LoveUbecause … my duck found a home

LoveUbecause … my duck found a home

Purchasing art. Art and stories. Sometimes the creation is the story, sometimes the purchase is the story …

I have often said that though it may be several years in coming, there is always an owner, or buyer to match with a particular piece of art or photography.

There is that moment when all comes together in  artistic happen stance -  which sometimes is admittedly a little more confused and disorderly than necessary - when that image, those strokes, that composition, for whatever reason, circumstance or appeal, finds its rightful home and owner.

I went to a fund-raiser this past weekend for a large organization that promotes the preservation of wetlands and migratory water fowl – ducks in particular -  throughout North America. I was invited to attend  as a “guest artist”, as I provided an artistic  donation  to be included in the live auction.

I have to confess  that I  had  trouble deciding what to donate.  My style of painting is expressionistic and sometimes borders on the abstract. I was concerned that  anything I brought would not fit in with the theme as “I have never painted a duck in my life”.  As I explained to the audience prior to the bidding, this presented me with a quandary. What should I contribute?

Fortunately, though a “duck-less” painter, I am also a photographer – or as I prefer, “ an artist with a camera”. I am familiar with the functions of most of the buttons and switches on my Nikon, but  in my estimation,  I am a little lean on the technical side.  I often have to stop and think about an f-stop of 22 in comparison to one of 8. Will it let in a large, or small amount of light? Oh those dang technicalities!

Fortunately, in spite of any technical shortcomings, I am told, I have a “good eye” for composition and the “interesting angle”.  This is presumably true, as my photographs

 and photo illustrations  have been displayed in art galleries, sold through stock photo agencies, used in magazines and promotional materials and  on a vast variety of web sites . So, by donating a nicely framed  photograph, I wasn’t providing anything short on quality, in comparison to a “duck-less” painting. Moreover, I had just the photograph  in mind!

I spent quite some time finding the photograph in question. You see, just as the artistic attic of my mind tends, at times, to be somewhat cluttered with unsorted thoughts, so always is the hard drive on my computer, with disorganized photo files.

I had a clear vision of the image I was seeking and easily managed to find a low resolution, unprintable version. Unfortunately, I couldn’t  remember what year, or where exactly, I captured “the shot.” and this particular version of the photograph was missing the original digital time-stamp.  Finding the high resolution, printable version proved an unenviable, eye straining, patience testing task.

Imagine typing “*.jpg” into the search engine on your computer  and almost 30,000  images appear! Very slowly, little icons dotted the screen, begging to be examined for one particular duck – and that was on only one hard drive!  There were also the  DVDs, the 500 gigabyte  external hard drive - thankfully not quite full -  and let’s not forget the older collection of CDs - all image laden!

 As this is not the first time I have found myself in this predicament - helplessly trying to track down one particular image amongst thousands – the requisite  unpleasant oaths were muttered. Restless sighs of frustration were loudly “sighed”. It was  all enough for my wife to suggest I “stop that”,  as she passed by my office door.

Of course, the thought to “one day” organize all these photographs into a logically indexed,  collection crossed my mind. Imagine at a moments notice being able to  select a long ago, captured scene from my own Google-like, organized, electronic, image albums!  Well guess what, “that ain’t never going to happen, Stanley, ’cause I’m too busy trying to find lost pictures!” – and don’t ask me who Stanley is, though I am sure I have a picture of him on my hard drive, somewhere!

As I said, sometimes my thoughts get a little cluttered – point proven! Now I shall quit ranting! Back to my ducky story …

“And so it was”, as they say in those epic tales, as the search achingly slowly became, the elusive duck  was eventually found – just as I thought -  in a directory with a whole lot of photographs of butterflies! Well, I guess they all do have wings.  All so very logical – Google-like, sort of - not!

I  always liked this photo. It is a fleeting moment unexpectedly captured in an unusual circumstance, but like many of my photographs, it was not taken with a particular use in mind – it never had a “home”.

