joking on the radio about how some idiot had just flown a plane into the side of the world trade center in New York City. They were reporting that it was a small plane, like a Cessna, and were poking fun at the pilot for what was unquestionably a gross navigational error. I remember shaking my head in disgust as I walked to the bathroom to brush my teeth while my wife went to the living room to check the weather channel. I heard her horrified gasp over the sound of the water, and walked quickly to the living room to see what the problem was. I came around the corner just in time to see the second plane, a Boeing 767, slam into the south tower of the world trade center. The north tower, hit 18 minutes earlier, was spewing thick black smoke from a gaping hole in one side. It immediately became horrifically clear that the plane in question had not been a tiny Cessna. We were watching something major.
The rest of the morning became something of a blur. The drive to work, usually the domain of lighthearted chatter, was punctuated instead by CBC radio's live news feed of the events in New York City. I don't remember a single word passing between my wife and I until I arrived at work. As we were pulling into the parking lot, the radio informed us that the south tower had collapsed. I felt as though my stomach had fallen with it, and wandered into the building in a somber state, wondering how on earth I was going to concentrate on anything else.
As it turned out, everyone else in the office was having the same problem. All of the websites for the major news outlets were inaccessible, having crashed under the crush of traffic as people tried to find out what was going on. One of the girls in the department had brought in a radio and began giving us updates as they were announced. Management comandeered the conference room, set up a TV, and spent the day rooted to CNN's live coverage. The rest of us took turns going in to watch, unable to focus on anything else.
What had started out as shock began to escalate into panic and confusion when we learned of the other planes. Suddenly the radio was announcing that another hijacked airliner had crashed into the Pentagon, and dozens more planes were unaccounted for. The United States government had called for every plane in North American airspace to be grounded immediately or risk being shot down. Information became unreliable, with several incidents being reported and then recanted afterwards. When the fourth plane went down over Pennsylvania, it seemed like the world was coming apart at the seams. The office was buzzing with rumours, concern, and agitation. Two employees in one of the other departments demanded to be excused for the day because they didn't feel safe. Suddenly Calgary was a potential target because of the predominance of the oil industry, and the local news proclaimed that a voluntary evacuation was in effect for the downtown core. My head began to spin. I felt sick when I witnessed the collapse of the north tower on live television.
For weeks afterwards, we were bombarded with images of destruction and suffering on a scale that North America had never seen. I saw the footage of that plane crashing into the side of the tower so many times I began to see it in my sleep. Osama Bin Laden became a household name, and words like Al Quaeda, terrorism, and war were on everyone's lips. Troops were on their way to Afghanistan to find and punish those responsible. North America was no longer a safe haven.
It was the only event I have lived through that truly changed the world as I knew it. When we opened our eyes on September 12, 2001, the world was a very different place from the one it had been 24 hours before.
I didn't realize how much it had stayed with me until recently. Years go by and memories fade, no matter how vivid and horrific they once were. 911 was no exception. Having seen it all rehashed and rediscussed ad nauseum on TV, it wouldn't surprise me at all if I had subconsciously begun to distance myself from it psychologically. It had become something to be remembered once a year, a reminder of the ugly side of a world full of uncertainty. I am somewhat ashamed to admit that eventually, I allowed it to become an afterthought; a footnote of history to be passed on to my children as a story of "I remember where I was when...".
Three weeks ago, I took my wife to see 'The Devil wears Prada". (obviously, she got to choose that time) One of the previews that night was for the upcoming Nicholas Cage movie "World Trade Center". In 90 seconds of celluloid, it all came flooding back. The shock. The anger. The crying, the emotion, and the devastation. When the trailer ended I looked at my wife and said "I don't think I'm ready for that yet". Obviously, stirring up emotion is what the filmmakers are aiming for, but I don't believe that what I felt was a result of clever editing and a stirring soundtrack. Nearly five years later, the events of that day are still a little too close to home for me to be able to enjoy a reproduction of them as entertainment.
Maybe I will never get to that point, and a part of me hopes that I never do. While I was watching that trailer, all I could do was look at the faces of the actors and think of how many families were torn apart that day, and how many lives came crashing down with those towers. How many spouses collapsed that night into a sleep that used to be shared by a loving husband or wife, and how many children cried for bedtime stories that their mother or father would never read again? How many people waited for days beside phones that would not ring, or sat vainly in front of their computers hoping for an email that would not come? How many people will never really know what happened to their loved one? To this day, there is still a margin of close to one thousand people between those confirmed dead and those suspected missing. For those people, it will never be OK.
I hope that I am able to teach my children a respect for the events that define the world they will grow up in and the lives that have been lost in those events. I want them to appreciate holidays like Remembrance Day and to celebrate them with reverence and gratitude. I want them to know that their freedom has been bitterly won on so many accounts, and that it is never, ever to be taken lightly. Although my heart tells me otherwise, I sincerely hope that they never have to live through a day like September 11, 2001, just as I'm sure my grandparents hoped that my parents would never have to live through another world war. Above all, I hope that they will grow to become good, responsible people who will do a better job of running this place than we have. History is full of examples of what not to do, and those examples are written in the blood of countless innocent people. I hope that I, and my children, never forget them.

The rocket's red glare

2006-07-21T01:27:00.000-06:00

Imagine, if you will, that you are nine years old and you know a kid named Lenny. Lenny is an average kid just like everyone else in your class, except for one thing. He has a younger brother who also goes to your school, and that younger brother is the most annoying kid on earth. He steals people's lunches, spits at girls in the hallway, wipes boogers on the other kids in the lunch room, and goes out of his way to disrupt everyone's games at recess. He's always trying to to stir things up and get a reaction out of people, and nobody else can stand him. One of the bigger kids in your class, Billy, hates Lenny's little brother. He is always threatening Lenny to keep his brother under control or suffer the consequences. The problem is that Lenny's little brother is not an easy kid to keep under control. One day he takes things a little too far and Billy comes to Lenny's house after school looking for him. Lenny answers the door and tries to explain to Billy that he is doing all he can to control his brother, but Billy isn't buying it. He has heard the excuses before. He insists that Lenny give his brother up to face the music for his actions. When Lenny can't or won't deliver his little brother to Billy, Billy loses his patience and beats the hell out of Lenny.

Like the schoolyard analogy or not, this is essentially what is happening in Lebanon as we speak. Israel has grown tired of hearing about how impossible it is to control the Hizbollah movement, which more or less rules the southern half of Lebanon. They want the terrorists contained, they want the rocket attacks to stop, and they want the soldiers that Hizbollah abducted returned immediately. Reasonable demands? In a reasonable world, yes. In the world we live in, they might as well be asking for the moon to be dropped into their laps. Since these demands aren't being met, they are shelling the crap out of Lebanon.

I have mixed feelings about this. As an admitted right-winger, I respect and understand Israel's right to defend its national security by striking against the organization they percieve to be the biggest threat against their country. I am, however, a little taken aback at the force with which they have responded. If they were actually legitimate strikes against military targets or known Hizbollah stronghods, I don't think I would have as much of a problem with it, but this is where the waters get a little murky. Hizbollah, like any good terrorist organization, knows that guerilla tactics are key in the war against an infinitely more powerful opponent. They also know that they are much more difficult to flush out when they are carefully concealed within a civilian environment. In what I believe to be a blatant disregard for their own countrymen, they have thus positioned themselves smack-dab in the middle of normal neighborhoods; places where people like you or I might live if we were Lebanese. Israel knows this, and has shown few qualms about launching massive airstrikes on these areas, putting large numbers of innocent civilians directly in harm's way. In Israel's defense, the innocence of many of these people might be called into question. For a terrorist organization to take such firm root over an area, there has to be a lot of support for their cause in that area. In other words, some of these "innocent' civilians may very well be responsible for helping the terrorists to disappear and aiding (either directly or indirectly) their initiatives. This is where it gets downright muddy.

So what do you do? Do you allow things to remain in stasis, doing nothing as your markets get hammered weekly by suicide bombers and guerrillas sneak across your borders to kidnap members of your armed forces? (who are, remember, more than likely only there because Israeli law makes it compulsory that every able man and woman serve between 24 and 36 months of military duty) Or do you fly off the handle and start bombing anything that moves, knowing full well that the vast majority of the casualties will be people who have nothing to do with the conflict? Obviously, Israel has chosen the latter approach.

Surprising nobody, the United States has sided firmly with Israel and even went so far as to use a UN security council veto to kill a proposal to enforce a ceasefire. Even Canada, a generally more moderate nation, has stepped up to voice support for the Israeli government, even though public sentiment may not be in agreement. Yesterday, we learned that Israel is now sending troops across the border into southern Lebanon to establish a "buffer zone". To me, this is where things start to stink to high heaven. The last time a country in the middle east invaded another country in the middle east, it was Iraq muscling its way into Kuwait. That time, the United States was on the way to the rescue within a matter of hours, chomping at the bit to put those dastardly Iraqis back where they belonged. This time, nothing. No troops, no helicopters, no patroit missiles; not even the threat of sanctions. Just a cordial "you guys solve your problem however you see fit, and we'll just sit back and watch the fun." Hmmm. No oil involved this time, I guess. Still, it seems strange to me that a country who loves to play the global policeman would just wash its hands of this one. It makes me wonder what they know that we don't.

In the meantime, my heart goes out to the people in Lebanon who are caught in the middle of this mess. In any war there will always be innocent casualties, but for some reason this one seems to hit home a little more. Maybe I've shaken off the video game-fuelled numbness for killing long enough to realize that just because "that's what happens in a war" doesn't justify the fact that there is a war in the first place. I understand that terrorism cannot be tolerated and especially not allowed to thrive. I can even try to reach for an understanding of how Israel feels justified in essentially razing a country in order to solve the problem. I just feel so badly for all those normal people who are having their lives torn apart by the fallout of a few really bad decisions made by a few really misguided people.

I wish that Hizbollah would just return the soldiers and stop launching their damn rockets. As George W. Bush so eloquently said to Tony Blair at the recent G8 summit: "We just need to get Syria to get Hezbollah to stop doing this shit and it's all over." That said, the soldiers are more than likely already dead, and even if the rockets stop then next week it will just be something new. As much as I feel for the Lebanese citizens living in fear of the bombing raids, I also feel for my great aunt, who lives near Haifa and has to stop and wonder every time she goes out in public if she will really be home in an hour with her groceries or if this will be the day some suicide bomber decides to take out the bus she is riding on. I cannot generate an ounce of sympathy for an organization that tries to further its cause by killing innocent bystanders, and it makes me angry when they try to justify it by writing those people off as "martyrs to the cause". News flash: nobody gives a damn about your cause, and if they do then they hate it so much they will bomb the living daylights out of everything within two hundred miles of you in order to stop it.

I wish that there were some way to stop these morons without hurting anyone. I know, I know; that has to be one of the most naive and full-on pathetic statements I've ever made, but it is true. This has got to be one of the most difficult and unfortunate events I've ever seen. I usually have an opinion about everything, and more often than not it's a strong one. This time, however, I'm on the fence. While I can get my head around the reasons for this happening, something about it just doesn't feel right. This from a guy who stood up and waved the flag with everyone else during the two gulf wars, who cheered Canadian involvement in Afghanistan, and who bought the weapons of mass destruction idea hook, line, and sinker and was upset that Canada didn't send troops to Iraq as well. Yes, hindsight is 20/20 and I haven't always been correct. I have always had something to say, however, and this time it pains me to say that this time I just don't know what to think. My western upbringing and resultant set of values and beliefs would lead me to side with Israel were it not for what looks to me like an all-out indiscriminate assault on ordinary people. It may not even be that much of a stretch to say that it seems like they are trying to fight terror with terror. When I see the images of destruction flood across my television, I feel uneasy. When I see photos of children, no more than ten years old, lying dead and dismembered at the side of the road after their car suffered an indirect hit by an Israeli missile, I feel sick. When I see Lebanese Prime Minister Fuad Saniora come on TV and beg -not ask- for the rest of the world to help stop the madness, I wonder what this world is coming to.

Shameless

2006-07-19T13:42:00.000-06:00

I don't usually plug websites, but this one is worth mentioning.

*Queue throaty info-mercial voice*

How many times have you been sitting in your car listening to the radio, thinking: "man, this stinks. They never play what I want to hear!"
What if you could hear the music you want to hear all the time? What if there was a way for the radio to analyze your music tastes and play only music that you like?

Enter Pandora. I'm not sure how it works, but it's pretty stinkin' cool. I've added it to my links in case you want to check it out. You just enter in the name of a song or an artist that you like, and it generates a playlist of music that shares similar elements with the song or artist you picked. The nice thing is that there is enough flexibility in the generator to provide some variation, so you're not stuck with all slow songs or all thrash metal. It's also a great way to discover some great new music in places you didn't expect.
A word to the wise-don't write something off until you give it a listen. Sometimes the generator will throw bands at you that you've never heard of, but the songs are actually really good. Sometimes it will throw you a bit of a curveball- I entered in Sarah McLachlan and it brought up Sevendust- but again, give it a listen before you hit the advance button. You might be surprised.

Happy listening.

Old Friends

2006-07-16T00:14:00.000-06:00

I am generally pretty picky about what I listen to. Music is a big deal to me, so I don't like to waste my time listening to crap. Not surprisingly, I have some pretty strong opinions on what does and does not merit my attention. In keeping with this theme, I am not generally a record store impulse shopper. Usually when I go to buy a CD, I know exactly which one I want and I purchase it and get the hell out. I am also not one to buy a $15.00 CD for one song. I research my possibilities beforehand and my typical rule of thumb is that if the CD has at least three songs I like, it's a keeper. If not, I don't waste my time with it.

Twice in my life, I have broken this rule. The first time was when I was attending University in the United States in early 1994. Having blown my entire student loan in the first semester mountain biking all over Utah and Colorado, I was forced to take a part time job as a night-shift custodian to cover the cost of my tuition. Since the job required me to be at work at 3 am, I would usually stay up late watching MTV then go to work. Late night MTV could be interesting. Sometimes it seemed as though they had wandered through the wasteland of forgotten music videos and started grabbing things randomly, then had assembled a play list from the jumbled fruits of the excursion. One night, however, changed my listening habits forever. It was about 2:30 and I was about to turn off the TV and leave for work when a video came on for a song called "Possession" by someone named Sarah McLachlan. The previous hour or so of programming had been rather uninspiring, and I have to admit that the only thing that stopped me from turning the TV off was that I thought that this Sarah chick, whoever she was, was drop-dead gorgeous. The video was half over before I realized that the song was pretty darn good too. When it ended I turned the TV off and went to work, leaving the video and the song to fade back into what I thought would be late-night MTV obscurity. It didn't. Two hours later, I was scrubbing windows with the chorus to "Possession" hopelessly stuck in my head. When I finished the windows and started in on the vacuuming, the song was still there. By then I was getting frustrated at trying to sing a song I only knew about ten words to, but when work ended at 7:30 that morning I was still singing it. I headed home to sleep, unable to push the song from my head. By 10 am I was still wide awake with the song coursing relentlessly through my brain and I decided that enough was enough. I went to the closest music store I knew of and tracked down Sarah McLachlan's CD, entitled "Fumbling towards Ecstasy".

When I got home and put it into my stereo, I listened to "Possession" about a dozen times before letting the disc play through. I was thoroughly disappointed with the rest of the CD and disgusted with myself for blowing fifteen bucks on one song. Oddly, though, I didn't take it out of my stereo. Over the next few days I found myself in one of those moods where you don't want to listen to any of your old CDs simply because you've heard them all before, and I wound up listening to "Fumbling towards Ecstasy" more and more just because it was new. Besides "Possession", the first song to catch on with me was "Circle". After that, it was "Wait", then "Plenty". It was like the floodgates had opened. Three weeks later, I realized that the CD had not left my stereo since the day I bought it. I was officially hooked.

When I returned home that spring, I tracked down Sarah's previous albums. I fell in love with both of them. She had become my favourite artist, and for the next year I lived and died for her music. Her songs seemed to be written especially for me, and it seemed that whatever I was feeling at the time, the music could relate to it. It was the first time in my life that I had discovered a music that truly connected with me. Leaving on my mission, I had to leave all of my CDs behind. It was like leaving family behind. For the better part of a year, I lived without Sarah McLachlan, although it felt like my head had become an extensive back-catalogue and I sang her songs to myself constantly. Finally, halfway through my mission, I cracked after a particularly difficult week and decided that I needed Sarah. It wasn't easy to find in southern France, but a dedicated search turned up a ridiculously expensive imported copy of "Fumbling towards Ecstasy". I bought it without hesitation.

Sarah's music had become very personal to me. I knew each of the songs like old friends and knew exactly which album to listen to depending on my state of mind at the time. Some of the lyrics became almost like mantras to me, giving me strength when I needed it. As strange as it sounds, her songs became almost like a soundtrack to my experiences. The copy of FTE that started it all remains to this day my most valued CD. Whenever I feel uncertain or unsettled, I can throw it into the CD player and it sounds golden. It has become like an old part of blue jeans; it is always comfortable and the songs just feel like they fit me.

When I moved to Calgary in 1998, I moved away from Sarah's music a little bit. I was in full swing with my own music and my own bands, which all favoured a harder style. Although FTE remained in heavy rotation in my stereo, it lost some of its prominence as my tastes evolved. By that time, Sarah was topping the charts with her new album, "Surfacing"; a fantastic album in its own right. Although it too would ultimately gain a place among my favourites, it never struck the same emotional chord with me that FTE had, and slowly I drifted away from Sarah's music.

When "Afterglow" came out in 2003, I rushed down to the record store to buy it but came away slightly disappointed. It is an excellent album but to me it seemed to be missing something. I began to wonder if maybe, after six years between albums, Sarah had lost her edge. In the end I couldn't decide if it was the music that had changed, or me. Although still beautifully written and inherently listenable, the music had lost its connnection with me. With no small amount of sadness, I relegated "Afterglow" to the M section of my CD collection and moved on.

Tonight I stumbled across a link in Wikipedia to Sarah's "World on Fire" video. When I listened to it, it was like I was hearing it for the first time. Memories of her previous albums came rushing back and suddenly I couldn't wait to get home and listen to some of them again. I missed the comfort that only a cold winter night, a good book, and "Fumbling towards Ecstasy" on repeat can bring. For the first time in my life, I signed up for someone's fan club. I am now a proud member of Sarah's "Murmurs" website. I'm not even sure what lead me to do it, but it felt a lot like the excitement you feel when you know you are going to see someone important again after you haven't seen them for a very long time. Maybe your lives don't fit together as closely as they once did, and maybe you have both continued to change and go your separate ways during your time apart, but you would be crazy to love them any less because of that. It's been a long time since that fateful February night when a crappy job and some late-night MTV brought Sarah to me. I'm glad she's back.

The second time I broke my rule was for Ginger's album, "Far out". Remembering my luck with the Sarah McLachlan CD and hoping that lightning would strike the same place twice, I purchased it the day after hearing the song "The earth revolves around you" on the radio. Although it still gathers dust in my CD collection, I think I have listened to it a grand total of three times in the 12 years I have owned it.

It's a Staaaaampede!

2006-07-13T23:59:00.000-06:00

Ah, Stampede week. That wonderful time of the year when the gutters of the city flow with spilled beer and the afternoon commute to work is fraught with the perils of avoiding the staggering drunks wobbling their way awkwardly down 9th avenue. The only week of the year when everyone in the city loses their mind, cowboy hats and wranglers come out of the woodwork, and restraint and sensibility are nothing more than distant memories. If it weren't so amusing watching people drool all over themselves as they vainly attempt to keep themselves from falling off the sidewalk, I would be completely disgusted.

I used to really enjoy the Stampede. I used to try and catch at least one concert at the Coca-Cola stage and spend at least one night on the midway (preferably with a girl or two) doing the ironman on all the scary rides. Nothing says "Stampede" like the taste of warm mini-donuts in your mouth, the sweaty-cool feeling of a July midnight on your skin, and the smell of puke and beer on your shoes. Yee-frickin'-haw.

Maybe I'm growing older, maybe I've calmed down, maybe I'm just a boring old married guy now, because none of it really appeals to me anymore. I haven't been to the Stampede in three years now; not even to see a concert. This is a remarkable turnaround from a guy who used to spend hours in the mosh pit and weathered a Bif Naked Stampede concert with grass in his teeth, mud on his clothes, and a separated shoulder from being dropped while crowd surfing.

Tonight we ventured out down 9th avenue in search of sidewalk hotdog vendors. The one thing that can be said about Stampede is that along with the the pristine stetsons and once-a-year western wear, it brings out an army of hotdog carts. Some are good, some are bad, some are really, really ugly, and others are mind-blowingly fabulous. The "diesel dogs", named for the fumes from the adjacent roadway that permeate the meat as it cooks, are a Stampede staple. The buns are doughy and always too small, the sausage itself is never fully cooked despite the astounding number of cuts and slashes it sustains to speed up the process, and the aforementioned mutilations inevitable lead to part of it falling off onto your clothing, leaving a nasty grease stain. It's not truly a diesel dog unless it is loaded up with onions, sauerkraut, peppers, ketchup, mustard, and relish, and you haven't really enjoyed it unless your fingers are covered with grease when you're done and you know that the heatburn is about to end when you feel the urgent and pressing need to take a dump. Eating more than one at a time is something reserved for a dare, and there had better be money riding on the outcome.

As I stood there feeling the diesel dog assaulting my digestive system, I looked around at the people coming out of the bar and trying to summon some sort of semi-coherent enough demand of the English language to hail a cab, I had to shake my head. Many of them were having a hard time staying erect enough to avoid being run over by the taxi they were trying to hail, and others were milling around looking for someone to take home with them, someone to fight, or someone to get them another bottle. I wondered briefly what the wreckage would look like in the morning, as they struggled through that last working day of the week trying to clear the alcohol-induced haze of the night before in time to go out and do it all again this weekend. At times it looked almost like a nightmare. Girls in too-tight clothing and cowboy hats wearing makeup that looked like it had been applied with a putty knife. Bleary-eyes guys wandering around trying to impress those girls by acting tough and casting menacing stares at anyone who ventured too close until the strain of keeping their vision in focus became too great. Cops standing in the street, arms folded, waiting for the next fight or the next accident. People dancing, people yelling, people swearing at each other, people crying, people fighting. For something that is lauded as the biggest party on earth, it sure didn't look like much fun to me.

People truly are a curious study. Many of the activities that society portrays as entertainment are destructive, demeaning, and potentially emotionally and physically dangerous. Stampede, the last glorious party, looked for all the world like a train wreck. I hope that the people out there know what they're doing. I think they're idiots, but I hope they get home safely. I hope that they know their limits, and if not then I hope that they will learn some restaint. I used to look forward to Stampede week; now I want nothing to do with it. My Stampede now consists of running the gauntlet of diesel dog vendors until my intestines can take no more. Maybe one day I'll take in another concert or take my wife to see the chuckwagons or something. Maybe for you, the Stampede means something different. Maybe for you, this is still the one week of the year you can't live without. Who knows, maybe you're one of the red-faced sucks I saw staggering around in the street tonight. Whatever your take on the whole mess, happy trails, kids.

Sleep, in all it's variations

2006-07-12T02:36:00.000-06:00

It is amazing how one simple act can represent so many different ideas. Sleep as a basic necessity is unremarkable, yet without it we suffer and are unable to function to the best of our abilities. Perhaps the regular need to perform such a trivial process has driven us to romanticize the idea of the act itself. Sleep is not just a means to recharge a physical plant; it is a fountain of creativity and a gateway to another world in which our dreams allow us to live an alternate reality. It is a source of energy and refreshment that cannot be found through any other means. It is perhaps the most intimate was of sharing oneself with a partner. Besides the obvious, more congniscent means of expression, what truly expresses trust as much as allowing another person access to ourselves when we are the most vulnerable? Sleep is the centre of so many things.

I can remember when I was younger what a thrill it was to have a girl fall asleep with me. More than the kiss or the first stages of physical exploration, to sleep in the company of someone I cared deeply about was to feel a deep sense of comfort and belonging. So many ideas, so much emotion, so many feelings. My favourite poem is a short one by Margaret Atwood, called "Variation on the word Sleep". For a woman who was so out in left field on so many things, she really nailed this one.

Variation on the word "Sleep", by Margaret Atwood

I would like to watch you sleeping,
which may not happen.
I would like to watch you,
sleeping. I would like to sleep
with you, to enter
your sleep as its smooth dark wave
slides over my head

and walk with you through that lucent
wavering forest of bluegreen leaves
with its watery sun and three moons
towards the cave where you must descend
towards your worst fear

I would like to give you the silver
branch, the small white flower, the one
word that will protect you
from the grief at the center
of your dream, from the grief
at the center

I would like to follow
you up the long stairway
again and become
the boat that would row you back
carefully, a flame
in two cupped hands
to where your body lies
beside me, and you enter
it as easily as breathing in

I would like to be the air
that inhabits you for a moment
only. I would like to be that unnoticed
and that necessary.

Hiatus and random thoughts

2006-07-11T01:00:00.000-06:00

I read back through these posts and everything is all doom and gloom and "Oh how tired am i?" Well even though the answer to that question is pretty damn tired, I'm sick of talking about it. I am finishing a month of holidays on Wednesday, and I dare say I am more exhausted now than i was at the onset. With that in mind, I refuse to allow it to sink me and so I will pull myself together once again and prepare for the return to the grind.

Tonight we discovered a new restaurant. Recommended by some of my wife's clients, Da Guido sounded to me like a nasty diner-type joint that was three months behind on its mob protection payments and served a bowl of spaghetti that you could rappel with. Instead, it was excellent. The bruschetta was the best I've eaten on this side of the Atlantic and the pasta was fresh and very good. Not cheap...dinner for two cost about 90 bucks and that's without a drop of alcohol. Still worth checking out if you're in the Calgary area though. The food is great and the service friendly.

Is rock really dead? I've been fighting the idea for over two years now and am beginning to have a sinking feeling that denial ain't just a river in Egypt. I realized with a shock the other day that I haven't listened to Cjay 92 for over a year, then I tuned in and in ten minutes remembered exactly why. Everything sounds the same. The last CD that truly excited me was last year's brilliant New Order release "Waiting for the Sirens Call'. Even bands that I generally like, such as Live, seem to be mailing it in. Their new CD "Songs from Black Mountain" is thoroughly listenable but equally mediocre. There aren't any horrible songs that beg to be skipped over, but nothing is really all that great either. The radio is an endless cycle of soundalike songs from a band called Sum Nickelbacked theory of a Staind Deadman. What's worse is that the only kind of music that seems to be generating any kind of attention at all is that god-awful regurgitated pseudo-soul R&B crap that dominates MTV and MuchMusic. My wife told me she liked the new song from some chick named Rihanna. When I heard it, I was disgusted to hear that it's nothing more than "new" lyrics over a ripped-off, semi-warmed-over version of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love'. Is nothing sacred anymore?

I hate the fact that I haven't posted here in over a month and yet it's still difficult to find new and interesting things to write about. Has my life really become that boring?

Don't answer that.

the battery

2006-06-15T23:54:00.000-06:00

I feel drained. These past two weeks things have finally caught up to me, and I finally feel the strain of everything adding up. Work is busy, the kids eat up every spare second, and I'm tired of never having any money. I love the city I live in but am starting to resent it for becoming so expensive. I don't ask for an extravagant lifestyle, but it makes me angry that the province I grew up in; the place I call home, is becoming so bloated will oil money that it is making it difficult for me to afford to even live here. Food costs more, utilities cost more, houses are ridiculous, fuel is insane, and my salary stays the same. The annual 3% cost of living increase is a nice gesture, but when the cost of living here is inflating by 15% every year, it doesn't do much to stem the sucking sound of dollars leaving my bank account. It disgusts me that the wealth of natural resources in my own country has made it too expensive for me to live in my own province.
I'm starting to feel like an old rechargeable battery. One that has been recharged so many times that it doesn't stay charged for long anymore. It seems that every time I get a bit of a break and start feeling as though I've caught my breath, all it takes is one day at home with the kids to make me feel just as tired as I did before. The things that used to make me feel better, like camping, mountain biking, skiing, and music, are all now unavailable to me due to the demands of my work and my family. It seems that whenever an opportunity presents itself, invariably I either have another commitment to honour or I cannot afford to take advantage of it. It frustrates me to no end.
I'm not sure that there is an easy solution to this. I hope that once my children grow up that I will be able to find the time to recover my sanity, and that I will be able to hold on to a little bit of it until then. When you're growing up, you always have an idea in your head of what it will be like to be an adult. This is nothing near what I had imagined.

Awaken

2006-06-08T22:19:00.000-06:00

Yikes. Almost two weeks since my last post and still no readers, still no comments. All the better, I suppose.

My days lately have been very full, yet I find myself feeling like I'm not accomplishing anything. Work and the kids are taking up every second, and everything else just seems lost in a swirl of commitments, deadlines, and demands. The past ten days have been extremely draining and I feel tired. Even after sleeping, I just can't seem to recover. They say you get lots of sleep when you're dead, but I was kind of hoping it wouldn't come to that.

As tired as it makes me, working my schedule has opened my eyes to the beauty of mornings. I am really not a morning person. In fact, I will go to great lengths to avoid them. When I wake up early, I am exhausted for the rest of the day. It doesn't even matter how much sleep I got the night before. I could go to bed at 4 pm, but if I have to wake up before 6 am I am going to be tired. For this reason, the only two things that can get me (grudgingly, at that) out of bed before dawn are skiing and my wife. Working nights, I am coming home just as the sun comes up, and it is truly beautiful. When I work days, I am on my way to work at the same time, so I get to see the day blaze into glory just the same. This past week, driving to work in the morning and seeing the sun slowly lift it's fiery bulk from the horizon, I finally understood the big deal that people make about mornings. I might even have to make an effort to see more of them.

Rain

2006-05-31T17:21:00.000-06:00

Last year a Calgary police officer faced disciplinary action and a criminal investigation because he shot and killed a man who attacked him and stabbed him in the shoulder. The same man moments before had been terrorizing his "friends" with a knife, prompting them to call the police. The man was a repeat violent offender with a criminal record as long as your arm, and yet it is the police officer who is at fault for defending himself. Is this not madness?

Yesterday a woman in my city was brutally attacked and beaten on her own front doorstep, by a member of her own family, in broad daylight. She lived in a good neighborhood; a neighborhood that I very nearly moved my family to not even a year ago. What is this city coming to?

Today it rained. Not a downpour, but just a quick, tentative shower to water my wife's flower garden and bring that fresh, delicious smell that reminds me that there are still good, beautful things in the world. I thank God for it.

While my guitar gently weeps

2006-05-26T00:13:00.000-06:00

I first began playing the guitar nearly fifteen years ago, when I was in high school. I had formed a band with two friends, and we were doing our best to sound like Depeche Mode and not really having all that much success. Our only public show was for a birthday party at the seminary building, and would end up being forever remembered as the time I ate a slice of ice cream cake right before I sang. Everyone in the room that morning discovered at the same time I did that at 7 am with a slice of ice cream cake gooping up my throat, I don't sing very well. With my failure to emulate David Gahan and the fact that we couldn't afford a decent synthesizer complicating things, we began to lean heavily on the guitar-driven writing of our lead player, Matt Demas. Arguably the most accomplished musician among us, he had written dozens of songs that we struggled to adapt to our crude 3-man format. In the process, I found myself picking up one of his spare guitars to try and flesh out the sound. The guitar was an old Vox that someone had tried to convert to a bass at some point by sawing off the headstock and attempting to lengthen the neck. Evidently the experiment had failed, because the headstock had been epoxied and bolted back on and the guitar restored to playability, if only marginally. I managed to learn about 4 chords before the school year, and the band, ended.

That fall I moved to Utah to attend University, and left my early rock star days behind me. It wasn't until midway through the first semester that I discovered that one of my roommates had once been in a band and was a halfway decent bassist. When he found out that I also had a musical background, he immediately drove to his parents' home 4 hours away and returned with a microphone, an old guitar amp, some cables, and what was left of his old bass. A few days later, I went with him to a local music store to find out if the bass could be repaired. I had no intention of buying anything that day, until I saw the guitar of my dreams hanging on the showroom wall.

It was a Vantage; a beautiful jet-black, semi-hollow bodied electric copy of a Gibson ES-335. For those of you not familiar with guitars, that is the big, rounded kind of electric played by BB King. More importantly for me, it is also the guitar played by the Cure and by my musical idol, Bernard Sumner of New Order. I took the guitar down and tried to strum it, suddenly coming to the realization that I had forgotten absolutely everything Matt had taught me. Still, something clicked inside me and I knew that I had to own that guitar. I was a starving student at the time, and the $700 US price tag hanging from the tuning pegs had about the same effect as sealing the guitar up inside Fort Knox. I put it back on the wall and wandered over to where my roommate was talking with the shop owner, trying hard to pretend like I had never seen it. When I reached them, the store owner asked me if I had found what I was looking for. Somewhat bitterly, I replied that I had found a guitar I liked but that it was well beyond my price range. When I pointed out which one it was, a strange expression came over his face. He told me that the guitar had been a special order for a local woman who wanted it for a Christmas present. Even though it was a model he didn't usually carry, he had agreed to bring it in. Unfortunately, it had not arrived in time for the holidays and the woman had bought something else. The guitar had been sitting there ever since. As I stood there amazed that a guitar that beautiful could sit there unsold for so long, I suddenly heard him telling me that rather than let the guitar take up floor space for another two years, he was willing to take offers on it. I blinked, not sure I was hearing him correctly, then held back my excitement as he asked what I was wiling to pay. Knowing that my offer would be significantly less than even the wholesale cost of the guitar, I told him that I was a student and the most I could possibly pay would be 200 dollars. He grimaced, then confirmed my suspicions. The offer was far too low. As he returned to his dealings with my roommate, I walked over to the guitar to drool over it one last time. A few minutes later, my roommate completed his purchases and came to pull me away from the guitar. As we turned to leave, the shop owner called after me. "Hey, is that offer of yours in cash?" I explained that it could be, but that I would have to run to a bank machine to pull out the money. He paused for a moment, then said "Well if you're serious, go now before I change my mind." Ten minutes later, I walked out the front door with the guitar in my hands. I had just spent my entire food budget for the month on an intrument I didn't even know how to play, but I couldn't have been happier.

The guitar would take up a place of honour beside my bed, where it would sit for most of the remainder of the year. A classmate came over and tried to teach me a few songs, but for the most part I just messed around with it and kept it out in the open to look cool when I knew that girls were coming over. My roommate gave me the old guitar amp he had unearthed from the corners of his parents' garage, but unfortunately for me, my playing didn't sound any better electrified than it did acoustically. When I returned home for the summer, the guitar was placed carefully in a corner of my room and largely ignored. That fall, I decided that the guitar was too beautiful to use as a decoration and actually took lessons for about a month. The teacher was a nut and I could barely have a conversation with him, let alone learn from him. Still, it sparked a desire to really learn to play, and soon I was buying up sheet music of my favourite songs and trying to struggle through it on my own. I was just starting to get the hang of it when I left on my mission.

I figured that the mission would mean two years of no guitar playing whatsoever. I was amazed to discover that almost every apartment in the mission had at least one person who played guitar. The mission president actively encouraged us to develop our talents, including learning a musical instrument. Within a month of arriving in France, I visited a music store in Bordeaux and purchased a Seagull acoustic guitar with a solid cedar top, a cutaway, and the richest tone I had ever heard. I named her Sarah. For two years, I spent nearly every available spare moment with that guitar. At first it was difficult; even painful. The steel strings cut into my fingers, and my nightly practice sessions would usually be ended only when the blood on the fingerboard made it too slippery to play. I began to bite my fingers habitually to harden the callouses on my left hand, and gradually the music began to come. I learned Oasis, the Cranberries, Sarah McLachlan, U2, and a variety of popular French songs. I even played a guitar solo in a mission-sponsored musical tour. By the time I returned home, I was developing into a competent guitarist.

The fall and winter of 1997 were spent playing constantly, and it was during this time that I really began to progress. I formed another band, called Hey Farmer, during the summer of 1998, but we only ever played two shows. The first one was a birthday party in September, and the second one was a farewell show in January 99; just after I had moved to Calgary.

I don't remember exactly how I met Rob Proctor, but within a few months of moving to Calgary I was hanging out with him regularly and we decided to put a band together. Phone calls were made, auditions were held, and sometime in April, Full Circle was born. Surprisingly, we had good chemistry, and the band came together quickly. I bought a new amplifier and my Vantage electric finally began to get some serious use. Sadly, the change from the humidity of southern France to the arid semi-desert of southern Alberta had wreaked havoc with my once-beautiful acoustic. The wood had shrunk, popping some of the braces in the body and twisting the neck to the point that it was now impossible to keep the guitar in tune. I sold Sarah to a guitar shop specializing in restorations and bought a black Washburn EA-20 acoustic-electric. Our lead player, Darrell Unger, had played with big-name bands like The New Meanies and 54-40, and trying to keep up with him pushed my playing to new heights. By summer, we were playing shows weekly and had begun to develop a name for ourselves in Calgary's club scene. In July, we were asked to open for Rhymes With Orange when they visited the city. Unfortunately, our bassist was not available that week due to family reasons and we had to decline. Still, our schedule continued to fill up and we began to make plans to book studio time to record a CD that fall.

In September, disaster struck. Our bassist had a complete meltdown and blamed the band for everything that was going wrong in his life. Two days before a weekend show at Morgan's on 17th, he left the band amidst a flurry of baseless accusations and Full Circle fell apart. We cancelled the show and tried to regroup with a new bass player, but after trying out two new hopefuls it became evident that the chemistry simply wasn't there. Frustration mounted quickly, and by the end of October we had quit playing together completely.

Surprisingly, we were rescued by the same Matt Demas I had played with nearly ten years before. He stepped in as the new bassist and we began playing again after Christmas. Unfortunately, it simply wasn't meant to last. In March, Darrell announced that school was demanding enough of his time that he no longer had room in his life for the band. It was the final straw, and we agreed to take some time away from music to decide if we still wanted to pursue the band seriously. A month later, Rob sold his drums to buy an engagement ring and Full Circle was officially laid to rest.

I kept playing solo, occasionally writing with Matt. Summer 2000 was hectic though, and I began to find that it was getting harder and harder to find the time to play. That fall, I began dating the girl who would become my future wife and quickly got engaged myself. I didn't know at the time that I had chosen marriage over my music, but by the time we were married and settled down in Montreal, PQ, I realized one day with a shock that I had not touched my guitar in six months. Sadly, the trend would continue. Returning to Calgary in August 2001, I got wrapped up in work and responsibilities at home and found myself drifting further and further away from music. In September 2002, I became a student again and found my time more limited than it had ever been. By the time the Bear was born in November, my guitars and equipment were packed carefully away in storage and wouldn't see the light of day for nearly two years.

When Moosie was born in August 2004, I returned to Calgary alone for three days to work while my wife stayed with the kids in Lethbridge. Moosie was still in the hospital at the time, and for the first time in recent memory, I actually had some time to myself. Venturing into the dusty corners of the basement, I dug out my Washburn and played until my fingers bled. Remembering that I had named the guitar years before, I teased my wife by telling her that I was "spending some time with Lauren." When the kids returned a few days later, the guitar went back into storage and remained there until the Frog was born. This time I decided that having a family should not hold me back from pursuing my music, and I decided to resume playing regularly. My resolve lasted three days. My callouses long gone, I was back to the stage of shredded fingertips and bloody fingerboards. The years of hiatus had taken their toll, and I was at a loss to play even the most simple of the songs I once knew. I had even forgotten my own material. To make matters worse, the kids figured that if I was playing, they should play too, and began trying to rip the strings off of the guitar. In hopes of preventing her destruction, Lauren went back into the case and was hidden carefully behind the couch in the basement.

Today, she is still there. I have tried to steal time to play, but have been unluckly so far. Someone is always awake, and if they aren't then I can't play out of fear of waking them up. Then there is the simple matter of finding time, which seems an impossible task these days. My guitars remain hidden in the basement, gathering dust. My wife has approached me several times asking why I don't sell them, but I just can't bring myself to do it. I miss my music very much. I miss being able to write songs, and the rush that comes from playing live in front of a crowd. Sometimes it is hard to attend concerts because I feel like I am on the wrong side of the microphone. I still see Rob, and invariably we always end up talking about playing together again or forming a new band, but both of us know that at this point it is nothing more than a dream.

This week I popped an old, unmarked CD into my car stereo and heard the song "Loud" by Matt Nathanson. The song itself is pretty but unremarkable, but it sparked in me a desire to play that I haven't felt for a while now. This weekend, I'm going to try again. Heaven only knows how well it will work or how long it will last, but I'm going to try. I'm putting new strings on Lauren, and I intend to have them well broken-in by Sunday.

There will be blood tonight.

I remember...

2006-05-24T01:13:00.000-06:00

I don't know what brought it on, but France has been very prevalent in my thoughts lately. It's been nine years this month since I returned; nine long years since I turned the page on one of the most important and perhaps most difficult stages of my life.

It's funny that it's even an issue at all. I was in France as a missionary, which for those of you who are unfamiliar with missionary life is like saying that I was there, but I wasn't really there. As a missionary, your life revolves around church, service, and spiritual activity. Don't get me wrong, that isn't a bad thing at all. It's just that in being so committed to the work that you are doing, you tend to put your own life on hold. You are bound by a very specific set of rules, and the missionary work that you are there to do can be completely consuming. You don't have time (or the ability, as there is someone constantly by your side) to stop and think about things like relationships, personal growth, or really much of anything that falls outside of a spiritual context. In some ways, that is very taxing. Probably the most difficult aspect of my mission was going almost two complete years without having any time for myself. When you serve a mission, you are assigned a companion of the same sex who stays with you 24/7. You get up at the same time, you eat at the same time, you spend the day together working, you come home at the same time, and you go to sleep at the same time. With the exception of things like showers and bathroom breaks, you must remain within eyesight of one another at all times. There are a lot of reasons for this, which may well be the impetus for another posting on another night, but I won't get into them here. Suffice it to say that for the duration of your mission (or your sanity, whichever comes to an end first) you never, ever, have any time to yourself.

I need time for myself. When I don't get it, I start to feel trapped and overwhelmed. I remember looking forward to transfer day and the precious few hours I would hopefully have on the train without anyone following me around. It was bliss for those few stolen hours to not have to talk to anyone, and to be able to just look out the window at the world racing by and know that until that train arrived, I could actually just stop and think without feeling like someone else had to be a part of the process. Once, I was serving in a city of four and the three other elders were transferred in the same day. Between the last train departure in the morning and the first new arrival in the evening, I had four hours completely to myself. Mission protocol dictates that you spend this time alone in your apartment, which I was all to happy to do. It was heaven. For those four short hours, my life belonged to me again and I felt free. Inevitably, however, the new missionaries arrived that afternoon and my contentment disappeared into a swirl of introductions and orientation. By dinner, we were back to work and the tranquility of that afternoon was a million miles away.

I say this only to illustrate that my life in France wasn't exactly a normal one. When you are living within the parameters of a missionary lifestyle, your ability to truly experience a foreign country is limited. On the other side of the coin, however, having to work in that country forces you to absorb as much as you can of the local language and culture. Your work is based on building relationships quickly, even if it is just so you can teach someone more effectively. I always had a problem with that part. All relationships serve some sort of a purpose, but I am really only interested in the meaningful ones. I felt like a fraud trying to pry my way into someone's personal life just so I could deliver a spiritual message and go home. Granted, the message was one that I felt very strongly about and wished very much that the person would want to hear. I just didn't like trying to present myself as their best friend just so they would trust me enough to hear me out. Luckily, there were a few instances where I really did connect with the person, and in those cases the relationship we formed was real, and my intentions felt true. Whatever the motivation, missionaries build relationships quickly, and some of those relationships are intense.

It's the same way with the experiences you have while on a mission. When you spend your time being so committed to one thing, the experiences you have can stay with you for much longer than they might under different circumstances. People who are brought together rapidly and with the knowledge that they only have a certain amount of time together tend to bond quickly. Likewise, the places you visit knowing you may never see them again can take on an almost larger than life element that allows them to hold a special place in your thoughts and memories. Perhaps it is for these reasons that I miss France so much. Perhaps it is because of this distorted view of my time there that I now find myself becoming a little bit homesick for the wooded hills of the Dordogne Valley or the narrow stone passages of old Bordeaux, even though I am well aware that my home lies not in the history-shrouded cities of France, but in the dust, wind, and elemental power of the Canadian landscape. I am rooted here, and I can feel it as I watch the sky grow heavy with a coming storm. I know it when I hear the faraway roar of the wind in the mountains, or smell the rain coming to the prairies on a cool west wind. I belong here, yet I long to be there. I miss the heaviness of the summer air, thick with humidity as the day turns to night. I miss the touch of ancient stone and the dank, musty smell of cathedrals and castles that have stood for longer than my country has been organized. I miss the people and their ways; ways which long ago felt comfortable and familiar to me. At times I truly do feel as though a part of me sprang to life when I went to France, grew, matured, and flourished while I lived there, and winked out when I left. At times I miss that part of myself very much.

It is sometimes difficult to discern what is real. I have heard countless stories of missionaries returning to the lands where they served and being met only with disappointment. Without the intensity with which they were experienced previously, the people and places simply aren't the same. I am left wondering if perhaps my memories of France and my desire to return are not somehow predicated on a romanticized distortion of actuality; if not an outright falsehood. Although I try to temper my recollections with the knowledge that time and emotion are not my allies, I refuse to dismiss my feelings entirely. After all, I reason, these memories have to be based on something, don't they?