I recall that I once spent endless hours squatting on the muddy shore of a lake in Florida. There I was, the duck Paparazzi, unsuccessfully attempting to keep my feet and bottom dry and go home with the ducky “money shot”. Ironically, it was on a photography outing to a butterfly sanctuary in British Columbia that I inadvertently turned, noticed this bird sitting at the edge of a pond, hungrily, eyeing the large,  gold fish passing through the water beneath. As is my nature, I spontaneously, without concern for  F-8, 11 or 22, snapped the shot.  Voilà!  “Thinking About Lunch” came into being. Florida? Forget about it!

Now I am quite certain that the gold fish, actually closer in colour to the ”l’orange” in duck, was never actually devoured. But  I must confess, I am hoping  that the fowl in question was indeed a duck! Hopefully the “duck people” were not just humouring me, as I expounded upon my avian tale. Wouldn’t that be a lark … duck … whatever.  

In retrospect, as  an artist with little talent for ornithological identification, I could have,  though well intentioned , presented  a photograph of the very rare, short-tailed, Peruvian, green-winged pheasant  - should there be such a thing. Let’s hope not – that would be embarrassing! And Lord knows, such things just don’t happened to me! 

I know the sum of my duck knowledge may not extend much past the  delicious, crispy skinned, breast that I used to thoroughly enjoy at a restaurant, of the same name, “The Duck”. But I am indeed pleased,  that  “my duck”, or perhaps obscure duck-like creature featured in “Thinking About Lunch”, did indeed find a good home!

Wayward, disorganized  and difficult to find as it was in the electronic habitat of my computer’s hard drive, the hunt for the duck - the only kind of hunting I do - was , I think, well worthwhile.

I was happy to have contributed to the preservation of our environment and fair feathered friends. But just as important, the first print of “Thinking About Lunch” found a home and owner   and what the heck , it makes for a good duck story!

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Animals, Art, Country Living
Tags: Animals, Art, birds, duck, fish, fun, life, love, photography, photos, wildlife

LoveUbecause … you are my refuge, my moment

LoveUbecause … you are my refuge, my moment

 My caveat – I am not a wildlife expert – so don’t take this as any kind of sound advice. It is a bit confusing – there are a lot of instructions, “ifs” and “buts” –  but my understanding is that it is not advisable and very hard, though in extreme circumstances not impossible, to win, or try to win a fight with a bear. Most of all, everyone seems to agree – if you come upon a bear, unless it is in a cage at the zoo – wait a minute, there are exceptions – remember that silly lady who jumped into the polar bear enclosure at the Berlin zoo not so long ago - Don’t run! Best, in the right circumstances, to climb a tree – remembering that dangling legs can be a tempting appetizer, so you had best find one at least with 12 to 30 feet of climbing height - unless it is what kind of bear? That is where I become confused again! Less optimally, in some situations drop to the ground, lay still, play dead hope he goes away! I shudder at the thought, but he may nose you around a little, take a nibble. Wait it out, things will get better - let’s not antagonize him, or things may get a whole lot worse! But if they do anyway, this might be the time to get up and fight? Gosh I have trouble following recipes, never mind all these instructions - I’ll let you read the article, or Google it yourself, I am just a writer.

In any event, the last year or so has not been kind to many of us, as we have watched “the bear” frighten our hard earned retirement plans, RRSP and 401K investments into virtual oblivion. There are about as many “ifs”, “buts” and “in these circumstances” attached to what we should do in this bear market as there are to advice about meeting a real bear in the wild, with even the conventional wisdom of “wait it out, don’t run” being questioned by some financial experts. Time will tell, but as in the wild, I have decided to “wait it out”. However stressful that can be, hopefully patience shall eventually win out over flight! 

Financial crash, stress and depleted savings, or not, there is a notable time in the spring when other more important special things fall into place and a motorcycle ride from the barn where I board my horses, back to my home, several miles away, just hits a sweet spot – makes me forget all about that other stuff. 

Owning a side-car equipped, motorcycle allows me to negotiate gravelled, potholed roads that most bikers won’t dare to contemplate. 

These minor arterial thoroughfares that provide the life’s blood of supply and transportation to and from myriad rural destinations – the dusty back roads where the crunch of the gravel making way for the rolling tires becomes music to the ears, the feel of the cool air, warmed just slightly to a few degrees above zero by the sinking evening sun, feels fresh on my face and my senses heighten slightly, as I scan the fields and shoulders of the road for deer migrating from their day habitat to that of the evening. It all brings me to a special space - my own special space, where little other than the immediate is contemplated, worried about or missed. It is a refuge - my refuge, my moment. 