My logic fails like a poorly-built house of cards when I realize that, ten years ago, I was seeing things from the other side of the equation. A stranger in a strange land, trying to force my clumsy tongue to speak a new and foreign language and relate to people I had never even heard of before, I held fast to my memories of home and my ideas of familiarity. I kept a booklet of photos of the people and places I held dear, and formed within my mind a sparkling and near-perfect idea of what home was. Anyone willing to listen would be treated to a tale of fairytale magnitude, in which my friends and family became the embodiment of goodness and nobility and resided in a clean, pure land of snow-capped mountain peaks, crystal clear rivers and lakes, and the greenest of fields dancing under expresive skies. Home had become a dream, and that point was hammered home when I stepped from the plane at Calgary International Airport nine years ago this week. The snow capped mountains were hidden behind a veil of dusty cloud, and a sickly purplish haze of exhaust and pollution rose from the city and ringed the skyscapers as though they were unable to escape the filthiness of the streets below. The rivers and lakes were muddy and clouded with runoff from the snowmelt, and the verdant fields I remembered had not yet shed the somber blanket of winter. Everywhere, the grass and trees were still dead and brown and the leaves and garbage from the autumn before had escaped the concealment of the winter snow and danced on the wind like a dirty secret that had just become public. Home was not the way I remembered it at all.

I don't know if the contrast would be as severe now as it was then, but I wonder if I would have a similar feeling returning to France. I try to tell myself that it is memories that cannot be recreated that I am missing, and not necessarily the people and places themselves. Sometimes I am successful, other times not so much. I suppose that the glory of memories is that they can become anything we want them to. It is only in the act of trying to replicate them that we are often shocked or let down by what we expect to be the end result. Does that mean that we should be content to keep them catalogued, and never try to revisit the people, places, and situations that once meant so much to us? I don't pretend to know the answer to that. I suppose that ulitimately it is a personal decision, and that the results will vary greatly between each of us. Again, I don't presume to know how things would turn out for me. I only hope that time and circumstance will one day see fit to give me a chance to find out.

The road not travelled?

2006-05-22T02:03:00.000-06:00

Life is full of interesting choices. Some are glaringly obvious, while others are subtle to the point of being insidious. All of them have great bearing on the course our lives ultimately follow, and can come to define us as individuals if we let them.

Most of us, at some point in our lives, have looked back at the decisions we have made and taken stock of where we are presently as a result of those choices. This process of self-evaluation can be comforting or tormenting, depending on our level of comfort and satisfaction with ourselves and our accomplishments. Sadly, it can also be both.

It has been said that we are the sum of our experiences, and I believe this only up to a certain point. While it is evident that the life events that influence our development are largely dictated by our environment and circumstances, there is also a strong element of conscious decision that factors into play. Regardless of our background, we always retain the faculty of deciding how we want to react to the waters of life boiling around us. I have seen bad people go good simply out of a will to do so, and have seen good people with solid backgrounds go very, very bad. We cannot control the journey, but we are ultimately responsible for our own destinations.

I often look back at the experiences I have had and the decisions I have made and wonder where I would be today if I had chosen differently. Understand that I am not pining for what could have been, but rather am curious to compare the person I am today with the person I might have otherwise been.

When I returned from my mission in 1997, I had already laid the groundwork to return to France. I had interviewed at the University of Bordeaux and was accepted to the faculty of fine arts. I anticipated spending a year there and then transfering to the Talence school of architecture once my technical vocabulary had improved enough to permit my pursuit of a degree without getting lost in the material. Upon returning to Canada, it was intention to work for a few months to earn the money to return to France, weed out my belongings to prepare for the move, and be back in time for the fall semester. I had lined up a place to stay, and was in the process of figuring out how I was going to pay for things like food and clothing. Tuition in France is free; even if you’re a foreigner. The plan was simple enough, but the execution was infinitely harder. Returning home to friends I had not seen in over two years and being reunited with my family made me question my willingness to leave it all behind again. I got a job and bought a car, and instead of shedding my possessions found myself accumulating more of them. My parents worried that I would not be accepted at Talence and would have to stay in the fine arts stream at the University of Bordeaux; not such a bad thing from a cultural perspective, but a little bit scary from a practical standpoint. Fine arts degrees look great hanging on your wall but don’t usually go very far towards putting food on your table. They also pointed out that once I was over there, the likelihood of returning to Canada was slim. If I built a life for myself in France, I would be making a choice to abandon the one I already had in Canada. It made me think things through very carefully, and within two months I had resigned myself to the realization that returning to France was not the best course of action for me.

I look back on that process now and wonder sometimes if I made the right choice, or if there even was a right choice. Often I find that these decisions are not so much a question of right and wrong as they are a comparison between two different ideas, both having equal merit but in different ways. Still, it makes me wonder. Would I have been accepted at Talence, and if so, where would I be now? Would I still be in France? Would I be married, and if so, to who? Would I still be active in the church? Sometimes I think I know the answers to some of these questions, but the truth is that I will never really be sure. Still, the questions remain. I look at some of the personality traits I have developed over the past few years and wonder if I would be the same person if I had followed a different path. Would I still have children? What would be important to me?
Rather than driving myself crazy with “what ifs”, I prefer to look at it from the perspective of a man musing over the possibilities and pitfalls of his past. It isn’t distressing or regretful, but rather becomes a measuring stick of where I am now vs. the estimation of where I could have been. Some of those estimations are intriguing, and others are downright scary.

I know that years from now, I will look back on the choices I am making now and evaluate them, just as I now look back on decisions I made years ago. I think I’ve done pretty well up to this point. Many of the crossroads I remember now may not have produced an end result any better or worse than the one I am currently living; just different. Given the chance to do it all over again, there are some things I might change but many more that I would keep the way they are. I suppose that is some measure of success in itself.

Calgon, take me away!

2006-05-19T02:04:00.000-06:00

It is time for a vacation. Not just another weekend in Lethbridge, but an honest to goodness trip to somewhere I haven't been for a while. (or ever) I need to take a week or so and just go. Get away from it all. As horrible as it sounds, ideally this vacation would not include children, but I'm pretty sure they'll be a part of the package so I'd be best served to choose somewhere where they will be easy to keep track of and won't turn the whole thing into more hassle than it's worth. Then again, maybe there is no such place and that's why we haven't gone anywhere in the past 3 years.

When the Bear was barely 9 months old, we took him to Vancouver island for 10 days to see my wife's extended family. We left Calgary around 9 at night and drove through to Revelstoke, where we had to stop and sleep for a few minutes or risk ending up in the bottom of a canyon somewhere. The turnoff where we pulled off the highway must have lead up to a trailhead of some kind, because I kept seeing signs that said "trail to the cedars" or something like that. It wasn't until I had to get out of the car to get something from the trunk that I smelled the air and realized that those must have been some pretty big cedars. It was the most fantastic smelling air I have ever breathed in my life. It was clear and clean, and laced with the moisture of the cool night air. The scent of cedar was heavy all around, like someone had cracked open one of the big trees just to let the smell out. I stood there for a minute just breathing it in, amazed that air like that could even exist. If I could have bottled the stuff, it would outsell every air freshener on this planet. I don't remember everything we did on that holiday, but I remember that air.

After a quick nap we continued westward, trying to wring as much mileage as possible out of the hours that the Bear was asleep. Morning broke somewhere between Salmon Arm and Chase, and by Kamloops our time had run out and the Bear was wide awake and doing his best to let us know how unimpressed he was at being strapped into his car seat. My wife had anticipated this problem and had purchased a toy cow that sang kids' songs and had flashing lights and little animals riding it that moved around while the music played. He loved it. The singing cow turned out to be a double-edged sword, though, because although it kept the Bear quiet, we still had to deal with an endless assault of nursery ryhmes. To this day, I equate driving across the Patrician Bay Highway between Sidney and Victoria with "The Teddy Bears' Picnic."

That was the last holiday we took, and it seems we were lucky to get that one. We have had positively abysmal luck with vacations ever since we got married. For a wedding present, one of my wife's friends who worked for Air Canada gave us two round trip tickets to anywhere in the world we wanted to go. We chose to go to France, but due to the demands of my work, the only time we would be able to make the trip would be over the Christmas holidays. No matter, we were both very excited at the prospect on spending New Years' Eve in Paris. Our plans hit their first hiccup on September 11, 2001, when the unforgettable attacks in the United States sent the airline industry reeling. We were still willing to fly but were met with some stiff resistance from my wife's parents, who seemed convinced that another attack was imminent. We were eventually able to convince them that we would be fine, and continued making plans for the trip. The only other concern is that our wedding gift tickets were employee tickets, which are basically standby tickets. Since everyone else in North America was terrified of getting on a plane at that time, we didn't anticipate that it would be a problem. When we checked a week before Christmas, we couldn't find a flight that was more than half full. It looked like we would have our pick of flight times, so we chose a few options and settled in for a quick Christmas with our families before our departure.

Three days later we got a phone call from our friend at Air Canada. She wanted to know why we had not left earlier and asked if we had checked out the flight bookings lately. Faced with a record low number of bookings through the holiday season, Air Canada had panicked and offered a last-minute seat sale for the Christmas season. Even with the widespread hesitation to fly, almost everything had filled up. We were able to find seats on a plane to Paris, but everything was booked solid coming back. I had to be back at work on January 7th, but with the standby tickets there was no guarantee we could make it. I called repeatedly in hopes that something would open up, but the first flight out of Paris with room on it was on January 16; much too late. 24 hours before we were supposed to leave, we were forced to cancel our trip.

Sadly, the pattern has continued. We were supposed to return to Vancouver island last summer but were unable due to my wife's pregnancy. We were supposed to spend our 5th anniversary together at Emerald Lake, but Moosie landed in the hospital and effectively killed those plans. We were supposed to go to Utah three weeks ago and ended up missing that one as well due to time and financial contraints. It's enough to make a grown man cry.

Instead of spending days of carefree bliss on some fantastic getaway, I've been sitting in my basement huffing solder fumes and burning my hands on molten metal as I install ten decoders in someone else's model train collection. I would at least be able to find some satisfaction in knowing that I'll be paid quite well for doing it if the money weren't already allocated towards bills and other necessities. I suppose I should be thankful for having the means to provide for my family, but it frustrates me to no end that nearly everything I make is spent before I even bring it home.

I need a holiday. Someday soon, I'm going to pack up the car, load up the family, and just start driving.

If you love something, set it free.....

2006-05-17T04:05:00.000-06:00

Her name was Valerie Passerieux, and she was an artist. If you looked up “artist” in a dictionary, you may very well have found a photograph of her under the heading. Standing a slight 5 foot 5 with long blonde hair, one green eye and one blue eye, and a playful French accent, she seemed cast for the part from birth. Her room and entire house were decorated with her work; plaster busts of African women inspired by a trip to Morocco, some unique texture-oriented abstracts that had been part of a school project, paintings and sketches of local towns and statues, and even a self portrait. Walking into the tiny house that she shared with her mother was like walking into an exposition hall.

I first met Valerie through her mother, Marie-France. A school teacher by trade, Marie-France was uncommonly quiet and kept herself aloof. She didn’t interact socially with anyone in particular at church, was not close with her colleagues at school, and didn’t really seem to have any friends. The only thing that seemed to get her talking even a little was to bring up Valerie’s many artistic accomplishments. I had just been transferred to Bergerac two weeks before Christmas 1996, and I wasn’t adjusting well. It took a little while for me to warm up to Marie-France, as she didn’t seem very interested in wanting to get to know me or anyone else any better and I really didn’t care to hear any more about her daughter’s talents. Besides, she seemed very distant all the time and seemed to want to be left alone. In my twenty year-old head, I figured that it wasn’t worth beating my head against the wall trying to get her to open up. After all, I was a stranger in a strange land, and six months from that point I would more than likely be in another country and far away from Marie-France and her child prodigy. She seemed so closed off and secretive all the time, and I couldn’t understand why. As I would learn, Marie-France had her reasons.

As a few weeks went by, I found myself spending more time with Marie-France at church. She had three callings and spent most of her time outside of work running the genealogical library. I can’t remember exactly what happened or when, but suddenly one day I found myself wanting to reach out to her. I can remember watching her bent over the light table, quietly examining microfilms, and knowing that she needed a friend. Nothing had been said up to that point and nothing ever really would, but over the Christmas holidays we would begin to forge a relationship that would stay with me for much longer that the seven months I would be part of her life.

Just before Christmas, Marie-France invited us over for dinner. She was going to the Pyrenees mountains to spend Christmas with her children, Valerie and Eric. Neither lived at home, and it was an opportunity for her to spend some quality time with them. It would quickly become very clear that her children were the centre of her universe. When I walked through the front door, I couldn’t help but look around at the collection of art that seemed to take up every available square foot of wall space. I couldn’t find a piece of furniture without a sculpture on it, and even the corners were occupied by canvasses and paintings in various stages of completion. To my surprise, the art was very good. I was impressed, and began to understand Marie-France’s pride in her daughter’s work. The paintings, in particular, were beautiful. During dinner, Marie-France actually talked to us about herself for the first time. Her life had not been an easy one, starting with her childhood and culminating in a very difficult divorce a few years earlier. As she spoke, I felt a strange sort of connection to her, like I could somehow relate to the pain and frustration she was feeling. I left her house that night trying to figure out how to help her.

I had planned to speak with her on Sunday at church and ask her if there was anything we could help her with, but that all changed when I met Valerie. She was home visiting her mother for the weekend and had come to church with her to meet the new missionaries. When she came into the room, it was like someone somewhere had turned a light on, and all I could see was her. It scared me a little. I don’t believe in love at first sight, and to complicate matters even further, I still had another six months remaining in my mission and was prohibited from getting involved with anyone until I went home. Luckily, she had an easygoing way about her that disarmed me and put me at ease. I ended up talking with her well after the church meetings ended. When I left, I felt like I had known her for years.

I would only see Valerie periodically for the next month. Christmas came and went, leaving in its wake a grey and rainy European winter. It was a cold and cheerless month of January, and we worked hard. The town of Bergerac had been canvassed dozens of times over by previous legions of missionaries, and the work was slow and difficult as we struggled to find people to teach. I began to have difficulty sleeping, and found that it was an ailment I shared with Marie-France. She recommended that I try magnesium supplements, which I did with limited success. I began to spend a lot of time on the phone with her late at night, and learned a lot about the trials and experiences that had shaped her into the person I was slowly getting to know. I also began to learn more about Valerie. At first it was innocent comments, but ultimately I found myself fishing for information. I knew that I couldn’t pursue a relationship with her, but I wanted to know more about this creative blonde girl that had sparked my interest.

As January waned, Valerie began to come home more often. Coincidentally, it seemed that every time Marie-France invited us over for dinner, Valerie would be there. One day, out of the blue, Valerie called me to ask about something we had discussed the previous weekend, and the phone call ended up stretching into an hour-long conversation. The next morning, I awoke to the realization that I was developing feelings for Valerie and that as a missionary, I was treading on dangerous ground. I resolved to keep the friendship in check, and began to put up a wall between Valerie and myself. She noticed immediately and seemed to be hurt, although we continued to speak regularly. Within a week, Marie-France asked me why I was being so distant. I explained to her the position I was in, knowing full well that the information would be relayed. A week later I received a card from Valerie telling me that she understood and would keep her distance, but that if I was interested in giving things a shot when my mission was finished, she would be around. She kept her word and our friendship remained appropriate as we continued to get to know each other. As the end grew closer, however, it became more difficult to maintain the necessary distance. Even though I was not supposed to correspond with any women within mission boundaries, letters became the only way for us to speak candidly with each other and we began to write to each other more frequently. Valerie began to limit her visits home to every two weeks, as it was becoming difficult for us to ignore the physical and emotional tension that was developing between us. With six weeks left in my mission, I was relieved when I was transferred to another area to prepare for a traveling musical that I was involved in. Thankfully, the last month and a half went quickly. The musical was touring western France doing a show every second night, with practices and travel in between. It was hectic but provided a much needed focus. In the four months and change I had spent in Bergerac, I had formed a friendship with Valerie that felt like it was decades old. The more I had gotten to know her, the more I had found myself caring for her. I was now in the unenviable position of having found someone I wanted to be with but being unable to do so. I did my best to push Valerie from my mind and concentrate on finishing my mission with dedicated effort.

In mid-May 1997, my parents came to France to pick me up as my mission ended. We spent two weeks visiting the various areas I had served in, and not surprisingly, I found myself back in Bergerac. Free from the restrictions that had defined our friendship from the beginning, things became awkward between Valerie and I as we struggled to adjust to the continuation of a growing relationship in a “normal” context. After over two years of keeping everyone at a distance emotionally and spiritually, I found myself unsure of how to actually let someone get close to me. I felt like a twelve year-old kid again, learning how to act around girls. During the second week, Valerie accompanied my parents and me to Arcachon, on the west coast of France. As we were climbing the giant sand dune that draws people to the town, Valerie stumbled and reached out for my hand. Instinctively, I caught it and helped her back to her feet. As she caught her balance, she squeezed my hand but didn’t let go. It was electrifying but frightening for me as I reminded myself that I wasn’t a missionary anymore and that this was OK now. Later that afternoon we raced each other down the seaward side of the dune as my parents waited on top. As we reached the water’s edge, Valerie threw her arms around me and laughed. At that moment, I wanted nothing more than to stay there with her forever.

Reality called me back two days later as we left for Paris to return to Canada. My mission’s boundaries did not include Paris and I had never been there, but my excitement at visiting the city of light was dampened by the feeling of loss as I said goodbye to Valerie and Marie-France. They felt like a second family to me, and it was very difficult to leave them. I didn’t know it at the time, but it was the last time I would see Marie-France. I spent a wonderful day in Paris with my parents, but couldn’t shake the feeling that my world was collapsing. That night, I called Valerie from a pay phone to tell her that I didn’t want to leave. I felt like the plane would be taking me away from everything I now found familiar, and I was afraid that the connection we felt would die on the vine once we were on opposite sides of the world. The next day, under a blanket of grey skies and pouring rain, I walked on to an Air Canada Boeing 747 and flew away from Valerie, Bergerac, and the life I had known for over two years. As the plane lifted off from Charles DeGaulle airport, I felt my stomach flip-flop uncomfortably. Victor Hugo once said “Every man has two countries, and once of them is France.” At that moment, I knew that part of me would always remain there.

Two months later, another Air Canada plane landed in Calgary, Alberta. When Valerie cleared customs and walked out to meet me, I felt like I hadn’t seen her in years. To me, it felt like she was coming home. For some reason, that still scared me a little bit. The drive back to Lethbridge calmed my fears, and I felt like I had been given a second chance to have Valerie as a part of my life. Being with her seemed familiar; even more familiar than the prairie landscapes that had been my home for 19 years before going to France. She brought one of her paintings as a gift for my parents; a watercolour of the medieval marketplace at Sarlat la Caneda where we had eaten lunch together months before. When they hung it on their bedroom wall, it seemed to belong in our home.

Valerie stayed with my family for almost two months. We took her everywhere we could think of that might be interesting to someone visiting Canada. Although I enjoyed the time we spent together, to me it seemed almost as though we were trying to sell the country to her. She became close with my mother and went hiking with her once a week while I was at work. Our relationship was no longer awkward and was becoming serious. It seemed like all the pieces were falling into place. The first week she was with me had brought back some of the hesitation I had experienced as I tried to allow myself to interact with her as a man, not a missionary. The four weeks in the middle were bliss. Valerie was becoming my best friend. We had so much in common that it seemed there wasn’t time to discuss it all, and we enjoyed each others’ company. Knowing that our time together was limited, we tried to make the most of it. For much of the time we were together nearly 24/7. I was also staying in touch with Marie-France, who seemed elated that things were going so well between me and Valerie. It was almost too perfect.

The first feelings of uneasiness began when I looked at the calendar and realized that Valerie would be going home in less that two weeks. Home to France, home to a world that seemed agonizingly out of my reach. She would get on a plane and fly away, and then what? When would we see each other again? Could we just keep our lives on hold until we could be together again? What if one of us met someone else? Long distance relationships are one thing when you see the person semi-regularly, but both of us had to know that it wasn’t realistic to keep flying back and forth between Canada and France. I began to wonder if I was doing the right thing.

With a week left in her stay, I began subconsciously building a wall between myself and Valerie. I didn’t want to, but I wasn’t sure how I would react to losing her for good and began to unwittingly prepare myself psychologically. She kept reaching out to me, and I kept pulling away. I’m sure she felt the change, but she didn’t let it show. She just kept doing all the things that made her so perfect for me, and I kept concentrating on all the reasons I could think of that we wouldn’t be good for each other. The summer was ending, and time began to rush by like a landscape viewed from a speeding car, carrying us both to the point of decision that we knew was coming but didn’t want to face.

With three days left, Valerie went out on a limb and told me she loved me. She planned to return to France and exhibit some of her art to raise money to return to Canada. She had fallen in love with the country and with my family and wanted to spend the rest of her life here with me. She hoped to return at Christmas, and hoped that by then we could get engaged and plan for her to move to Lethbridge permanently in the spring. I was left reeling. I thought that I loved her too and I did want to be with her, but I wasn’t ready to commit to marriage. The reality of having to lock everything in so suddenly shocked me, and I suddenly found myself guarded and wanting to take a step back from the relationship to gather my thoughts. Engaged by Christmas? I wanted to take time to enjoy the relationship we had formed, but realized that with the distance in play, time wasn’t a luxury we could afford. I suddenly felt rushed and trapped, and hated myself for hesitating. Try as I might, I couldn’t think of a reason not to commit to her, other than fear. I tried to water down my response and told her that I wanted her to come back at Christmas but felt like we should slow things down a little bit. The words sounded weak and unconvincing, and I could tell that she didn’t understand. She was ready for the next step and I was not, and that hurt her.

The next few days fell into an awkward space between a desire to enjoy our remaining time together and the guarded caution that accompanied the uncertainty of our future together. When her plane took off, I felt sad, confused, and angry with myself. The empty feeling was back again, and I couldn’t figure out why I had not been able to offer her something more solid. At the same time, I knew I wasn’t ready to commit to marriage. I became bitter at the distance and the obstacle it presented, and wanted to return to France. Most of all, I thought of Valerie and wondered if I would see her again.

As it turned out, the answer was no. When she got on the plane that day in Calgary, she walked out of my life forever. We continued to write regularly and spoke at least once a week, but by the end of September it was clear that the distance was already working its way between us. The letters became less frequent, the conversation began to stall, and we found that we were living parallel lives that no longer had much in common. She had begun a new series of paintings based on the prairies and grain elevators that had captured her while she was in Canada, and her art was taking up most of her time. I had begun playing in a band and was hanging out with people she didn’t know in places she had never been. To her credit, she held on faithfully and never questioned me. I tried to remember the connection we had and remind myself how good we were for each other, but I still couldn’t get past the feeling that I was not ready to commit to marriage. In the end, it began to hurt her. Although she never said anything outright, a change crept into her voice that told me that I had wounded her deeply. By mid-October, I could no longer allow myself to keep going through the motions. It wasn’t fair to her, and I cared for her enough to realize that I couldn’t make her wait forever. I agonized over the decision, convinced that I was about to throw away the most important thing in my life but convinced that it was the only fair thing to do. It took me four days to finish writing my thoughts and feelings down, but on a chilly fall day in Granum, Alberta, I left my job managing a campground and walked through the swirling leaves to the tiny post office where I mailed the letter that ended my relationship with Valerie Passerieux.

I don’t remember exactly what I said, but I remember the line from the song “Full of Grace” by Sarah McLachlan that I wrote at the end of the letter:

“I know I can love you much better than this, but it’s better this way”.

I spent the winter alone. Valerie continued to write to my mother, and sent photos of her grain elevator paintings. One of them in particular made me feel like it had been painted for me. It was dark and stormy, showing a single elevator amidst waving prairie grasses against a backdrop of a sky heavy with cloud. To this day, I wish I had that painting. Valerie continued to write to me occasionally, but I could tell that it was painful for her. In December 1998 I moved to Calgary, where I gradually fell out of touch with almost everyone I had known in France. The letter I had sent to her had not only removed Valerie from my life; it seemed that it had severed the connection between me and everything I had lived during my mission years. I began to feel the loss then, and I still feel it today. I made an effort to keep up contact with a few select people I had been closest to, and Valerie e-mailed me sporadically throughout the summer of 1999, then that too gradually died out. My mother still corresponded with her regularly, and seemed convinced that Valerie was waiting for me to reach out to her and resume our relationship. I never tried.

In 2000, Valerie moved in with a French military officer named Benoit. By that time she wasn’t much more than a footnote in my thoughts, and I married my wife in February 2001. In October 2002 I wrote a letter to Marie-France and got a response. At that time Valerie was now married to Benoit and they were living in La Reunion, expecting their first child. I sent another letter to Marie-France in early 2003 after the Bear was born, but never got a response. I think she has moved now, and I don’t know how to contact her. Likewise, I have no idea how to contact Valerie if I wanted to. I don’t know where she is, what she is doing, or how things are going for her. I am happy with my life, but sometimes I wonder how different things would be right now if I had made the decision to stay with her. I guess it just wasn’t meant to be. I wish I could talk to her again and maybe do a better job of explaining why I did what I did. I’m sure she doesn’t even think about it anymore, but I wish that I could just have one more conversation with her to clear the air and let her know that she really was a very important part of my life.

Everyone comes into your life for a reason, some people just stay in it longer than others. Valerie Passerieux, wherever you are now, I wish you well.

A slippery slope

2006-05-16T01:01:00.000-06:00

It is truly amazing how quickly seasons change. It seems like only yesterday I was shovelling snow off my sidewalks and waiting for my car to warm up before driving to work every morning. Today, the smell of new growth is in the air and the warmth of spring is promising a glorious summer.

Only a week ago, I was driving to the mountains and saw ice in the ditch at the side of the highway. It reminded me of my childhood. I recall the huge lakes of melting snow that used cover the schoolyard in the early spring. They would freeze during the night, leaving perfect skating patches all over the fields. By late morning recess, they would have begun to thaw but were still usually solid enough to support our weight. We would venture out on them, looking through to the matted grass below the ice and wondering exactly how deep they might be. Ultimately, one of us would find out. We would follow the bubbles below the surface to a weak point in the ice and it would crack, sending us plunging into the frigid puddle below. Some of the puddles were more than a foot deep, and the unfortunate victim(s) would spend the rest of the afternoon sitting in class in jeans soaked up to the knees with the rest of us laughing at the ridiculous squooshing sounds their shoes made when they walked. Often, when the ice broke it would send its victims tumbling, resulting in drenched clothing and a call home for dry clothes.

Things were different then. The teachers would shake their heads and hang their heads in disgust at our foolish antics, but that was all. There were no angry phone calls from parents accusing us of being improperly supervised, and no coloured tape warning us to stay off the puddles the next day. It was somehow more relaxed in the days before finger pointing and litigation over children having some harmless fun.

When they plowed the snow off the parking lots, they would shove it all to the end of the pavement so it could melt into the field. After a big snowfall, the piles would be huge; sometimes ten or fifteen feet high. For a six year-old child it was literally a mountain, and the race would be on to climb it and slide down the other side. After a few kids had been down, the snow would pack down into icy chutes that were almost like a miniature bobsled track. We would spend all of recess and hours after school climbing and sliding down the snow piles. Some of the older kids would get really creative, digging tunnels and holes in the piles and trying to incorporate them into the slides. It became almost a theme park of boot-sliding. Inevitably, it all came to an end. A young girl slipped and fell down one of the ice chutes and sustained a serious head injury. That was the end of the snow piles. The front-end loaders used to clear the snow from the parking lots would ensure that it was carefully spread out and packed down, and the ice mountains quickly became a thing of the past.

Today, it seems like everything has become diluted and homogenous, like a watered-down, safe for everyone version of a life that has been deemed too dangerous for us to live. We are protected from ourselves at every turn, with most elements of our lives dumbed down into a one-size-fits-all amalgamation of paranoia and overblown caution. Our kids can no longer ride a bicycle without helmets and body armour. We used to build ramps out of rotten firewood and jump our BMX bikes over garbage cans. Half the time the ramp would crumble on impact and we would crash horrifically into the trash cans. No helmets, no wrist guards or protective gear. Just a crowd of seven year-old boys who knew that if you could still stand up after the crash, you were OK to try it again.

This week I watched the icy fields of yesteryear become the calm near growth of spring. For the last twenty-five years I have watched as the things we once considered normal have become unacceptable risks. Social seasons, it seems, are also subject to change. I'm not sure I agree with a philosophy that robs us of experiences because we might need protection from our own bad choices. We are not all crack addicts in need of someone to police our behaviour. As I teach my son to ride a bike for the first time and watch him strap on all manner of protection, I wonder if maybe we haven't taken this a little too far. Will we soon all be living in plastic bubbles for our own protection? The worst thing that ever happened to us when the ice broke was that we got wet, and I think I'll take my chances with that.

Happy Mother's Day

2006-05-15T02:52:00.000-06:00

I am thankful for my mother. I haven't always been able to say that with a straight face, but as I grow older I realize how stupid I was back then and it is much easier for me to be appreciative now. Thanks heavens the woman is as patient as she is.

My children are lucky to have a good mom. She cares for them and is sensitive to their needs in so many ways that I am maybe not. I guess she just understands them on a different wavelength than I do, and they are better off for it. She is the centre of their universe, and the most important figure in mine. We are all lucky to have her, and I am thankful for it. Too all you moms out there, cheers.

Past vs. Present

2006-05-03T00:36:00.000-06:00

This coming weekend was supposed to be a getaway trip for my wife and I. As it turns out, it seems that finances and time have once again conspired against us and we won't be going anywhere, except perhaps to Lethbridge for the weekend. We had originally planned to go to Utah for the weekend and leave our kids with my parents, but now it seems everyone has made alternate plans and our window of opportunity has closed.

Ten years ago, I served a mission for the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints. It was an fantastic experience and was probably among the most difficult two years of my life thus far. Being stuck in a foreign country far away from friends, family, and the familiar can lead one to form relationships quickly, and some of the friends I made on my mission will be remembered forever. This weekend there is a ten-year reunion of sorts for my mission and I very much wanted to go. I have not seen most of these people in at least ten years and it is entirely possible that, this weekend excepted, I will never see them again. Unfortunately, it appears that there isn't much of a decision to make.

I am faced with an unpleasant reckoning. The demands of my life and my family have drained me of any disposable income I might once have had, and have eaten up my free time as well. I have to watch myself sometimes that I don't begin to resent it. This reunion has been planned since before Christmas and I had every intention of going. It wasn't until about a month ago that the bills started arriving, the kids started needing summer clothes, our vehicles started needing repairs, and the money I had allocated for the trip began bleeding away into the family finances. I suppose that from a certain standpoint I should be grateful that we had the means to pay for these necessities, but on the other hand I am disappointed that we can't make the trip. I was looking forward to spending some time alone with my wife, and I had convinced myself that 5 years of sacrifice had earned me the right to do something for myself. Apparently, fate didn't agree.

Rather than allowing myself to become bitter and angry, I have to force myself to evaluate once again what is truly important to me. My family is priority number one whether I like it or not, and my children are a tremendous blessing even if they are outrageously expensive. I am slowly coming to grips with the idea that I will never have any money for myself ever again. If I could just figure out how to get them to stop eating, I'd be in good shape.

Looking at it with that in mind, I have to rationalize that present is more important than past. Old friendships will have to be allowed to fade away, and relationships will be dulled by the hands of time as I serve a more worthy cause. It hurts sometimes, because I really don't want to let these things go. Things like this reunion are a reminder of the experiences, places, and people that have made me the person I am today, and I don't think that is something that should be lightly dismissed. I'm sure that in a perfect world there is a balance, but it is something that so far has eluded me. The present is all-consuming. Sometimes I worry that I'm just being selfish, and that someone will find me pacing back and forth chanting the mantra "My kids are worth it, my kids are worth it, my kids are worth it" over and over again. Does that make me a bad father? Is it wrong to want to hold on to certain things because they make you feel like a whole person again instead of someone lost in the responsibilities of a demanding role?

Parenthood is so much more complicated than they teach you growing up. Raising the kids is only half of the struggle, and once money, time, and personal losses are factored in to the equation, I'm amazed that anyone comes out of it with their sanity intact. Thank goodness I really do love my kids.

This must be the place I've waited years to leave

2006-04-29T15:44:00.000-06:00

I have often commented on the tendency to romanticize past experiences or memories. Over time, they become somewhat distorted and take on meanings that they prehaps never truly held. Years dull the pain of situations and relationships gone wrong, and yet on the other side of the coin it ca be argued that absence truly does make the heart grow fonder.

My wife and I used to live in Montreal. We were only there for a year, and it was about a year too long. We really didn't fit well there. Our conservative values seemed out of place, I had no patience for the whole separatist/distinct society movement, and the people there seemed very self-involved and aloof. Honestly, I found Toronto to be friendlier. I'm not sure what it was about Montreal that grated on my nerves so badly. I am fluently bilingual in both English and French, (although a strong case could be made for Quebecois having nothing to do with French) and I like to think that I'm relatively easy to get along with. There was just something about the place that didn't sit right. Something about a province run by Hell's Angels that didn't agree with me. Something about a city where everyone is out for themselves, and everything is approached with a "what can you do for me" attitude that I just couldn't feel comfortable with. The day we left Montreal was one of the happiest days of my life.

That was five years ago, and sometimes I find myself looking back with almost a sense of nostalgia. Sure, we were in Montreal, but my wife and I were newly married, we had no kids to weigh us down, and we were living the happy, spontaneous life of an average newlywed couple, even if we hated the city we were living in. We did manage to do a few things that we really enjoyed, like day trips to the mountains or the Eastern Townships of Quebec, or walking around the neighborhood. I think back to those things now with what can almost be described as fondness, and wonder if maybe I didn't give Montreal a fair chance. Maybe, I reason, it wasn't that bad after all.

I spend the last week in Montreal, and I can now honestly say that yes, it was that bad. Four and a half days were plenty to assure me that my instincts are trustworthy. The place is a hellhole. Still controlled by bikers, still can't decide which language they want to speak, and still a messy, corrupt, run down excuse for a city. It is strangely conforting to learn that it wasn't just me not wanting to be there; the place really is a dump.

It's good to be home.

Travel, kids, & crisis

2006-04-19T00:31:00.000-06:00

Today started off innocently enough. I scoured eBay last night for a replacement stuffed bear for our oldest son, which of course precipitated a phone call this morning from my father in law telling us that he had miraculously found the original one. Christmas bear was found in the church kitchen (apparently he was hungry all this time and we simply didn't know it) and will be returning to us on Thursday. Thank heaven for small miracles.

I will be leaving for a week-long business trip this afternoon for Toronto and Montreal, and my wife is very stressed about the prospect of having to deal with all three kids on her own for a week. It makes it tough on me as well to hear her telling me that she doesn't want me to go, yet knowing that I have to. Her parents are coming up for a visit so I'm sure she'll at least have a little help from them.

The kids reinforced her fears tonight by creating the kind of mess that legends are made of. She took them to the zoo all day, where they were remarkably well-behaved. Upon returning the Bear settled in to watch videos, the Frog sat quietly on the floor to play toys, and the Moose went down for an afternoon nap. In short, they were model children. It wasn't until I left for work that they began to show their true intentions. I had to leave an hour early today to attend an operations meeting and pick up some things for my trip on the way to the office. I had been gone for about half an hour when I received an agitated call from my wife. Apparently the Moose had decided to run off with her car keys and had hidden them somewhere. She eventually cornered him, but being 20 months old and possessing extremely limited verbal skills, the Moose was not about to divulge the location of the keys to anyone, no matter how loudly they yelled. A dedicated search turned them up inside a plastic fish toy, which again was apparently starving right under our noses. I reached the office, went to my meeting, and had just finished a conference call when my wife called again, this time wavering between panic and white-hot rage. The Moose and the Bear were having their evening bath when the Frog began crying in the other room. My wife went to check on her, and in the four minutes she was gone, the two boys decided that it would be fun to empty the entire contents of the bathtub on to the bathroom floor. My wife returned to find sheets of water coursing down the hallway floor, while the bathroom itself had been transformed into a four-inch-deep lake. The water was deep enough that it was draining down the heating vents and soaking through the floor into the basement, coming dangerously close to the fuse boxes. The Moose and the Bear were unceremoniously removed from what remained of their bath and sent straight to bed, and I spent fifteen minutes on the phone trying to convince my wife that despite what her instincts were telling her, she couldn't just walk out the front door and leave them all there.

Eventually she calmed down, although it took over a dozen towels to clean up the water. I find it interesting that the kids always choose nights when I am not at home to pull stunts like this. My wife is now terrified of what they will attempt while I am away. I feel sorry for her, while at the same time harbouring some apprehension that I may not have a home to come back to if the kids get really out of hand. Heaven help us if they ever figure out what matches do.

Between the demands of the business trip and checking in on the family every night, it is unlikely that I will be able to post for the next week. For most this won't matter, as after enjoying a breif spurt of pseudo-popularity, my blog has faded back to it's previous averages of 1-2 visitors per day, most of which seem to be foreign. For all you portuguese-speaking uber-fans out there, I'll be back in action on the 27th. Try and keep dry until then, and remember to eat; it seems that there are dozens of toys out there who apparently don't get to.

Love and loss

2006-04-18T01:07:00.000-06:00

We've all been there and experienced the sickening, heart-rending feeling of knowing you will never see someone again. Perhaps it's a friend who is moving away or a family member or loved one who is passing away. Often it is the emotionally saturated mark of the end of a relationship. This weekend, for my oldest child it was the loss of his stuffed bear.
This is going to be a little confusing, since my oldest child is referred to as the Bear and this post is about a stuffed bear. For the sake of clarity, "the Bear" is a reference to my child, and the stuffed animal will be called either "Christmas bear" or "stuffed bear".
When the Bear (my kid, not the stuffed animal) was born, one of my wife's collegaues gave him a stuffed TY bear as a "welcome to this world" gift. Seeing as he was born at the end of November, the stuffed bear was a white holiday edition with a holly print on him. We figured that the stuffed bear was a Christmas-only thing and put it away with the rest of the Christmas decorations. Besides, our little boy already had a blue stuffed bear that we had named Bluebeary that he loved to chew on. We figured that Bluebeary would be his "special" animal. We were wrong. The Christmas bear sat in the box until after the Bear's first birthday, when we hauled out the Christmas decorations to prepare the house for the festive season. The Bear saw the stuffed bear and latched on to it like he had never seen something so precious before. He would not put it down or go anywhere without it, and we soon realized that this was going to be his "special" animal.
That was nearly three years ago, and the Christmas bear has been a constant fixture in our lives ever since. Our son will simply not let him go. He comes to bed, comes in the car, comes on family vacation, and basically goes everywhere we do. Once we misplaced him for two days but were able to track him down at a friend's house. It was good thing too; the Bear wouldn't sleep without the stuffed bear and cried constantly until it was returned.
This weekend we were in Lethbridge visiting family, and attended their stake conference on Sunday. As usual, the stuffed bear accompanied us. About half way through the two-hour service, the Bear informed me that he needed to go potty. Off we went to the men's room with the stuffed bear in tow. When we got there, my son dropped the stuffed bear on the bathroom floor so he could do his business. Telling him that the bathroom floor was dirty and not a good place for the stuffed bear, I picked up the stuffed bear and placed it safely on top of the paper towel dispenser. My son finished going potty, washed his hands, and we went back to our seats leaving the stuffed bear in the washroom. We didn't notice that it was missing until that night at bedtime, when all hell broke loose. We finally placated the Bear by letting him borrow one of his grandmother's stuffed bears and assuring him that we would go find his Christmas bear in the morning. This morning we returned to the church, and went straight to the mens room, expecting to find the stuffed bear where we left him. After all, this is a very well-used bear. It is matted and stained from being hauled around by a child for the last three years, and has bald spots where the fur has fallen out after repeated washings. Not exactly the kind of toy you would pick up out of a public washroom and give to your child.
To our surprise and horror, the Christmas bear was not there. In fact, a dedicated search of the church did not yeild the stuffed bear, and my wife and I were beginning to wonder what we were going to tell our child. As it turns out, he didn't take it well.
Again, the day went by relatively uneventfully. As long as the Bear had something going on to occupy or distract him, he was fine. It wasn't until bedtime tonight that it finally hit him that his stuffed bear was really gone. There were a lot of tears, both from him and my wife. It was heartbreaking to see his little face crumble when we told him that his special stuffed bear was lost. He couldn't fall asleep without it and ended up back downstairs with my wife. They called me at work, and he came on the phone, his tiny voice cracking with emotion, and asked me if I would find his stuffed bear. I said I would try, feeling like the lowest person in the world as I said it because I knew that the bear was gone forever.
Tonight, I scavenged through dozens of eBay listings looking for a replacement stuffed bear. I think I've actually found one, but it won't come cheap. That aside, I wonder if he will accept it. Christmas bear was his friend and companion; an anchor of security for a three year-old in a crazy world of change and discovery.
Tonight, I have mixed emotions about the whole episode. I wonder where the stuffed bear went, knowing full well that it probably wandered off with some other kid, or worse yet ended up in a garbage can somewhere when some parent discovered that their child had found it in the bathroom. There is a possibility that someone put it in a closet somewhere at the church and we missed it during our search, but we did check the lost and found and all of the shelves in the area and came up empty-handed. It makes me kind of angry that people can't just leave something alone if it doesn't belong to them. It disappoints me that even in a church, things still go missing. Most of all, it just makes me very sad for my little boy. This is a tough lesson to learn for a little kid. I hope that the little twit who walked off with that stuffed bear cares for it as much as my kid did, because that is one well-loved bear.
Happy trails Christmas bear, wherever you are.

Drowning not waving

2006-04-13T15:13:00.000-06:00

5 days. Wars have been fought in less time than that. I find myself struggling for time again over the past few days, with family, work, and other obligations conspiring against me. This weekend we'll be going to Lethbridge for Easter and I'm looking forward to the break. It feels terrible considering the kids have been extremely good over the last few days, but it will be nice to get away from them for a few hours. My dad apparently wants to go fishing, which would be fun even though I never catch anything. Maybe a round of golf is in order as well.
I just re-read that last sentence and holy crap; it sounds like I'm 75. Then again, the way things have been going this week maybe by the time I make another entry here, I will be.

Chairs, candles, & cloth

2006-04-08T06:59:00.000-06:00

I find it very interesting how facts can be presented in so many different ways, and the context they assume can drastically alter their interpretation. Context truly is everything. It is staggering yet intriguing how idealogy can be twisted in so many ways, and often tragic how those twists impact those who hold the ideas close to their hearts.
I just finished reading Dan Brown's "The Da Vinci Code". Although I disagree thouroughly with many of the concepts that the book presents as fact, mainly the assertation that modern Christianity is simply a politically-driven creation of man and that Jesus Christ nothing more than a human prophet falsely elevated to diety by the fabrications of the Catholic church, the story is fantastic and the book is a very entertaining read. I enjoy a good book and from a plotline standpoint, this was one of the best I've read in a while. For me it was easy to approach it as a simple story and not consider it to be anything more than that, but in seeing some of the reviews of this novel, I am amazed at how many people are immediately willing to accept anything they read as truth. Further to this, I am positively dumbfounded that people will argue against the Bible, which is considered by most to by holy writ, yet they will openly buy into the allegations of a book that is nothing more than a novel, albeit one infused with the religious inclinations of its author. Perhaps Mr. Brown should consider starting his own church.
What was perhaps the most interesting thing to me is that many, if not most, of the "truths" that the story puts forward as these big, mysterious secrets that would blow the lid off of Christianity is exposed are really not all that controversial at all. I suppose if I was approaching this from a Catholic standpoint, I would likely feel very differently about it, but given the things that I do believe, it really wasn't all that sensational at all. In fact, much of the information Mr. Brown uses to attempt to discredit Christianity reinforces my belief in it.
For starters, the first big "shocker" revealed in the book is that Jesus Christ was allegedly married to Mary Magdalene. No surprise here. This has been an accepted, if not regularly discussed, idea in my religion for as long as I can remember. If you think about it, it makes nothing but sense. Jesus lead by example in everything he did. He was baptized even though he personally had no need of the ordinance because it was important to teach us that we must be baptized. I believe that eternal marriage is a necessary ordinance in order to attain exaltation in the next life, so why wouldn't he have given us an example in that regard as well? The book goes even further, claiming that Jesus fathered children and has literal bloodline descendants on earth today. Although my church has no official position on this that I am aware of, again this makes sense to me. I do not subscribe to the Catholic viewpoint that holy men must take vows of celibacy to remain pure, and in fact in my religion the family is a sacred institution to be honoured and continued.
The other so-called bombshells revealed in the book revolve around the idea of symbology and ancient religion. Again, these things are presented in a manner that seems intended to illustrate inconsistencies in modern Christianity and jar the reader into a realization that they have been deceived by the church. Again, this may be effective for someone reading the book from a Catholic perspective, but for me the so-called inconsistencies just didn't materialize. If anything, the arcane symbols laid out in the book can be tied to biblical references and employed to reinforce religious teachings.
I find it interesting that a specific subject matter such as this can be interpreted in so many ways. It is fascinating yet frightening that information can be presented in a manner intended to back up a certain line of thinking, yet to another reader can have a completely opposite effect. It is not at all difficult after reading this to understand why knowledge is considered dangerous by many, and a seemingly benign book can become explosive in the wrong hands.
In today's age there is an incredible availabilty and flow of information. It seems sometimes that this is a mixed blessing, and that in addition to the difficulties associated with sifting through the barrage of viewpoints and accusations, we are also saddled with an impressive responsibility to be mindful of what we disseminate. One man's Wealth of Nations may be another man's Mein Kampf.
If you haven't yet read The Da Vinci Code, I highly recommend it. Approach it with an open mind, but ensure that you maintain a psycholigical boundary between where the story ends and the religious teachings begin. The movie comes out on May 19 and will likely be very good but will not have nearly the impact the book does. Dan Brown has also written a book called Angels and Demons that falls into the same vein as The Da Vinci Code. I intend to track it down and read it, as I'm sure it is every bit as interesting and I am curious as to what kind of an idealogical slant it will carry. Happy reading...

Seasons change

2006-04-03T14:32:00.000-06:00

Spring is finally here. I have known for a few weeks that it wasn't far, but I felt it in the air for the first time last week. I walked out of work at 6 am and I could smell the rain in the air. Not snow, but honest to goodness rain. It smelled delicious.
This weekend in Lethbridge, the sun was out and it actually felt warm. For the first time in months, I wished that I had packed shorts and my sandals.
Normally I hate spring. Spring in this part of the world is so transitional and maddening. The weather is even more uncertain that usual, and spring is not the dynamic, verdant phoenix described in the stereotypical love stories adored by romantics. Here, spring is a dead grey thing languishing in the watery sunlight filtered through an indecisive sky that hasn't yet realized that the season is shifting. It is dusty and bleak, not inspiring and renewing. It is a time of year when the snows of winter recede to reveal a landscape beaten and bruised by the elements, and nature struggles through a colourless cycle of recovery. Instead of revealing the magic of rebirth, the land is shrouded in the hazy remains of the previous year and wears a ratty cloak of refuse that was stranded by the eager snows before it had a chance to blow away. It is windy, dirty, and uncomfortable. This year, however, I am looking forward to it.
The winter this year has seemed extraordinarily long, even though it has been uncommonly mild. Maybe the reason I am looking forward to spring is because the winter itself this year has felt like an extended version of what we usually get with spring.
This year I can't wait to ride my bike again, and to get out on to the golf course. I am excited at the prospect of electrical storms and green grass. I look forward to photographing the spring storms and hopefully will be able to get some good material for an article I'm writing. For some reason, I can feel spring much more this year than I ever have before. I hope it doesn't let me down.

The Ultimate Sacrifice

2006-03-31T02:13:00.000-07:00

It was with sorrow that I picked up yesterday's paper and read of the death of a Canadian soldier in Afghanistan. I cannot imagine the greif that must come at losing a loved one under such circumstances and my heart truly goes out to his family. Although the details surrounding his death are still somewhat hazy, it has been established that he was killed during a firefight with Taliban forces and died defending his unit. Hopefully the heroism of his final actions can take away some of the pain of his family's loss.
Let me muddy the waters by emphatically stating that I am not opposed to Canada maintaining a military presence in Afghanistan. I do not consider myself to be a warmonger, but I believe that times and circumstances sometimes requireus to stand up and be counted, and if necessary, to fight for our convictions. One of the more dramatic historical figures in my religion was a prophet named Moroni who lived about 100 B.C. He had the distinction of living during a period of time during which his people, the Nephites, were almost constantly at war. In addition to being inspired, he was also a brilliant strategist, which lead to him being appointed General over the Nephite armies. During one particularly dark period, with his nation being threatened by its enemies and the government threatened by usurpers and in turmoil, Moroni created a banner out of his clothing, on which he wrote: "In memory of our God, our religion, and freedom, and our peace, our wives, and our children." The banner was affixed to a pole and carried with him as a means to rally the people and help them to remember what was truly important in their lives.
Sadly, even in today's world, there are those who would take away our right to these things. I am in no way trying to encourage irrational fear or lend credence to unfounded conflict, but I am proud of our nation for answering the bell and sending troops to protect those who are threatened and send a message to would-be oppressors that we will not be overrun or intimidated. Edmund Burke once wrote that "All that is necessary for evil to triumph is for good men to do nothing." This has never been more true than in today's world, and I am grateful for men and women who are willing to literally lay their lives on the line to prevent this from happening. It is tragic that they do sometimes lose their lives in the process, but I honestly believe that their sacrifice will be recognized and rewarded.
After 9-11 I toyed with the idea of joining the reserve core. I seriously considered it but in the end wasn't willing to make the time commitment. Sometimes I feel badly about it. It makes me feel selfish and callous to enjoy the freedoms of a society that I am seemingly not willing to sacrifice for. When I consider the time and effort contributed by our soldiers, it makes me wonder if perhaps my priorities are out of whack. They give up their families, their jobs, and even their lives; I am not willing to give up four days a month. True, I have a wife and three small children to look after, but that doesn't necessarily give me an exemption. The soldier who gave his life in Afghanistan this week now has a widow and a young child without a father.
I struggle with it at times. Should I reconsider? What is worth sacrificing for if not the rights and freedoms of my family and my society? Am I shirking my responsibility? My reason for not wanting to give up the time was to spend more time with my family; but at what point do they stop becoming a reason and start becoming an excuse?
I am grateful for the brave men and women who serve my country and I admire them for having the courage to follow their convictions. As I read day after day of the growing discontent with our country's military presence in Afghanistan, it is my hope that the same people who are speaking out against the movement will at least have the good grace to respect and honour those who have sacrificed for it out of the belief that they are making a difference in this world.
Pte. Robert Costall, thank you. I am forever in your debt.

No truce with the Furies

2006-03-30T00:58:00.000-07:00

The Furies are at home in the mirror; it is their address. Even the clearest water, if deep enough can drown. Never think to surprise them. Your face approaching ever so friendly is the white flag they ignore. There is no truce with the Furies. A mirror's temperature is always at zero. It is ice in the veins. Its camera is an X-ray. It is a chalice held out to you in silent communion, where gaspingly you partake of a shifting identity never your own.

-R.S. Thomas, "No truce with the Furies"

Oceans Apart

2006-03-29T00:24:00.000-07:00

Almost everyone I have ever met exhibits some sort of emotional attachment or connection with some kind of physical landform or geological feature. I've seen this mirrored in an amazing variety of relevant objects or places, ranging from concrete pedestrain overpasses to seemingly-infinite expanses of desert. It is curious and strange to discover where people feel the most comfortable, and often revealing.
I have been fortunate enough in my relatively short time on this earth to cover a fair amount of ground. I have lived in Europe and walked through ancient forests and up 800 year-old stone stairways that once bore the footsteps of such legendary personages as King Richard the Lion-Hearted and Cardinal Richelieu. I have tasted the purity of mountain air at nine thousand feet above sea level, and have sat in reverence at the foot of thousand year-old cedars measuring twenty feet in diameter in the heart of the pacific rainforest. I have tasted the salt of both the Atlantic and Pacific oceans, have sifted the orange sands of the desert in my hands, and was raised among the endless amber fields of the Canadian prairie. I can say firsthand that there are places that inspire, places that command respect, and places that convey an absolutely petrifying sense of dread. Sometimes it seems as though the earth itself has a soul.
I'm not sure what it is in us that identifies more strongly with one place than another. It's more than just a sense of liking or disliking one's immediate enviroment; I have felt both ways enough times to know the difference. It just seems as though there are elements of landscape that connect more readily with certain personality types than with others.
I grew up in a modest community of 65,000 people. By most urban standards that is a city on the smaller end of the scale, but in Alberta, where agriculture and oil reign supreme, it is the third-largest major centre in the province. I can remember as a child living in a new development on the west side of the city. Apart from memories of constant construction and one incident where a contractor drove a forklift into the side of my parents' brand new car, the thing I remember the most about it was the back yard. At the time, our street was literally the last one in the city. Beyond our fence was nothing but long, wild grass; a pure, unadulterated prairie that stretched away unbroken to the mountains on the distant horizon. For a young child, it was both enthralling and unsettling. We had all been told not to play beyond the fences, so of course we did so at every opportunity. We would play games to see who could venture the furthest from the gate before turning back. I don't remember anyone ever making it out of eyesight, or even earshot for that matter. To us it was wild, untamed, and exciting, but carried with it something that impressed on our young minds that the world was a large and sometimes frightening place. The fence itself was absolute protection, and once back within it's sanctuary we were safe from whatever unseen forces we imagined lurking among the long grasses on the other side of the gate and beyond.
The city was growing rapidly, and it wasn't long before our prairie disappeared and was replaced by the houses of new friends and eventually, classmates. By that time I was in kindergarten and the days of daring each other away from the fence were a rapidly fading memory. What stuck, though, was the feelings that the prairie had stirred up in me. To this day, the expanse of an empty field conveys to me a feeling of endlessness and a sense of the unknown at what lies beyond the seemingly unreachable horizon. I have come to appreciate the beauty of the prairie, although it can at times be one of the most inhospitable environments known to man. Through the course of the years, I have braved whiteout blizzards, taken shelter from torrential rains, and felt the warmth of the blazing summer sun. Now I look forward to the smell of sweetgrass in the spring or the contrast brought to the fields by the heavy black clouds of an approaching electrical storm. The land once foreboding and exotic now feels like home.
To me the connection is emotional, born out of familiarity. For some it is almost cultural. Many inhabitants of this region are not so much residents of the prairies as they are a part of them. Some farming families have been here for generations, and the cycle of the seasons at which I marvel is imprinted in their very psyche and inextricably tied to their livelihood. It is perhaps all they will ever know, or ever wish to.
It came as somewhat of a shock to me to discover that not everyone feels a sense of attachment to their homeland, or home region. In a way this makes nothing but sense, seeing that many grow up moving frequently and don't really have the time to form a bond with any one particular landscape or area. What doesn't always make sense is that even if it isn't the one they came from, most people do have a connection to something geographical.
I can understand this completely. Although the prairies will always be my home, my soul truly resides in the mountains. An argument could be made for proximity here, as my family always lived within a few hours' driving distance of the mountains and spent considerable time there. I wish I could explain it, but there really isn't any logic to it at all. There is simply a power that resides there; an unseen force that almost vibrates through the rocks and valleys and seems to resonate through my entire being. When I am there I feel free. I feel like I can think more clearly, and it is much easier for me to block out distractions and concentrate on the important points of my life. I feel comfortable, confident, and self-assured; what the French would call "bien dans la peau", or "well in my skin". I feel closer to my God. My career and circumstances have taken me away from that at times, and I now live in a city of over one million people and often struggle to find the time to get away. When I do, however, nothing is more rewarding than to lose myself in the forests of the high alpine, to breathe the crystal-clear air, and to let it all fade away behind me. I can sit up on top of some ridge, forget about the rest of the world, and take some time to allow myself to heal.
Sometimes, a connection to a place can be formed almost instantly. I know people who love the desert more than anything, yet they have seen it once. I have friends who speak of nothing but the ocean, yet they live thousands of kilometres from it. I cannot discount this, because again I have experienced it.
I had seen the Pacific ocean several times before and had always found it beautiful and impressive, but it wasn't until I found myself in La Rochelle, France, in the winter of 1995, that I saw the Atlantic ocean for the first time. Something about it captured me. It seemed wilder than the Pacific, and somehow angrier. Standing on a beach within five miles of where the first French explorers to "discover" my country set sail from, I was struck by the mystery and the danger of a sea that for hundreds of years defined the world. For three months, I employed every excuse I could think of to visit that beach and watch the waves curl ashore as if each one contained some secret to be discovered. I followed the cycle of the tides and longed to feel the sting of salt on my face. It was so new and yet so intense, like the first stages of passion in a new romance. I cannot explain why I was so drawn to it, and still cannot find the words to voice much of what it made me feel. By the time I left La Rochelle, the Atlantic ocean had become a part of me.
The night before I left, I visited the beach for what I thought would be the last time. That night I witnessed the awesome fury of the deep, as a vicious storm drove the waves high up onto the breakwater, spraying their angry crests at least thirty feet out into the park behind us. It was too dangerous to walk to our usual vantage point out on the jetty, which was in fact completely submerged. The beach itself had entirely disappeared. Even though we stayed safely back from the edge of the walkway, within minutes we were drenched to the core and my companions wanted to leave. I, however, was drawn to the seawall, where I could watch the seething water vent its frustration without being swept away. I stood there for at least an hour, as my companions took refuge in a nearby cafe. Soaked completely through, I shivered violently against the cold but could not seem to tear myself away from the edge. It was once of the strangest manifestations of elemental connection I have ever experienced. I felt devastated knowing that in the morning I would leave that place, most likely forever. In a strange turn, it felt like the ocean was angry with me for leaving, and was doing her best to show it. If she was trying to keep me there, whatever she was doing was working. Heading back to the apartment that night, I felt as though someone had torn my heart out, and I would have given almost anything to return to the seawall and stay there until the tempest subsided. For one hour on that stormy night in early February 1996, the Atlantic ocean had complete and total power over me.
The next morning I learned that due to a railway strike, the train I had planned to take had been delayed and I would be departing several hours later than I had originally anticipated. I went to a store near my apartment and purchased a small, hand-blown glass bottle with a wood stopper, and I went back to the beach. It was almost unrecognizable from twelve hours previous. The storm had broken in the early hours of the morning and the tide had receded back to the foot of the beach, where it lapped gently at a blanket of immaculate sand. Having been completely submerged the night before, the sand had been left almost perfectly level by the retreating waves to the point that it almost looked like it had been steamrolled. I removed my shoes and walked to the water's edge, feeling the softness of the new sand beneath my bare feet. I was obviously the first one to visit that morning, as my prints were the only ones brazen enough to mar the perfect surface the storm had prepared for them. When I reached the point where the sand became moist, I stopped, turned, and filled my tiny glass bottle with dry sand from behind me. Then I set the bottle down, reached out my hands to the tide, and said goodbye. I have not seen the Atlantic ocean since.
I don't know why we are attracted to certain things or certain places. I only know that it happens, and that it yeilds some of the most intense and emotional experiences of our lives. Perhaps there is something within the fabric of nature that finds a part of each one of us to communicate with. Perhaps it is a way of keeping us connected to the earth from whence we came. Sometimes it is joyful, sometimes painful. Sometimes it is exhilarating, sometimes it is frightening. Sometimes it is all of these things at once. I don't know why certain places speak to certain people, but I can only hope that when they do, we will listen.

Food for thought

2006-03-28T19:00:00.000-07:00

Excellent posting on the "Celibate in the City" blog yesterday. (March 27) One of the best I've read in a while. Check it out, and ask yourself if you're guilty of the same things I am.

The darker side of Glossettes

2006-03-26T19:03:00.000-07:00

Somewhat alarmingly, I'm posting another entry about poop. This one really should be swept under the rug, but for some reason I'm driven by forces I can't explain to recant it for the good of all humankind. I will warn you: if you are weak of stomach, read no further.
It began when the Bear was helping me clean up the living room. Our house is tiny, and the living room, being the focal point of activity in our home, usually looks like someone picked it up, turned it upside down and shook it, then replaced it. It is generally only at the end of the day when my wife and I pick up all the toys that we remember what colour the carpet is under there. My wife is a good housekeeper and makes a point of vacuuming daily, so the mess is not actually mess so much as it is clutter. Still, it gets pretty hazardous in there at times. Our kids like to have snacks while they are watching TV, and being the kind, accommodating parents we are, we sometimes let them. Unfortunately, this often results in goldfish crackers, raisins, and apple slices being mixed in with the toys. It keeps us on our toes as parents when a child picks up food off the floor and attempts to ingest it. As I said before, the room is cleaned and vacuumed daily, so the problem can't become too serious, but things like apples really shouldn't be eaten after they've been lying out for three hours. The occasional raisin or cracker I will let go, as I know it can't be more than a few hours old anyway.
This is where the cruelty of fate comes into play. The Bear and I were cleaning away, and I was feeling a deep sense of accomplishment at not only have the room clean in the middle of the afternoon, but actually getting him to help clean up his own mess! We had almost finished when he unearthed a small, round, dark object and picked it up. He held it out to me and asked if he could eat it. I looked at it carefully, and for all the world it looked like a raisin. Moosie had been eating raisins in there about an hour before, and I assumed that it was a straggler. I told him he could eat it. Into his mouth it went, and immediately a strange kind of look came over his face. He looked at me and grimaced, then spit the "raisin" into his hand. "Daddy, that's not a raisin." I thought maybe it was a rock or a piece of a toy, so I took it from him for a closer inspection. I began to have a sinking feeling when he handed it to me and it felt soft, and the moisture had revealed a fibrous, black-green surface. "Daddy, that's a brown yucky". Brown yuckies are three year-old code for poop. I pushed the offending object and it split in my hand, confirming my worst fears. Not taking time to question why my three year-old son knew what brown yuckies tasted like, I immediately carried him to the washroom to sanitize both of our hands, and poured him a king-sized glass of water to rinse out his mouth. I felt terrible. I had allowed my child to eat a piece of crap.
I still have no idea where it came from. The only possible explanation I can come up with is that a stray nugget got away from either my wife or me as we were changing a diaper. Regardless of the origin, I will always harbour some guilt over the incident, and needless to say, we now have a strict "no food in the living room" rule to allow us to quash the possibility of a re-occurence. All I can say beyond that is parents, watch those raisins carefully. Who knows where they've been.

Winter Ghosts

2006-03-24T23:34:00.000-07:00

Hurry quickly, through the doorway
Laced with January's cold stain
Hide your faces and funnel onward
Mindful of the passing hours

Featureless, you inundate this place
Flowing like an awkward black tide
Moving cautiously over a ground
Dirtied and painted by your movements

Follow blankly along your way
Among the tired shadows of morning
Clinging tightly to the darkness
Of a sleep too recently abandoned

Yet do not linger here too long
For the garish day comes quickly
And shying from the grayish rays of sunlight
You emerge, heads bowed,

Into the dawn of another season.

Uncommon sense

2006-03-21T22:06:00.000-07:00

Every now and then I come across something that provides me with a resounding conviction that the human race as a whole is a few sandwiches short of a full picnic. Like the bold-type warning on the instructions for a new clothes iron cautioning us: "Do not attempt to iron clothes while wearing them". Thanks, tips. What is ultimately more distressing is that these warnings are not completely unfounded because there are actually people out there who might be inclined to try. Picture it. Bob, the high-powered business executive and his wife are preparing for the company Christmas party when he notices that the shirt he plans to wear is wrinkled. He puts it on anyway, hoping that the wrinkles are minor enough that they will not be noticed. Unfortunately, he quickly realizes that this is not the case and calls for help.
"Honey, my shirt is wrinkled. Do you think you could iron it for me?
"Sorry, dear, I'm in the middle of painting my toenails and don't want to mar them. You'll have to do it yourself." comes the answer.
"But I'm already wearing it and I have to trim my nose hairs before we go. I don't have time."
"The iron is already hot." She calls from the other room. "Just run it over the shirt quickly."
Bob, figuring he'll save some time by cutting out the process of removing and replacing the shirt, sets the dial for extra steam and applies the iron to his chest where it promptly covers the upper third of his torso with second-degree burns. The ambulance ride is spent trying to come up with some way to explain this to the board of directors tomorrow without coming off as a complete idiot.
Another favourite of mine is the warning on the cough medicine we give to our kids. "WARNING: May cause drowsiness. Do not drive or operate machinery after taking." This from a product that is formulated for children two and under. I imagine we'd have a real problem if all those two year-olds out there started driving forklifts around while under the influence. Can these people be serious? Again, imagine the conversation.
Me: "Honey, I'm going to give Moosie his medicine."
My wife: "OK, but hide the car keys first. He made a real mess of that BMW last time."
The term "common sense" is truly the biggest oxymoron of them all. The more of this world I see, the more entrenched I become in my belief that it is not common at all. If I could bottle the stuff, I would give it away for free just to do my part to end the ridiculousness.
A few minutes ago I went to get a chocolate bar from the vending machine. Discovering that I had no change, I pulled a ten dollar bill from my wallet and threaded it carefully into the change machine. The machine immediately spit the bill back at me, its little red light flashing angrily. I snapped the bill between my fingers and tried again. The red light flashed and the bill came back once more. Thinking that perhaps I had the bill oriented incorrectly, I turned it over and tried again. The machine, unrelenting, rejected it a third time. I reversed the bill and tried yet again, and the machine once more spit it back at me. Growing frustrated, I tried four more times to cram the bill into that lousy slot and was foiled on all counts. That's when I noticed the label in near-microscopic print near the bottom right-hand corner of the machine. It read: "Do not fold bills." This struck me as particularly absurd, as I can probably count on one hand the number of times in my life that I have encountered an unmolested bill of any denomination. as soon as we get them, they are invariably folded and placed in a wallet or billfold of some kind, rendering them effectively useless for this particular machine. Who has unfolded bills lying around? It's not like we all carry an ATM in our back pockets to provide us with pristine, unfolded bills to use in cantankerous change machines. Ridiculous.
My father has a book about the Darwin awards: distinctions that are awarded each year to some unfortunate meathead who kills or maims himself in the process of committing some outlandishly stupid act. One of my favourites is one about a man who steals a rocket and fixes it to his car, figuring he should be able to satisfy his need for speed by lighting it up on a remote desert highway. Of course, the velocity generated by the powerful thrust is far in excess of what his limited driving skills can handle, and he tries to slow down by hitting the brakes. Pushed far beyond the limits of their design, the brake pads instantly fuse to the rotors and the car goes airborne, embedding itself in a rock face some thirty-five feet off the ground. Our hero, sadly, did not live to fly another day. I can only hope that the next time some misguided genius decides to attempt something of this nature that they come here and take this rotten change machine with them.

In search of commentary?

2006-03-21T02:23:00.000-07:00

I got my first comment the other day. Someone is actually reading this stuff, and what is even more astounding is that they apparently find some value in it.
This blog is largely just ramblings and commentary on my family, so in some ways it feels good to know that someone is able to actually visit here without going away with the conviction that I am completely loopy. Still, I sometimes read back through some of these entries and wonder if they aren't lacking direction and/or clarity. Then again, more often than not our lives themselves are alarmingly short on clarity, so I suppose the reflection is not totally unjustified.
Back to the comment. I was somewhat dismayed to realize that I was pleased that someone had voiced some appreciation for what I am doing here. It has never been my intention to pander to anyone else; in fact, I was relatively sure that nobody was paying any attention to what I was doing here. These entries have been completely of my own devices, borne largely of a desire to keep track of the events of my life coupled with a knowledge that I am absolutely incapable of keeping a regular journal. For some strange reason, airing my inane musings on the internet has provided a sort of motivation to make regulat entries. In my opinion, that alone has made it worthwhile.
Still, I hunt through the circle of bloggers and so many of them seem to "know" one another. They reference each others' blogs on their sites and give props to each other in their entries. Some of them, it seems, have even met physically. There seems to be a sort of sense of community. In this context, I am an island unto myself. In most ways, I am very comfortable with that. On some tiny level, however, it felt good to get the comment. Day after day my hit tracker tells me the story of nobody visiting, nobody reading, and nobody commenting. I have visited other blogs, even put up links to some of the ones I liked the most, and left comments for them. To my knowledge, nobody has done the same, and I am happy to live on in anonymity. I do, for some reason, get lots of referrals from foreign language blogs. I'm not sure why, but apparently my blog holds some kind of animal magnetism for anyone who speaks portuguese. Funny then, that I would get a comment in English. Funnier still that I would actually care.
Human beings are peculiar animals. Even actions designed purely out of a desire for self gratification are somehow validated by the approval of another. Why is this? I'm sure I would have kept on doing my thing indefinitely even if I had never received any indication that any eyes other than my own were seeing this. Funny then how now that I know otherwise, I suddenly find myself more conscious of what I write here. Now I have to resist the desire to structure these entries to appear more sophisticated. I have to try and remain true to my thoughts instead of making an attempt to write about something that I feel will have value to someone else. The comment has changed everything. Now I will do my best to ensure that it changes nothing.

Tick-tock

2006-03-17T13:01:00.000-07:00

Isn't it amazing how the more time you need, the less of it you have? Run into a day where you have absolutely nothing to do and it will drag on forever, boring you to tears. Try to stick to a schedule though, and it all just slips through your fingers. Lately, it seems like I have no time whatsoever that is not comsumed by work, more work, or family. In fact, I really don't even have time to be writing this and that makes me a little crazy. I'm going back on nights on Monday, so at least I'll have a few hours to myself. Normally I'd ask you to check the sanity of anyone who said they were looking forward to working twelve-hour night shifts, but I honestly can't wait.
Until Monday...

Poop?

2006-03-14T14:34:00.000-07:00

Moosie is notorious for pooping his pants and not saying anything. He hates having his diaper changed and would rather walk around with crap squishing everywhere than let us clean him up. Consequently, we have to check him periodically. If something smells dodgy, we pull on the back of his pants and look down inside to see what colour things are down there. Usually where there's smoke, there's fire.
The other day Moosie was particularly fragrant and I was checking him frequently to make sure that the smell was gas rather than the nastier, more solid incarnation. He tolerated it fairly well, coming over when I asked him to and standing there patiently while I checked his drawers.
The tables turned on me when I sat down on the couch to change the Frog. The Moose was playing on the floor and I didn't want the Frog to get trampled, so I leaned over to start undressing her and that's when I felt something pulling at the back of my jeans. I turned around and there was the Moose, my belt in his little hands, pulling the waist of my pants toward him and peering down at my butt. He looked up at me, then down into the gap, and said "poop"?
Good to know he's got my back.

Show me the money!

2006-03-12T20:46:00.000-07:00

Money has got to be one of the most bittersweet things in life. It's great when you have lots of it, and it sucks when you have none of it. Unfortunately, I'm finding myself in the latter category much more than the former.
It used to be different. As a single guy, I had a roommate who paid half the rent, half the utilities, and fed himself. As a married family man, I now have four roommates who do none of those things. Actually that isn't really fair; my wife works part-time and her efforts are very much appreciated. It's just that no matter how hard we try, we never seem to get ahead. We make ends meet, but that's about it, and that in itself is very frustrating sometimes. You're probably reading this going "wait a minute...didn't this guy just buy a $1000 camera?" Well, yes, I did, but even that was only made possible by a production bonus from work that I wouldn't have otherwise had.
Perhaps some of it stems from the fact that we live in such a wealthy area of what is by and large a very wealthy city. There is not a home in our neighbourhood under $385,000, and most are north of half a million. We rent, and most likely will have to for quite some time. When we moved back from Montreal and had no kids, we looked at a house that we liked a lot and could have purchased it for about $155,000. I was in university at the time so we decided to wait, and have been kicking ourselves ever since. One year later, the same home was $180,000, but by that time the Bear had arrived and we didn't think we could afford it. Again, a mistake. That was three years ago and the same house now cannot be purchased for under $230,000. With the market escalating yearly, by the time we are in a position to think about buying the average home price will be $350,000 and we won't be able to afford it. That furstrates me more than just about anything else. I don't need a castle, but I've always assumed that one day I would at least be able to provide my family with a decent home where we will be comfortable and not have to constantly trip over each other like we do now. Our present residence is 900 square feet at best, and for a family of five that is simply not enough.
It boggles my mind that the market can climb so high and people still continue to buy houses. Am I missing something? I find it extremely hard to believe that there are that many people out there who have half a million dollars lying around to buy one of these houses. At what point does it become so prohibitive that people stop buying? The market right now is so inflated that even a tool shed costs two hundred grand. For someone like me, that is genuinely frightening. Not only is there a good possibility that I will never have enough money to buy my family a suitable home that we can afford, but I also have to go into this with the knowledge that the market is already very high and I will be drastically overpaying for the home I do buy. That is downright terrifying. What happens if the bubble bursts, the market crashes back down to earth and the measly townhouse I just paid 300K for is suddenly only worth $160,000? It's enough to give you grey hair.
I guess I have to just keep hoping that eventually we will find the right thing at the right price and it wil all work out for the best. In the meantime, I'll keep staring longingly at the new houses being built down the street from my rental, and try and content myself with the knowledge that at least I'm lucky to have a roof over my head at all. If anyone out there knows where the money tree is that these people have obviously been raiding, please drop me a line.

Vague

2006-03-11T00:05:00.000-07:00

It was deathly cold there, in the shadows
of where the ocean meets the land
There, where I had waited since the beginning of time
I saw you there, together and unravelled in one form
in another world, ten metres from me

There was water on your cheeks
if it came from the sky or from your soul
your tears or mine, I don't know
but you threw them at me in your rage
It was a fragile shelter

You didn't know which storm was worse
and you shivered there, in your confusion
the wind blowing through you
and me, I waited in my own world
watching, listening, feeling...

You saw them; you heard them,
and I knew it.
The rhythm that pounded in your bones; in your heart,
in your soul
I wanted to touch you when I saw you fall
the colours of your emotions bleeding out on the sand
I stretched out to take you, to heal you
and I felt the soft skin of your feet
You surrendered them to me, trusting.
You could no longer deny that I was there
You turned towards me and you ran
And me, I held you, I kissed you, enveloped you
felt our souls become one
Our worlds disintegrating,
we laid quietly there to watch
to see our feelings tear themselves apart; turn inside out
and we were lost in the tempest

The sun came up on the ruins
of what you had left behind you
There was nothing left but the marks of your footprints
the mirror of your flight written in the sand
and your body, twisted and broken
laid on the border between life and death
and you had chosen freedom.

How many words?

2006-03-08T14:51:00.000-07:00

After much agonizing over the decision for nearly two years, I have decided to forsake film forever and convert to digital photography. I've been through the pros and cons and finally come to the conclusion that the former outweight the latter, so into the crystalline pool of megapixels I will dive. I have purchased a Nikon D70s to replace my trusty, well-travelled Nikon F80. The F80 will stick around, in case I decide one day that film wasn't so bad after all.
The process was a lengthy one. First of all, I've only had my F80 for about three years. Prior to that, I was learning the trade using a Yaschica FX-3. That's right folks, a full-manual 35mm SLR. I figured if I could get good results with that baby, shooting with my new Nikon and it's 5-area autofocus should be a piece of cake. Even that decision turned out to be full of trade-offs. Strangely, once I started shooting with the Nikon, I could never get photos as sharp as the ones I got with the Yaschica. The results were still very good, but inconsistent. When the Nikon was sharp, it was brilliant, but sometimes the shots just looked a little soft. The upside was that with the Nikon's automatic film advance, (no, I really wasn't kidding when I said the Yaschica was fully manual) I could actually get the shots I was missing before due to the need to manually compose, focus, meter, and focus again everytime the subject moved. I decided the capturing my subject, even if the results weren't perfect, was better than not getting the shot at all.
With time, I got better at using the Nikon and consequently began to get better results. The problem with these "pro-sumer" level cameras is that they can do so many things that it is difficult to learn how to get the most out of them. Once my skills caught up to the camera, I noticed a marked improvement in the quality of my shots.
Fast forward to last summer. Both of my friends that I usually go shooting with converted to digital. At first I dismissed the option altogether, as most digital photographs I had seen looked....well, digital. Under magnification there were visible pixels and the colour separation was terrible. Sure, there was the convenience of being able to load your shots directly to the internet, but the way I saw it, I was better off shooting slides and scanning them in at high resolution if I wanted them available electronically. Besides, I rationalized, why start all over again buying expensive equipment that I already had just for the sake of going digital? It seemed like a no-brainer.
A few things changed my mind. First, I immediately noticed a drastic improvement in the quality of shots my friends were getting. When I asked them about it, they both told me the same thing. Both of them were trying things they had never tried before, and mastering new techniques much faster because the digital format allowed them to see the results of their experiments immediately. It made sense. Go to the mountains for the day to take pictures, and rather than wait for three days for your film to come back before you discover that your exposure was all wrong, after you take one shot it shows up on the back of your camera and you can correct the problem. Seemed to make sense. Also, because there was no longer the mental barrier of wasting a $15 roll of slide film and another $13 worth of processing to try and perfect something like a pan shot or a low-light time exposure and getting it wrong, they were now able to try these techniques and more without having to pay the financial penalty of a failure. With digital, if the image didn't turn out the way they wanted they could just delete it and try again.
This got me thinking. In addition to the obvious benefits, there would be financial ones as well. The idea of not having to buy film anymore held great appeal to me, especially as I have been shooting slides more and more lately and have been appalled at the cost of having the film processed. The last time I went to the mountains I shot two rolls of 36, and the processing cost was thirty-five dollars. That was in addition to the sixteen dollars I spent on the film to begin with. Figuring out a way to do something I like for free instead of paying fifty dollars a day for it always makes me happy. I was really starting to warm up to this digital idea.
The two things holding me back were my perception of digital photos' low quality, and the need to buy new equipment. The first issue was more or less resolved when I started checking out some of the new cameras. The technology was apparently starting to mature and the results were far beyond what I had seen before. I read an article in a magazine called CTC Board that revealed that anything from a high-quality digital camera with a resolution higher than four megapixels could be suitable for full-page publication. That put my fears to rest, as the quality of the photos in that magazine are generally excellent. Unfortunately, it also lead me into my final hangup, which was the need for new equipment.
At first, things looked promising. In fact, they looked great when I discovered that Nikon had released a digital SLR body called the D70, which was basically a 6.1 megapixel digital version of the F80 I had grown to know and love. It was compatible with all of the gear I already owned; I could still use all of my Nikon lenses and everything. The resolution was good, the quality was excellent, and I would only have to buy the body instead of a whole new setup! I was thrilled, until I saw the price tag. At over one thousand dollars for the body alone, the D70 would have to wait. I realize that in the ultra-expensive world of photography, a measly grand is peanuts. For me, however, it's a crapload of money. With the kids needing clothes, the bills needing to be paid, and my wife needing to buy groceries, I just couldn't justify the expense. My dream of going digital died on the vine.
It didn't, however, go away entirely. Months went by and I read rave review after rave review of how great the Nikon D70 was and how it was everything a digital SLR should be. Nikon apparently took some of the criticism in those reviews to heart (although there wasn't much of it) and introduced an improved version of the camera called the D70s. I continued to watch ebay auctions like some kind of cyber-vulture, hoping that one would sneak under everyone else's radar and I would be able to pick it up for some ridiculously low price. Needless to say, that didn't happen. What did begin to happen was I began doing some math in my head and rapidly came to the realization that despite the exhorbitant startup cost, going digital would still be more economical in the long run. In fact, using the fifty dollar per day benchmark established with my slide film experiences, the camera would pay for itself within twenty days of serious shooting. That translated to about eighteen months, and a sale for Nikon. I'll be picking up my D70s tonight, and hopefully will have my first digital images posted here within the next few days.
I'm excited to see what it can do. They say that a picture is worth a thousand words. Well, I don't know about that, but I can confirm firsthand that it's worth a thousand dollars.

And so it goes...

2006-03-07T17:44:00.000-07:00

I think this is the longest I've gone without a post since I started doing this. I wish I had some really creative excuse but the bottom line is that I simply haven't had time. You know that your life is seriously crazy when you actually have less free time when you're at home instead of at work. When you start to look forward to going to work because it's less stressful than being at home, you know you've got problems.
Let me reiterate what I'm sure anyone who has ever read one of these posts already knows: I love my kids a lot. Is it bad, then, that I find it easier to love them when I don't have to spend the whole day with them? I find that when I only have a few hours to see them that I tend to work a lot harder on making those few hours into quality time. When I am with them all day for successive days in a row, I find myself getting irritated with them a lot quicker, and it's harder for me to be patient with them.
Today has been especially trying. Maybe it's a full moon or something because the kids have been unbearable. All of them need tons of attention and they whine non-stop if they figure they're not getting enough of it. Afternoon nap time, usually my saving grace, went out the window today when both the Moose and the Frog decided they just weren't tired. The Bear hasn't napped since he was six months old, so I had the wonderful privilege of trying to keep all three of them happy as they systematically dismantled my living room. Heaven help me if one of them ever learns to use a hammer, because the walls of this place will be coming down in short order.
Great. My wife just stormed downstairs with a deadly look on her face and handed me the bear. Apparently its safer for him not to be around her right now. And she's only been home for an hour.
Is patience really a virtue? If I ever find mine I'll let you know.

A seasons' burning

2006-03-03T03:00:00.000-07:00

I looked through the windshield and watched quietly as the world sped by at a velocity that likely could have landed me a ticket but at the time seemed perfectly appropriate. For a moment I almost forgot where I was, which isn’t that surprising since the view through the window could have been almost anywhere west of Winnipeg. The road ahead was maddeningly straight. The kind of straight you only get on the prairies; the kind of straight where you could just as easily tie your steering wheel in place and kick back to watch the distance unroll before you. Off to my left, rangeland crouched below the sunshade; an endless reel of fields, small farms, and the occasional tractor thrown in for good measure. The dashed yellow center line of the road winked by like a faded visual metronome, hypnotic and unrelenting. It was the kind of road where you can drive for hours, cover hundreds of kilometers, and feel like you will never, ever get anywhere. It was the same way the prairies always are, except for one thing. The sun was going down.
When the sun goes down on the prairies, everything turns gold. Not cheap Wal-Mart electroplate gold, but a deep, rich, warm colour that brings incredible contrast to everything it touches. It reveals details unnoticed in the glare of the afternoon, and softens the landscape to the point that it begins to look exotic and inviting. I am convinced that the first settlers to make the prairie their home must have seen the waving grassland in the light of the setting sun and decided that they had finally reached the paradise they had been dreaming of. Suckers. Just as quickly as it comes, the gilded evening gives way to a flat, unsure dusk that steals away the vistas held moments before and carries them off to the encroaching night.
For me, driving along and losing the struggle to take it all in and still keep my car on the road, the cycle of the setting sun began to take on a strange relevance. It was mid-October, and around me were the signs of a season that has stubbornly hung on for too long but is beginning to realize that it has already lost the battle. Summer’s vibrant greens had been gone for months now, leaving only the tired and beaten traces of crops already harvested and sold, and the lingering haze of dust that covers a land that has gone far too long with far too little moisture. For the few trees that defied the vast expanse, the time had come to shed the remains of the year and to fade slowly back into the graying tapestry of conformity that defines the prairie winter. The windbreaks around the farmhouses were barren now, looking frail and ridiculous standing there in their unnatural formation. Even the houses themselves seemed smaller and somehow less important. Cars that had been polished to a high sheen in July now seemed dull and lifeless, like a child’s matchbox toy gone missing in the garden. There were not many people to be seen, but those who did put in an appearance had forsaken their sun dresses and t-shirts for heavy coats that somehow already seemed old, even though they had only recently been pulled from the sales rack at the Bay. Things looked tired. Fall was failing. Summer had long since breathed its last, and I began to feel the weight of the approaching winter.
When you look back at your life, it seems that everything is measured in summers. We quantify in years, but it is only the summer that really counts for anything. Think of an event that really sticks out in your mind, and nine times out of ten, you will reference it to a summer. Even if it happened in during the winter, you will place that winter by trying to remember what happened the summer before. Strange, isn’t it? I know that you’re probably reading this thinking that I’m full of it, but next time you’re trying to remember who was with you that time you went skiing and you realize that is much have been so-and-so because you didn’t meet the other person you’re thinking of until summer camp the next year, you’ll know what I mean. Summer is the touchstone of youthful life; the marker on another year’s experiences, failures, and triumphs.
No other season can be so unequivocally embraced as the sun-drenched, holiday-laden bracket of months that make up the summer. Spring is too eccentric: sometimes she gives you beautiful weather and sometimes she tries to drown you with unending weeks of constant rain. Autumn, my personal favourite, is too moody for most. I tend to find inspiration in the transition, but many find it depressing to come to the realization that another summer has unceremoniously burned out, leaving in its’ wake a daunting string of school assignments, renewed challenges at work, and postponed projects waiting to be completed. Both Spring and Autumn inevitably end up holding you hostage with their lack of consistency. It is too cold to engage in Summer activities, but not yet cold enough for Winter ones. Winter is perhaps the most beautiful season of the four, and yet it is also the most unforgiving. If Summer represents life and experience, Winter is truly it’s opposite. It is a quiet, somber time of year, save perhaps the three weeks in December when the holiday season of Christmas weaves it’s magic in our hearts. I find Winter to be an introspective season, perhaps due to the shortened days that lead us to spend more time at home doing things like reading, writing, or even just sitting around mulling over the parade of thoughts generated by an idle mind. Winter can also be forbidding. The elements, at least in this part of the world, do not ask for your respect so much as they demand it. Ignored or treated lightly, they can kill you. Days or weeks of sustained below-zero temperatures coat trees in angelic robes of hoar frost, the earth’s dark secrets are hidden away by a perfect blanket of white, and even the air seems pure and crystalline. These visual gifts are easily enjoyed from behind the half-inch plate glass windows of a well-heated home, but for someone living on the streets they may well become their last memories of this world. Even as a child, I felt the sting of that cold enough to understand why so many writers have described winter settings as “locked in the deathly grip of the season”.
Summer is none of those things. It is warm, inviting, and carefree. In some ways it seems to good to be true; presenting us with only good memories of family holidays and summer flings. Entrenched in the frigid grasp of a February night, it is these memories that drive us onward towards our next glorious seasonal rebirth. Tonight, watching the snow fall outside the window and seeing the vapours rise from the tops of the buildings into the freezing winter sky, I remembered the smell of rain and the touch of the summer sun on my shoulders. I can’t wait to feel them again.

Little earthquakes

2006-03-02T02:22:00.000-07:00

Ah, the calm after the storm. How long it will last remains to be determined, but for the moment I am content to pretend that for now at least, life is back to normal. Moosie landed himself in the hospital again on Sunday, although thankfully it was much less serious this time. It seems that every time the kid gets a cold, it triggers an asthma attack and he ends up in emergency. This time they diagnosed him with pneumonia, and now we get the unmatched pleasure of trying to keep him from spitting out his daily dose of antibiotics for the next two weeks. Also adding to the fun this time was the added bonus of both of his siblings getting sick at the same time. The Bear has croup, so we end up taking him outside four times a night so the cold can break his cough. The Frog has a nasty cough, which hopefully will be alleviated somewhat by the ridiculously expensive steam humidifier we bought for her room this afternoon. These kids are going to be the death of me.
Having Moosie return to the hospital so soon really kind of drove it home that life is nothing if not a series of consecutive catastrophes and recoveries. Tori Amos' first album was called "Little Earthquakes", and I'm not sure if she intended it or not, but the title is a very accurate, if somewhat literary, depiction of the human life process. Lately, I've been feeling like I live on the San Andreas fault.
I suppose challenges are what make us strong. It has been said time and time again that we are the sum of our experiences, and in this context at least, I agree wholeheartedly. Learning from adversity teaches us the lessons that we are here to learn, and how we handle that learning process is largely what defines us as people. I wonder sometimes how I am doing with all of this. What have I taken away from my challenges? Am I smarter today that I was yesterday? More understanding? More tolerant? Better prepared? Perhaps most importantly, am I using this to become a better person, and how do the lesson's I've learned reflect in my behaviour?
We are alternately our own worst critic and our own biggest fan, so it can be difficult to gauge ourselves against where we believe we once were by comparing it to where we perceive ourselves to be now. It becomes important to listen to others and sometimes read between the lines of what they are saying to us. Honest feedback can be difficult to solicit from friends, as they are often loath to give criticism out of fear of destroying the friendship. Family are usually a little more forthcoming, and of course there are always the unsolicited and sometimes unwarranted barbs from our enemies or detractors. Even these comments, though usually skewed by emotion, are not entirely useless. If someone's complaint about your behaviour can lead you to correct a personality flaw that you were not previously aware of, there is something to be gained.
Life's storms are a curious phenomenon. There has been so much written about them that I cannot possibly hope to add anything constructive to it all. I hope that I am handling my storms well. I hope that when all is said and done, I will be able to look back and appreciate the opportunity they presented me with to learn and to grow. I hate them bitterly as I am struggling through them, but I pray that one day I will be able to understand the reason behind them all and will be thankful for all that they have helped me to understand. I hope that after the earthquakes, I will remain unshaken and will have come to realize that with my faith and my priorities in the right places, there is nothing that I cannot accomplish.

Makes scents

2006-02-26T23:34:00.000-07:00

Ever notice how certain smells instantly transport you to another time or place, or bring back an old memory so vividly it seems like yesterday? Smell might just be the most potent and evocative of the senses. It's actually quite amazing what those olfactory glands can drive us to do, or to avoid. Remember the last time you were mowing the lawn and smelled the next door neighbor's barbeque? You had steak for dinner that night, didn't you. What about when you were walking home and caught the acrid but unmistakable aroma of hot chicken grease. Did you finish the walk with a bucket full of Kentucky duck under your arm? The sense of suggestion a familiar smell can carry is sometimes overpowering. My wife actually had a friend who once offered to rent us a million-dollar mansion for next to nothing on the condition that we would bake fresh bread twice a week because he was trying to sell the house and wanted it to have a home-cooking smell. Crazy, isn't it?
It also works on the other side of the equation. If something smells bad, it usually doesn't matter how good it looks; you're not going near it. One of my favourite fast-food restaurants is Quiznos sandwiches, and I came very close to never eating there at all. The first time I walked into the place, it smelled like burning animal hair and I truly wanted to turn right around and walk back out. The only thing that kept me there was my lunch friends from work, who were hell-bent on getting their black angus steak sandwiches. Turns out the burning smell is from the toaster oven they use to toast their sandwiches and it actually makes them taste much better than any other sub I've eaten, but the scent of it just about drove me away to start with. Thankfully, I've been to several other locations since then and none of them smell like the restaurant of my original encounter.
Smells can stay with you, too. Especially bad ones. Many times I've been woken up early by a screaming child needing their diaper changed. The problem with this is that once that nasty poop smell gets in my nose, I can smell it for the rest of the day. Sometimes it's intense enough that I start washing my hands over and over Macbeth-style out of fear that I've somehow gotten poop on them that I can't seem to get rid of. More than likely, it's just my brain punishing me for the early morning assault on my nose by not letting me forget that rancid stench.
It is truly amazing how clearly the smell comes back, as well. In fact, even just writing this spurred my senses into thinking I caught a whiff of that rotten diaper smell. That has to be a sure sign that it is time to move on.
Smells are powerful enough that they can immediately recall certain places, people, or things. For me there are several that do this. The scent of cold pine trees means skiing, hot diesel exhaust is a cab ride in a locomotive. My first serious girlfriend used to wear Liz Claiborne perfume, which at the time drove me completely crazy. To this day, every time I smell Liz Claliborne it reminds me of her. I haven't seen or even heard from her in years and I'm not sure where she is or if she even wears Liz Claiborne anymore, (I doubt it) but for me, that scent will be forever and inextricably linked to her. Likewise with Cool Water cologne. I had never worn cologne until I discovered Cool Water, but I liked it so much I immediately bought a bottle. This was right before I left for France, and my closest friends had arranged one last "guys' day out" before my departure. We went up to the mountains and wandered around with .22s all day, blasting every gopher we saw. I had just purchased two things that morning; the Legends of the Fall soundtrack, and my first bottle of Cool Water. As with any new scent, I was smelling the Cool Water all day. That was eleven years ago and I am now so used to Cool Water that I can't even smell it on myself anymore, but to this day the smell of it brings back memories of the mountains, Legends of the Fall, and that day I spent with my friends.
Some of the most peculiar scents seem to do a double whammy on your senses. Case in point: cream soda. Am I the only one out there who has noticed that this stuff tastes exactly like it smells? It was once my favourite soft drink, (back in the days before I discovered Dr. Pepper) and I guzzled the stuff constantly. It wasn't until I was on a family picnic one day and my little brother beat me to the last can. Oh, I wanted that can of cream soda. He knew perfectly well that I wanted it, too, and I watched with envy as he slowly popped the top, enjoying the moment, and took a long, purposeful drink, pausing at the end to smack his lips to show me exactly how much he was enjoying my cream soda. Then something strange happened. He put the can down next to my plate where he knew it would be just within my reach, and gave me a devious look like he was daring me to make a grab for it. I looked at the can, and through the open top I could smell the sweet drink inside. At first I thought it would make me want it all the more, but to my surprise, once I had smelled it I felt like I had just taken a drink of it. I thought that maybe I was losing my mind, so I leaned a little closer and smelled it again. Again, I felt as though I had just taken a big swallow of it. At this point my brother started to get a little freaked out, wondering what I was doing sniffing his pop. He grabbed the can and moved away from me, probably fearing an attempt to steal it. Unknown to him, I had absolutely no intentions of trying to swipe the cream soda. As far as I was concerned, I had already finished the can. It was after that incident that I started paying more attention to the smell of everything, and found that like cream soda, there are many things that taste exactly like they smell.
Here at work, everything including our air is run through a complex filtration system that sucks everything impure out of it. It stops us from getting sick as much, but it also removes any scents or odours that could be distracting. About the only time I smell anything around here is when I go to the kitchen and some sadistic individual has decided to microwave the fish they brought for lunch. As anyone who has ever smelled microwaved fish will understand, that's usually when I turn right back around and come back to my desk where everything is semi-sterile. At least here I can pick and choose what I want to think about, and the smells I remember are controlled by the memories I select and not the other way around.
Hmmm. You know, it's kind of dry in here. I think I want a cream soda now.

Lord of the Geeks

2006-02-25T00:50:00.000-07:00

OK, back to the strange habits. You know, you get to thinking that you're a relatively normal person until you start writing about yourself regularly and it suddenly becomes very apparent that you have a lot of quirks. Maybe I should stop this altogether before I develop a complex.
When I was in my late teens, a card game called Magic: the Gathering became popular. It wasn't a regular card game like poker or cheat or go fish; this one needed special cards that you had to buy at gaming stores and pay a ridiculous amount of money for. Being billed as a "trading card game", the marketing was pure genius. If you wanted to win, you needed the good cards in your deck. The good cards, of course, were the rare and uncommon cards, which obviously cost more than the common cards. Sometimes a lot more. Alot of my friends (actually, almost all of them) got caught up in the game and started building decks to compete against each other. One of my friends in particular had gotten really into it and had literally hundreds of cards. He lived in his parents' garage, which they had converted to a makeshift apartment, and he hosted tournaments that would go late into the night.
At first I had absolutely no interest in the game whatsoever. Everyone else had been playing it for over six months by the time I even bothered to find out what it was about. With all of my friends engrossed in it, it seemed like anytime I wanted to go do something I had to wait for them to finish playing cards first. Even after the cards were put away and we were off somewhere else, the conversation inevitably turned to who had beaten who and what great newcard someone had seen the last time they were at the card shop. It was really starting to get under my skin. At the time I was spending as much time as possible on my mountain bike and was getting a little irritated that all of my friends seemed to be more interested in sitting around playing cards than getting out and doing something worthwhile; something, I reasoned, like mountain biking.
My introduction to the game was somewhat accidental. We were supposed to be meeting at my friend's house, (not the garage this time; his parents were away and he actually had control of the real house) then going out to meet some girls and get something to eat. I showed up a few minutes late and to my surprise found the house already full of people; most of them clustered around the kitchen table playing Magic. I groaned inwardly in anticipation of the hour-long struggle I was going to have convincing them to put the cards away so we could leave. Then something interesting happened. I noticed that one of the players was a girl that I was kind of interested in, and suddenly I wasn't in such a hurry to be going anywhere. I sat down and began to watch. The game made no sense to me. It seemed like everyone was playing out of turn, and all of the cards looked funny and had symbols and numbers printed all over them that obviously meant something important, but to me might as well have been printed in Russian. I tried to look confused in the hopes of getting the girl (her name was Stephanie) to feel sorry for me and offer an explanation. It worked, but before long I regretted making the effort. The idea behind the game, she told me, is that you are a powerful wizard doing battle with other wizards for control of the country you live in. Your only weapons are the magic spells you control, which are fuelled by energy called mana that you draw from the land. Different spells do different things. Some hurt your enemies, some protect you, and some summon creatures that you command. As a general rule, the more powerful a spell is, the more mana it costs to play it. She then went on to show me all the cards. Some cards had pictures of landscapes on them; these were the ones you used to get your energy. Other cards had pictures of fireballs, lightning bolts, dragons, and skeletons that you could apparently use to damage your opponents. My head was beginning to hurt.
I've never really been all that interested in fantasy games or novels; as a child I was always more interested in space and adventure. Now here I was sitting with a bunch of people who were totally engrossed in this game they were playing, and I was pretty sure I wanted nothing to do with any of it. It seemed cheesy to me, and I secretly felt like they were all acting like a bunch of geeks wasting their time. I spent the rest of the night watching Stephanie get blasted with lightning bolts by the other "wizards" or eaten by their firebreathing dragons, wondering who on earth these people were and if they didn't have my real friends locked up in a closet somewhere. We never did go out.
I held out for about three more weeks, until the same thing happened on a Friday night after a particularly long week. This time, however, I walked into an ambush. Instead of finding my friends all sitting in the midst of a heated duel, I found five of them waiting for me with an empty chair and a stack of cards on the table in front of it. I got a twenty-minute crash course on the rules of the game: I would start out with 20 life points and when they were gone I was eliminated from the game. There were five kinds of land: swamps, islands, forests, plains, and mountains. Each one produced one point of a different kind of energy, or mana: black, blue, green, white, and red, respectively. Each creature or spell required a different number or combination of mana points, depending on what it did. The object of the game was to use the mana to cast spells or summon creatures that would damage the other players and ultimately reduce their life points to zero so they would be eliminated. Basically, I had to eliminate everyone else before they eliminated me.
I had no desire to learn, or to play the game. The only thing that kept me sitting there was that I was too tired to argue, so before I knew it I was face to face with a handful of cards with names like "Uthden Troll", "Hurloon Minotaur", and "Disintegrate". My friends weren't showing any signs of wanting to leave or do anything else, so rather than watch them play all night, I caved in.
The first few rounds were a disaster. I had no idea what I was doing, and since I really wasn't interested, I didn't really try all that hard to learn. As the night progressed, however, the game started to make sense a little more and I began to get a feel for when to play which kind of card and how to catch my opponents off guard with a well-timed fireball. By the time we wrapped it up for the night, I was making it into the last two or three players every round. Driving home that night, I was a little taken aback to realize that in spite of myself, I had kind of enjoyed playing the game.
Smelling blood in the water, my friends cornered me again the next night. Knowing that I would never go out and buy my own cards, they all donated from their own collections to build me a deck that would compete with their own. It was kind of like drug pushers giving a kid a free sample so he'll get hooked and they'll have a new customer. Within two weeks, I was following them to the card shop and actually began building a collection of my own. I was playing with them all the time now, and I was winning. I liked winning. Before I knew it, I had over a thousand cards and I was a full-fledged Magic geek.
Luckily for me, it would be short-lived. Less than a year later I left for France, where I would live for over two years. Upon arriving there, I was amazed to learn that the Magic card phenomenon was sweeping Europe as well, and I had my friends mail my cards to me there. It wasn't the same. What I enjoyed the most about playing was the time trash-talking my friends, sitting around and yapping about girls and music and whatever else was on the agenda that night. Without them, it was just a goofy card game that I played against a bunch of real geeks that took it way too seriously. I reasoned that by the time I returned home all my friends would have outgrown the game, so I sold my cards to a kid named Raphael and bought a new camera. I figured I would never touch a Magic card again.
I figured wrong. I was right that all of my friends had outgrown the game by the time I got home, and all of us more or less forgot about it. It wasn't until nearly six years later that I was wandering through a mall with the same friend who had once hosted the garage-house Magic tournaments when we saw a tiny sign in the corner of a comic store window advertising Magic cards for sale. I looked at him, he looked at me, and both of us emerged from the store a few minutes later with a pack of cards. Just for old times' sake, we rationalized. His wife laughed at us and called us geeks as we excitedly tore open the cards and compared our uncommons and rares. She stopped laughing and started shaking her head in disgust when we got back to my condo and actually tried to play a game. We had a good laugh over it, then he went home and the cards went in a dresser drawer and were forgotten once again.
Years went by. I got married and moved to the other end of the country, then moved back. My friend and I stayed close but rarely saw each other. The cards I had forgotten in the drawer disappeared in one of the many moves my wife and I made, and I never saw them again. It wasn't until last summer, when my wife was in the hospital after the birth of our daughter, that Magic once again inserted itself into my life. I called my friend, who had a startling announcement: while cleaning his basement, he had found his twelve-year old card collection. He brought them over, and soon we were building decks and playing one-on-one duels. Next it was a trip to the card shop we had once frequented, where we each purchased ready-made theme decks. Before I knew it, it was like I had time-warped back to my late teens, and the only thing missing was the garage house itself.
My friend is now a school teacher and I am middle management for a railway. We look all grown up,but we are still playing Magic. Last fall I made a startling discovery. My youngest brother had once been addicted to the game as well, and once he found out we were playing again, he showed up with a deck of his own. This game infects everyone it touches. Both my brother and my friend have gotten back into the game in a big way and have hundreds of cards. I have a few different decks to choose from, and that is good enough for me. I simply don't have the time or the desire to do that, and I only play when I'm with them. It drives my wife crazy. As soon as we arrive in Lethbridge, my friend and my brother are knocking on the door within minutes, and out come the cards. She thinks, probably not incorrectly, that Magic is a geek game.
So are we geeks? Probably. And do you know what? I think I can live with that. Geek game or not, it has provided me with years of enjoyment, kept a close friendship even closer, and closed a gap with a younger brother I thought I had nothing in common with. Maybe it is ridiculous for grown men to be playing a fantasy card game. Maybe it is a colossal waste of time and money. Oh well. I can think of worse ways to be spending both. Like any other good pastime, it promotes friendship, encourages socialization, and makes you forget about all the stress and challenges waiting for you outside the door. That alone, some would say, is magic.

Golden

2006-02-23T21:58:00.000-07:00

As the 2006 Winter Olympic games in Torino, Italy begin to wind down, I find myself more and more impressed with the accomplishments of the athletes competing in them. I have always liked the Olympics, especially the winter games, but there is something in the current edition that seems to have gotten through to me more than ever before.
Canada is enjoying its best Olympic showing ever, with 19 medals and counting. Surprisingly, many of these medals have come in events that are not typically Canadian specialties: mogul skiing, skeleton, and cross-country skiiing. Some of the stories of these athletes are truly remarkable.
Last night on CBC they aired a lengthy interview with Chandra Crawford, the women's cross-country sprint gold medallist. I don't think I have ever seen someone so enthusiastic and genuinely happy about her sport and her victory before. She didn't come across as a gushing airhead or an overconfident diva trying to give off an air of modesty either. Watching her light up the TV with a ten thousand kilowatt smile while she gave thanks to all those who have supported her, there was no doubt in my mind that her reaction was 100% pure and sincere. As a Canadian, it made me very proud. As a parent, it made me wonder what it would be like to stand there beside some frozen race course on another continent watching your kid ski their guts out for a chance at glory. It gave me a sense of how excited they would be to see the group coming around the last turn and the feeling of ecstatic disbelief that they would have, realizing that their little girl was winning the race. It made me share a little bit of how proud they would be to see her cross the finish line and throw her arms in the air, knowing that years of sacrifice and determination had finally paid off. I can't imagine the time that must be required for these athletes to get to that level, but I'm sure it would be worth it to climb on top of that podium and know that in that particular moment, you were the very best person in the entire world at what you just did.
In addition to the record medal haul, Canada has turned in an astounding number of fourth and fifth-place finishes. I wonder if they keep stats on that, because it seems to me that for every event we have medalled in, there has been at least as many in which we have placed fourth or fifth. Even though there is no hardware to take home with a fourth-place finish, in my eyes that it still a mammoth achievement. To compete in a field of hundreds of top athletes from all over the world and be fourth out of all of them should be gratifying. In my opinion, anything in the top ten is stellar. Unfortunately, with the emphasis that gets placed on the medals, fourth place is quite possible the most cruel finish in all of professional sports. I hope that the athletes who are ending up in fourth or fifth at these games will have the drive to look forward to the 2010 games in Vancouver and will better their finishes there.
Watching these people give their all to their respective sports has also made me evaluate my own life and accomplishments. The comparison may be unfair, as I have never aspired to be a professional athlete and as such have never placed much priority on sports, preferring to persue them in a recreational context only. That said, it makes me wonder, even if only for a moment, what I might have accomplished if I had channeled my energies into cross-country skiing or hockey. What if I had tried luge or bobsleigh, or even kept up with my mountain bike racing instead of quitting racing competitively? The best I ever managed was a ninth overall and two third-place finishes in my age category, but who knows what could have happened if I had kept up with it? Is it too late for me to do something now, if I decided I wanted to go to the Olympics? Most likely it is. To take up a completely new sport at 30 years of age and attempt to be successful on an international level might be asking a little much. Then again, the gold medal winner in the men's skeleton event was 39 years old- a winter olympic record. Maybe it's not too late after all.
I very much doubt that I will ever take up an Olympic sport, (other than maybe playing the occasional game of pickup hockey) let alone go to the Olympics. Maybe it's just simply not what I'm destined for, but it has been an inspiration for me this week to watch these people realize their dreams, or at least chase them. While I envy them for the experience thay are living, I realize that I probably don't have the discipline to spend hours every night and weekend training instead of with my family, and I don't have the money or the desire to spend weeks away from home competing. To remain so committed to their sport, these athletes must truly love what they do. I'm relatively sure that if I was going to love something enough to be that devoted to it, I would have found it already, so perhaps all of this just isn't for me. Maybe, however, there is someone reading this who had the time ahead of them, and the desire to use it to go after an Olympic medal. Maybe one of my kids will one day climb to the top of a podium and get to hear our national anthem played as they hold the gold medal that acknowledges them as the very best in the world at whatever task they have just completed. If they do, rest assured that I'll be right there with them, bursting with pride the whole time.
A good friend of mine once asked me what I would do if I found out tomorrow that I had one year to live. After I finished listing off all the things I would try and cram into my remaining 365 days, she looked at me and said: "If those things are so important to you that you would want to make sure you did them before you died, why aren't you doing them now?"
You know, that's a good question. I guess I'd better get to them.

Stay on target....

2006-02-22T00:18:00.000-07:00

I originally had great plans for this blog. It was going to be relevant and insightful, vibrant and thought-provoking. I wanted to discuss current events and world politics, and to provide points of view that were somewhat different from the norm. I wanted something dynamic and gripping that people would return to day after day to see what pearls of wisdom were being offered. Who was I trying to kid.
The focus of this blog has completely changed in the few short weeks I’ve been writing it, and I fully expect it to continue to evolve. In keeping with that expectation, I am abandoning all efforts to try and keep it reined into a certain vein of thought. The reality of it is this: some days are just thoroughly boring. There is nothing you can do about it, and you can only write so much about your kid learning to say a new word or some deep thought that popped into your head while you were watching The Amazing Race. So what do you do in that situation? How do you keep the adoring throngs encapsulated in your experiences? If you figure it out, please let me know.
In the meantime, I’m going to change it up a little. This blog has taken the form of a personal journal, which I guess is fitting because that is what blogs were originally designed to be. The downside of this is that the nuances of my personal life are probably not as riveting as I would like them to be, so I’m going to try and spice things up a bit by turning this into kind of a creative outlet. I’ve written dozens of short stories, songs, and even poetry, all of which has ultimately found its way to a black leather folder where it has been carefully hidden away from prying eyes. Some of it is about to find its way here. You may love it or you may hate it, but feel free to comment. I promise I won’t take it personally. I may include sketches or photographs, and I promise they won’t all be of trains.
Hang on, this might be interesting.

One track mind

2006-02-21T04:26:00.000-07:00

OK, I admit it. I have some funny habits. For those of you who know me, this will come as no surprise as you've been harrassing me about them for years. For those of you who only know me through these posts, your opinion of me may be about to change.
I have a strange, inexplicable fascination with trains. In recent years the interest has extended to all things railroad-associated, including history, politics, equipment, and geography. Sometimes it seems like much more than a harmless interest. I read books about trains, watch videos about trains, and belong to internet discussion groups focused on trains. I have written magazine articles about trains and even took up photography so I could take pictures of trains. I collect model trains and work part time at a hobby shop that sells model trains. I am a partner in another store that is focused completely on model trains and railroad memorabilia. As if that weren't excessive enough, I work full-time for a class one railway. It is not a stretch at all to say that my career, and in a large part my life, revolves around trains. Sound like an obsession yet?
I'm not really sure where it came from. I come from a long line of cattle ranchers and farmers who if anything hated the railroad and all it stood for. My family may be the only one I know of that does not include a single person who at some point worked for a railway. Neither of my parents know a track spike from a flagpole. I am a bonafide first-generation railroader; somewhat of a rarity in the 21st century. There really is no rhyme or reason to it.
I can remember as a child always being captivated by trains. I don't know if it was the size, or the noise, or some other intangible that I will never be able to explain, but I loved them from the moment I laid eyes on them. I drew pictures of them, built steam engines out of my blocks, and spent hours travel time with my eyes fixed intently on the tracks beside the highway in hopes that a train would materialize. My parents recognized the magnitude of my interest in railroads and did their best to be supportive. When I was about four years old I desperately wanted an electric train. My parents came through with an HO scale set that included an oval of track, a diesel engine, and about a half a dozen freight cars. My dad helped me set it up in the basement, where it enjoyed a relatively short life. Being four years old and inquisitive, I promptly tried to take it apart to see how it worked and destroyed the locomotive. My parents took this as a sign that I was too young for electric trains and boxed the set up. Despite my continued assertions that I had learned my lesson, I would not be able to convince them to allow me to buy another locomotive until I was eight. Still, I remain appreciative of their efforts. When I was about six, we came to Calgary for a few days to visit some family friends. During that time, my parents took me to Banff for the day aboard the Via Rail incarnation of Canadian Pacific's legendary "Canadian". We arrived in Banff before lunch, spent the afternoon at the hot springs (where, incidentally, I almost drowned) and returned to Calgary late that night on the eastbound section of the same train. I remember standing on the platform in the cooling summer night looking up at the yellow nose of the locomotive and smelling the creosote of the sun-baked ties and the hot grease and diesel exhaust of the train as the porters milled about collecting the new passengers' luggage and the recently de-trained patrons like ourselves hurried off to wherever they were going. It all seemed so mysterious to me, and so intriguing. I remember asking my father where the train was going next and why we couldn't go too. I remember not wanting to leave and being glad for the experience I had just lived, but sad that it was now over. My parents could not have known it at the time, but the experience would soon be impossible to replicate. In 1990, when I was fourteen years old, the routing of the Canadian was changed to follow the Canadian National main line through Edmonton. For a child of my age and means, it might as well have been the moon. In my corner of the world, passenger trains had been relegated to the history books.
My parents continued to surprise me. When I was twelve, I got an unexpected Christmas gift from them that turned out to be another memorable and irreplaceable experience. My father somehow arranged with the local management at CPR to allow me and a friend to ride in the cab of a local train from Coalhurst back to Lethbridge, crossing the famous High Level Bridge over the Oldman River valley. The whole ride was all of ten miles long, but when my parents picked us up at the industrial park in north Lethbridge, I’m sure my smile was as big as the engine itself. Sadly, with the changes in the world today and the increased security around the post-911 transportation industry, it is now next to impossible to do this sort of thing.
Throughout most of my childhood I was a certifiable train nut, but as I grew older and entered my mid to late teens, trains took a back seat to sports, cars, and girls. It wasn’t until I was nineteen and landed in Europe where the railway is an important part of everyday life that the interest was rekindled. When I returned home in 1997 I began to collect HO scale trains again, and I haven’t looked back since.
My wife has always been outwardly supportive of my passion for these steel-wheeled giants, but I wonder sometimes what she really thinks. Even I can understand that it may seem strange to some that a grown man would be so passionate about something that many would consider childish, so it made makes appreciative that she will dutifully admire my latest model of a flatcar or covered hopper that she really isn’t interested in, or will sit and listen to me spew railroad jargon that must sound like a foreign language to her. She even allowed me to take her to the mountains, eight months pregnant, for a day of chasing and photographing trains. The woman is amazing.
About four years ago, my love of trains justified itself somewhat when it suddenly provided me with a career. My wife had asked me on countless occasions why I didn’t apply to work for the railway, and I had always hesitated. Trains were fun and interesting for me, and I didn’t want to ruin that by making them my job. One fateful day at the University of Calgary changed all that. I was between classes and had a few hours to kill, and saw a sign for a recruiting session for Canadian Pacific Railway. I slipped quietly into the back row and watched the last twenty minutes of the presentation, then decided to mingle a bit and ended up talking to some of the recruiting officers. I finally cornered one of the ladies who seemed to be a senior and told her I was a student and was looking for something in the evenings and weekends. I figured that given the 24/7 nature of railroad operations, they were sure to have plenty of off-hours work that nobody would want. I was surprised when she informed me that most of the positions they were trying to fill required regular business hours. Besides, she continued, they were only looking for university graduates, so I should finish my degree before I thought about applying. I’m not sure what it was about the way she said it that set me off, but I left the room determined to apply immediately. To make a long story even longer, I was hired six weeks later and now occupy a mid-level management position with CPR’s operations department. Trains, it seems, have taken over my life.
Luckily, this hasn’t destroyed my interest in the industry and if anything has helped me become good at what I do. I still collect model trains, and still enjoy chasing the real ones around and taking pictures of them. I still can’t explain what drives it all. There is something about hearing the haunting echo of a diesel horn echo through a lonely mountain valley that stirs up feelings deep inside of me, and I can’t help but watch a seemingly endless string of grain hoppers roll by and listen to the creak of the couplers and the screech of steel flanges tell stories of the thousands, maybe millions of miles they have traveled. Standing on the old, weatherbeaten ties of a prairie branch line and watching the setting sun glint from the wobbly strands of jointed rail that stretch out drunkenly to the horizon, I can feel the weight of decades of crops planted, raised, harvested, and shipped to the same Pacific tidewater ports that for many of the farming families that grew them were the first sight of the land that they would come to call home. Last year, I visited Rogers Pass for the first time. As I watched a sixteen thousand-ton coal train claw its way up the side of the mountain, felt the ground shake beneath my feet and felt my pulse quicken as the locomotives screamed out their frustration with gravity to the clear mountain sky, I realized that railroading had somehow found its way into my blood. However it managed to get there, it will always be a part of me now.

Left wingy

2006-02-19T23:25:00.000-07:00

WARNING: Rant Alert!

I have come to the realization that I am a staunch conservative. Some of you may decide to stop reading right now and seek out something you will deem to be more worthy of your open-minded, enlightened state. All right then, go find it.
I have always tried to look at things objectively. I have always tried to understand every different angle to a story or situation, even if I didn't agree. I have made a concerted effort to always form my own opinions and to found them in fact and logic rather than emotion. Unfortunately, I am beginning to wonder if I have somehow erred along the way. The country that I live in is extremely liberal minded. I have no problem with being open-minded and tolerant, but I have to admit that I have been very uneasy with some of the things that a steady string of Liberal governments have done to my society. I am now faced with the unpleasant process of deciding what I should accept and what I should reject. I firmly believe that everyone has a right to an opinion and that that right should be accepted regardless of whether or not I am in agreeance. That said, when does it become injust and even immoral to accept a principle that you are opposed to just because it is someone else's opinion?
One of the big issues in the recent federal election was gay marriage. Ramrodded into reality by another Liberal government, it has never sat well with me. I am not one of those gun toting deliverance-type rednecks who like to drag homosexuals around behind their pickup trucks, but I do take issue with ay marriage being legalized. I understand that many people believe that it is a basic human right to marry whoever you want regardless of sex, and I respect their right to view it as such but I strongly disagree. If this stream of logic were true, then I should be able to marry my sister or even my own mother. Some will point out the possibility of complications due to inbreeding, and indicate that incestuous relationships are illegal due to the potential harm in breeding. OK, fair enough. Now tell me how a gay marriage is any more healthy. A same-sex couple cannot reproduce on their own, and in my opinion can not provide the gender role modelling that a child requires. This makes the situation every bit as dangerous to a child introduced to it. Physiologically, gay relationships do not make sense. The parts simply don't fit together. I understand that there are many theories regarding the chemical makeup of the brain of a gay person and their inclination towards that behaviour. Many now contend that it is a physical condition inherent to the individual and that they have no choice in the matter. Again, I cannot agree. I will concede that someone may be born with homosexual tendencies, but I still believe that they have the choice whether to act on those tendencies or not. Many people are born with a predisposition towards alcoholism that they fight with for their entire lives; how is this any different?
The gay marriage issue is just one of many where I find myself at odds with these supposedly enlightened, liberal minded people who somehow seem to have developed a stranglehold over my country. My biggest problem with them now, is that as much as they profess to have an open mind, they refuse to accept any opinion that does not coincide with their own. Because I oppose gay marriage, I must surely be a bigot. Because I make a comment that I disagree with the way Muslims around the world are reacting to the present issues regarding religious cartoons that are offensive to them, I am now a racist. Please. I do not think my comments or my beliefs are out of line. I think that what these people are doing is ridiculous, and is an atrocity. If you don't agree with something, by all means stand up and say so. Yell if you want to, or wave a flag or something. Don't build bombs and start killing innocent people just because they happen to be from the same country as a cartoonist who drew something that you found offensive. But who am I to speak out on this. Obviously, I just don't understand all the issues, or I'm not educated, or something like that. Any reason to discredit any point of view I may have that falls outside the typical free love for everyone diatribes these people love so much.
Why is it that anyone who agrees with them is an intelligent free thinker, but anyone who doesn't is a racist, a bigot, or uneducated? I made the mistake of getting into a discussion on gay marriage with some people at work, and was actually told flat out that I shouldn't have the right to raise children because they would surely grow up tainted with my bigoted, ultraconservative views and would never have a chance to see the world for "the way it really is". I'm sorry, but this is garbage. I've already said that I have no problem being accepting and tolerant, but sometimes you've got to just call a spade a spade. Want to brand me as a bigot because of it? OK, I guess I'm a bigot then. There are just too many things I can no longer back away from in good conscience, regardless of whether or not my opinions on these issues are popular or en vogue or not. I do not agree with gay marriage. I do not agree with the gay lifestyle at all, but if someone wants to act that way in the confines of their own home, they have that right. I do not believe that they have the right to force my to live in a society where I have to agree with what they are doing or I am branded as hateful and intolerant. I resent that I am forced to raise my children in a society where they will be forced to accept ideals and behaviours that are not correct or in my opinion, moral or healthy. I do not hate gays. I know several of them, and I work with them and even associate socially with them. They are great people. I simply do not agree with the lifestyle they have chosen. If they want to live together, fine. I just do not believe that they should be legally married. I do not agree with it now, and I never will. Regardess of anyone else's thoughts on the matter, I have the right to my own as well.
I have come to the somewhat painful realization that in many ways I will have to defend my own rights and opinions because society will not do it for me. I will have to fight to be able to raise my children with the values that I feel they should have, and I will more than likely have to endure many arguments and possibly physical disputes because of those values. Still, I will do this because it is important. Sometimes, you have to draw a line in the sand and decide which side of it you want to stand on. I am thankful that my ideals are becoming clearer as I grow older, and that I am comfortable enough with myself and my world to be able to stand up for what I believe. Wish me luck.

Fun with little kids

2006-02-18T18:06:00.000-07:00

This weekend there is a massive model train show here in Calgary; the largest in Canada, I'm told. Normally this isn't really news to me, because normally I'm in it. For the past three years I've been exhibiting as part of a three-man group and have devoted the entire weekend to the show. This year, however, is different. Last year the show was frustrating for a couple of reasons, and some of them ended up being significant enough that we decided not to attend again this year. My wife and I would be celebrating our five year anniversary anyway, so I was happy enough to keep the weekend clear. We made plans to leave the kids with my parents and go away to spend a quiet weekend together. Unfortunately, a couple of wrinkles came up. In November, my friend and railroad co-conspirator Jered abruptly changed his mind and decided that he wanted to do the show this year after all. Normally this wouldn't have been an issue, but I had already made plans to take my wife out of town and wouldn't be able to change them without it turning into an international incident. The problem is that there are only three guys in our group, and our display is a monster. Being short a man would be a serious issue to them. Still, I stuck to my guns and told them I wouldn't be available.
Three weeks ago, Moosie got sick and landed in the hospital. We are now frightened enough that we weren't willing to take off and leave him in someone else's care for the weekend quite yet. This effectively killed our anniversary weekend plans, but opened the door for me to attend the show. With Jered and Mal pushing hard for the extra help and my wife letting me know exactly how she felt about the situation, I decided that making it to six years was more important than the show. My wife, ever the diplomat, struck a compromise. Friday we would spend the day together and leave Jered and Mal to set up the display on their own. Saturday, we would have a family outing and take the kids -all three of them- to the train show. This was actually my wife's idea, but I was more than happy to take her up on it. Usually I'm so busy doing the show that I don't get much of an opportunity to see any of the rest of it. Sunday, we decided, I would head back to the trenches and help out Jered and Mal.
The plan seemed brilliant, and was executing nicely until we got to the part where we were supposed to take the kids to the show. We couldn't get them to put their shoes on, then they wouldn't wear their coats. Under great duress, they finally got dressed to the point where they could venture outside without catching immediate hypothermia, then they proceeded to pull everything off again. It took us 40 minutes to wrangle the three of them into the car and actually leave.
The show was a nightmare. The Frog, as usual, was good as gold and never made a sound until Moosie inadventently head-butted her whilst in the throes of one of his many tantrums. The Bear was pretty good for a three year-old in a crowded room filled with lots of expensive toys, but suddenly developed an inability to walk for more than three steps without being picked up. Once picked up, of course, he wanted to walk again. When faced with the impossibility of walking while being held, he started whining. Few things in this world are more annoying than a three year-old whining. Amazingly, he didn't touch anything, although we nearly needed dynamite and crowbars to remove him, kicking and screaming, from an animated display featuring a lego backhoe that actually scooped and dumped little black pellets that looked like coal. Left to his own devices, I'm sure he would have spent the night there watching the thing go back and forth.
Moosie provided a textbook example of why families with multiple young children don't go out very often. He whined in the car. He whined in the stroller. He threw a collossal tantrum when we tried to feed him lunch and ended up with bits of hotdog strewn from here to Moose Jaw. With the exception of one display that had a working model of Thomas the Tank Engine, nothing held his attention for more than about thirty seconds. Once that thirty second grace period expired, he would scream. We gave him books to read, which he promptly began hurling out of the stroller with surprising force. Fearing casualties and associated lawsuits, we took the books away. He screamed. We gave him a soft pretzel to eat, which he screamed at until we managed to get a few bites into his mouth and he realized it was actually quite good. He ate about half of it, then began systematically shredding the remainder and scarttering it over his baby sister. We took it away. He screamed. My wife took him to the washroom to change his diaper, and he threw another collossal tantrum at being taken out of the stroller. When he returned, subdued and clean a few minutes later, all it took was an attempt to put him back in the stroller to unleash his full fury once again. we let him walk for a few minutes, which consisted of his dragging my wife around in circles, screaming whenever she tried to alter his course. We decided that enough was enough and it was time to go, and he let loose with the mother of all tantrums. He thrashed so violently that he was very close to overturning the stroller. This was the one that resulted in the Frog getting blindsided, and we cracked down on the Moose hard. Young as he is, he does understand threats.
The day was very difficult for me. I take my obligations seriously and felt like I should have been there to help Mal and Jered. That said, my family are priority number one and must always take precedence. Our little episode with Moosie recently has underscored this and made me realize anew that I must be clear with where my priorities lie. Still, the outing today sucked. I didn't enjoy it, I still didn't have a chance to see the show myself, I was worried the whole time about my wife being bored, and I felt like Linden didn't really get to see what he wanted to either because we were having to move constantly to keep Moosie from screaming the walls down. It felt like a waste. As a parent, you want to have fun with your kids and provide them with experiences that they will remember and cherish. Ideally, they might even learn from them. You have visions in your head about family outings where everyone has a good time and enjoys the day together. Today was not any of those things, which made giving up working the show seem all that much harder.
Kids, as great as they are, can be very challenging. I suppose that as a parent you have to be willing to give of your time and energy without any hope of anything in return, even if all you were hoping for was to form some happy memories. On the way back to the car, my wife and remarked to each other that it would be a frosty friday in hell before we attempted something like that again. Hopefully, it won't be. Hopefully, next time will be better.

All work and no play makes Adam a dull boy

2006-02-16T20:15:00.000-07:00

Quote of the Day: "Don't be so busy making a living for yourself that you forget to make a life for yourself"

Usually a sports station is not where I turn for philosophical insight, but this one just seemed to make a lot of sense. Kudos to the Fan 960 for making me raise an eyebrow. This quote is especially relevant right now because I am working days, and it is insane. I almost look forward to the relative calm of the night shifts I'll be going back to next week. When you wake up at 4 am, go to work at 5:30, stay there until 6 pm and don't get home until around 6:30, a job can seem to devour your entire life. I was going to come home tonight and get started on a project for work that I've been putting off, but then I heard that quote on the radio and decided to do something I want to do instead. I'm going to go to the shop and play with some trains for a while, and forget about work for the next few days.
These sports guys really do know what is best.

So this is love

2006-02-14T17:06:00.000-07:00

Valentines Day. I have hated Valentines day ever since elementary school and the days of handing out dozens of those stupid perforated paper valentines that you had to cut out yourself. It used to take me hours, and of course you had to give one to everyone in the class- even the kids you didn't like- because heaven forbid somebody might get hurt feelings. The only good part about the whole dirty deal was that my parents would give us each one of those cheesy heart-shaped boxes of chocolates, which we would instantly devour. I kept hoping that one day they would just forget about the novelty boxes and hand over a box of Black Magic. I'm not sure why this particular holiday made it onto my gripe list so quickly; something about it just doesn't sit right. If love is real, then every day should be a celebration of it. I guess I've just never really gelled with the idea of one "special" day to acknowledge the most important person in your life.
Maybe the powers that preside over insignificant holidays took exception to this, because I have never had anything but bad luck on Valentines Day. Prior to marrying my wife, I was usually single on Valentines Day. In fact, I can only remember actually having a girlfriend for Valentines Day on four occasions. All three times we were engaged in a bitter feud when the star-crossed day actually arrived. Times one and two were actually with the same girl, with whom I shared a two year long relationship in high school. The first fight was over something she thought I had said that apparently made her so mad that she didn't want to repeat it. It took four days of bickering before she actually told me what it was, and it turned out that I hadn't even uttered the phrase in question. It had actually been a common friend of ours who had spewed the unfortunate words, and she had taken what he said grossly out of context anyway. I can't really remember what the scrap was about on year two, but I do remember sitting like an idiot on her couch watching Star Trek with her little brother while she stonewalled me from across the room.
Valentines disaster was by far the most poignant and for me, the worst of the three. I had been dating the girl for the better part of a year and was head over heels for her. Both of us had openly voiced our distate for Valentines Day and had decided not to celebrate it at all. No cards, no chocolates, no flowers, nothing. We figured that by doing nothing, we could pretend it didn't exist at all. It was a good plan, except for one thing: I didn't stick to it. Caught up in the euphoria of actually having a great relationship with a great girl who I wasn't fighting with on Valentines Day, I figured I would try and be romantic and surprise her with a barrage of Valentines Day goodies. Besides, I reasoned to myself, we all know that when women tell you not to get them anything, they don't really mean it. Well, this one sure did. She wasn't impressed when I showed up at her house to make her breakfast in bed, and even the $45.00 box of Laura Secord chocolates I left on her dresser didn't seem to change her mind. She still hadn't warmed up any when I picked her up to take her out for lunch, and she was positively frosty when I handed her a Valentines Day card and a hardbound copy of a book she had been wanting. I had arranged for a dozen red roses to be delivered to her house while we were out, but didn't get to see her reaction after I dropped her off at about 1:30 that afternoon. I figured out that it probably wasn't very good at about 4 pm when a delivery from the flower shop arrived for me. It was from her, and it was a single rose. A single black rose. No card, no explanation, just a beautiful but very explicit indication that I had messed up. Around 8 that night she called and told me that she felt like I had deceived her and made her feel like an idiot by going all-out when we had agreed not to do anything. If I would do this, she wondered what other kind of double-standards I secretly harboured about our relationship. She was rattled, and needed some time to think about where she wanted our relationship to go, if anywhere. Valentines Day had struck again.
The fourth Valentines Day was actually alright. By that time I was already engaged to my wife and was caught up in a rush of preparation as our February 17 wedding date closed in on us. We were living in Montreal and I was working like a madman trying to get everything cleaned up before we left for Alberta, and we had about 2 hours together to celebrate Valentines Day. We ended up kicking back with some good grape juice and just spending some quiet time with each other before we had to finish packing and get everything ready to go the next day. It was by far the best Valentines Day I had experienced up to that point, even if we were interrupted by one of her ex-boyfriends calling her to beg her to not go through with the wedding. This holiday just doesn't quit, I tell you.
Since we've been married, we've struck a delicate balance. We don't do anything super special on Valentines day, but we don't ignore it either. A card and a small gift are more than enough, and neither of us is offended if nothing shows up because we'll just eat the chocolates we gave the other one anyway. Our anniversary is three days later, so we can get our romantic moments in then, and celebrate a day that actually holds some significance for us. It works quite well.
For those of you out there still stuck in the festering cesspool of commercialism that defines this useless holiday, good luck. I feel sorry for you, but not enough to trade places with you. I am ecstatic that my days of Valentines arguments and resentments are behind me, and that this lousy day no longer instills a sense of dread on my calendar. It seems I have finally beaten the curse. Then again, I guess I should watch what I say. It's not midnight yet.

I, revised

2006-02-13T20:02:00.000-07:00

I have been married for five years as of this weekend. Unremarkable in the face of those who can claim twenty, thirty, or even fifty years of matrimonial bliss, but for me a pretty big deal. This coming from a guy who once held fast to a concrete certainty that he would never marry. Life, it seems, has a way of making a liar out of me.
Being married has been great. Sure, it has not always gone exactly as I had envisioned. I had no idea going into this that I would never have any money ever again, or that my treasured days of skiing and mountain biking were about to be added to the endangered species list. It took me a while to warm up to the fact that my wife hates camping, and that any family holidays would likely be spent in a hotel. I struggled desperately to come to terms with a Mariah Carey CD finding it's way into the hallowed rows of my music collection. In some ways, marriage has been compromise indeed. In others, however, it has been better than I ever imagined. We don't fight. We never really have. Cheesy though it may sound, my wife really is my best friend. She even watches hockey and action movies. She cleans up after me, she loves to cook and is great at it, and she is doing a fantastic job of raising our children. She loves being a wife and a mom and takes her role in the home very seriously. Some of you are probably reading this and thinking "what a pig; that's so old school." Before you jump to any conclusions, let me just tell you that she chose this. I have never insisted that she stay home and have always encouraged her to develop herself and her career when possible. She does work part time and is extremely good at what she does. The woman is the total package. Because of her, the last five years of my life have been some of the best.
Milestones like this have a curious effect on me sometimes. It is very gratifying to be able to look back with a sense of accomplishment and fulfulment, yet at the same time it makes me very aware of the person I am vs the person I was then, and of how much I have changed. Everyone always said that marriage would be this cataclysmic, life altering experience, but surprisingly, for us it wasn't. There was the obvious adjustment of having someone else in your face all the time, but since we pretty much spent every waking moment together as it was, even that seemed relatively minor. Kids were another story. The Bear showed up as I was struggling through a semester of University, living on student loans. My wife had such a terrible pregnancy with him that she had been unable to work much either, and consequently I was working three part-time jobs in addition to being a full-time student just to keep the family afloat. I was exhausted, and no matter how much we tried to cut corners we still never seemed to have any money. Our bank account balance was spiralling towards zero at a frightening rate when the Bear actually showed up in late November, and by that point I was just praying that we would have enough left to get us through to Christmas. Between the expenses of school and the money required to cover the family's needs, we were into almost $11,000.00 of student loan debt by the middle of January, and I decided to pull the pin and go back to work. I was lucky enough to find a job that I liked that paid fairly well, and was back to work full-time by the first of February. The idea at the time was to try and finish my degree by taking night classes, but we didn't have the money to do it at that point and decided to wait a year so we could pay down some debt. Unfortunately, that fell through as well. By the time I was in a position to resume my studies, my wife was pregnant again. Moosie showed up in August 2004, and by December we were shocked, amazed, and a little bit horrified to learn that my wife, who is apparently the most fertile thing in Alberta, was with child yet again.
Looking back now, I'm glad that our kids showed up when they did and I obviously wouldn't trade them now. That said, the effects of having three children in four years were emotionally, physically, and financially devastating. As I have said before, a family truly permeates every aspect of your life, which brings me to the crux of this posting.
Sometimes, after five years of difficult, beautiful, frustrating, rewarding, and exhausting marriage, I don't feel like I know who I am anymore. I look at myself in the mirror and have a hard time recognizing the face that looks back. As work, kids, and other responsibilities compete for my time, things like hiking, running, and mountain biking have gotten the axe. Consequently, I now carry about twenty extra pounds around that I would love to get rid of. My guitars and amplifier, once a mainstay of my daily routine, are gathering dust in a corner of the basement. I actually pulled the acoustic out about three months ago and tried to remember a few old songs, but could barely string four chords together. I was only able to play for about twenty minutes before my hands began to bleed. The once-heavy callouses on my fingers have long disappeared, I no longer have the time to write, or even to learn new songs, and on the rare occasions that I am able to hoard a half-hour for myself, there is invariably a child sleeping, which in our tiny home immediately precludes any guitar playing. The circuits of my beautiful black semi hollow-bodied electric haven't felt the hum of power in over three years.
My time and efforts are almost completely concentrated on my wife, my children, and their support and happiness. I don't resent that; on the contrary I feel very strongly about my duties as a husband and father. It's just that sometimes I feel like I've lost myself a little bit in the transition. Sometimes, like tonight, I'll be driving home and I'll look out the window and see the clouds forming into a storm front, and I'll remember standing alone in the middle of the night in a raging thunderstorm on the top of a hill and I'll suddenly feel the electricity down the back of my neck all over again. I'll smell the rain in the distance and remember sitting on the rocky shores of Waterton lake at 3 am, playing "Disarm" by the Smashing Pumpkins on my guitar over and over again. I'll see the twilight spreading it's golden warmth over the walls of a distant building and remember the burn of my lungs as a pedaled like a madman down some rock-strewn mountain trail, trying desperately to make it back to the car before I ran out of daylight. They would all be empty memories but for two common elements: they are absent from my life now, and they are some of the few things that made me feel truly alive.
I feel sometimes like I have abandoned spontaneity, forsaken recklessness in the name of reliability and responsibility. Have I become boring in the process? I can remember performing live, feeling the rush of the crowd swelling with the music and the smouldering feeling of being apart from them but still a key element of the moment. I remember being amazed at how quiet and still a crowded bar could become as we built towards the high point of Live's "Lightning Crashes" and how good it felt to know that I had every person in the room hanging on my every word. It was a truly powerful means of expression, and I feel sometimes like I will never find anything that effective again. I feel at times like the person I was then is dead and gone now; buried out of necessity and nothing more than a faraway shadow of traits and faults that I no longer permit myself to possess. Sometimes, if only for a moment, I miss it very much.
The tradeoffs are great, and I am not unhappy with my life. As important as those things were to me then, they could never complete with the joy of having a loving wife and three wonderful children. I am not so naive as to think that my life would still be like that anyway. Five years is a long time, and unless we are lucky enough to be named Peter Pan, we all have to grow up sometime.
I wonder if I will ever start playing guitar again. I daydream that when the kids are older I'll have a studio in the basement and I'll be able to start writing again. Maybe I won't play live, but at least I'll have it for me. I wonder if I'll be able to ride again. Of all the things I've given up, I miss that the most. To smell the pine trees roasting in the summer sun, hear the crunch of my tires fighting for traction, and feel the fire in my chest as I suck on the thin air cresting a long climb is truly nirvana for me. Flying down a tight, winding singletrack with my fingers cramping from the brake extension and sensing every vibration in the bike like it is an extension of my own body; that is true release. I watch the uniform grey skies gather as the snow begins to fall and I wonder if I'll ever ski the way I did before, and if I'll appreciate it as much then as I would right now.
I wonder if somewhere out there among the trees and clouds and fading sunlight of a good life changed by circumstance, I'll be able to find myself again one day.

Family Ties

2006-02-12T23:25:00.000-07:00

Our kids are finally back from their Grandparents' houses, where they have been staying while Moosie was in the hospital. It's wild at home again, but nice to have them back. Both sets of Grandparents came up this weekend to help us and the kids settle back in, which was nice. It's going to be a bit of an adjustment for all of us to get back to where we were before.
Having family relatively close by has been such a huge blessing for us. I can't even imagine what we would have done if we had been living in New York State or somewhere like that when all this happened. Working for the railway, I guess you never really know where you're going to end up so I should probably enjoy this while I can.
They say that you should always try and take away something positive out of every negative experience. If there is anything positive to be drawn from this, it is that I feel like my priorities are much clearer now. Family will always be number one. There is simply nothing in this life that could ever be more important, and what more can be said than that?