I am not quite sure why it struck me so consequential the other day, as I consider myself fortunate – riding my bike is really just one of a few “special places” I am lucky to be able to go and “get a way from it all”. 

I won’t go so far as to call it a ritual, or habit, but it would be fair to say that it would not be uncommon to find me strolling the back few acres of our property on many a Sunday evening - especially from early spring to late fall, often with a crystal glass in hand, filled with some kind of “spirits of fortitude” poured over the requisite seven or eight cubes of ice. This too is a wonderful space – a relaxing space - a spacious cedar grove in particular, where the trees seem to reach almost endlessly to the sky, trilliums rise and form a mottled, cream coloured, blanket in the spring, leaves crunch crisply beneath every step in the fall. A cacophony of excited squawking often fills the air as hundreds of crows, disturbed by only what is known to them as disturbing, take flight, swooping above and between the trees in a sudden frenzy and where, in the serenity of the sudden silence that follows, I often lament that the day is coming to a close.

But as the road commands my attention with its twists and turns, the crows with their din, so does the excitement of a gallop about the fields on my equine friend. A different place of refuge where the activity, the rhythm of the stride and gallop, the snort of his breath, the beating of my heart, the speed that tears my eyes from the the sting of the cool wind, collectively peak to exhilaration. Attention focused on balance - what lies ahead, what lies beside . Nimbly “listening” to my legs, he moves slightly right, or left, as we avoid small stones pushed to the surface of the path by the past winter’s frost. I momentarily live the fantasy of the race – he, remembering fondly, when with the blossoming of the wild apple trees, the race track beckoned and the real races were run, won and lost. 

These are simple moments – complex in their simplicity. Sought out moments, that nonetheless evolve naturally. They are relaxing moments, exciting moments ,when “it” is not about the stress of life, the next job, the decks that should be painted, bills that should be paid. 

And so it was, the other evening I rode my bike home, I hit the “sweet spot”, put any thought of “the bear” in the woods out of my mind, and whatever that is inside us, or around us, that speaks to us with common sense, revelation and comfort said, “you’re happy”. And I couldn’t help but smile and know that it didn’t matter how much money I had in the bank, or my RRSP, whether it was going to be a good week or a challenging week, what may be demanded of me kindly, or unkindly – I had “the moment”, my moment - my place of refuge and “yes”, I was happy.

 

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Country Living, Motorcycles, Pets, Sports, horses
Tags: animal, bears, bull, Country Living, equine, finance, fun, horses, life, love, money, relaxation, retirement, stock market, stress, wild

LoveUbecause … you are my motorbike!

LoveUbecause …  you are my motorbike!

Call me a narcissist, or perhaps delusional. Put it down to being born at home. Gracing this world’s stage, not to be greeted by a crowd of cheering medical staff, or blinding, bright hospital lights left me a little wanting.

I prefer to think it stems from being cast in the role of an “auxiliary angel” in the school nativity play. Some kid called Ronald got to portray Joseph, the “headliner”. I didn’t get to say anything – just look awe struck when Jesus, played by a plastic doll, arrived – even he got more applause than me! There were no spotlights aimed in my direction, no curtain calls, or kudos for looking just plain angelic!

Consequently, I admit, spending much of my life looking for just that – a comfortable place in the glow of the spotlight, with a few cheers thrown in for good measure! What can I say – I shall just have to admit to being, at times, a bit of an insecure fellow.

Childhood shyness and innate nervousness didn’t really help. Neither did an upbringing, where acting up in school, bringing attention to myself in anything but a scholarly, or “within the confines of the rules” sort of way, was frowned upon. This hopeful extrovert,  wanna-be-class-clown, would have to wait.

Timing, as they say, is everything.  At age five, I watched Jimmy Stewart, fuddle and muddle to stardom as trombonist, Glen Miller in The Glen Miller Story. Miller struggled hard to create an original, big band sound, valiantly trying to make ends meet - winning the girl - almost losing the girl - winning the girl - so romantic. Well, perhaps not the part where he dies in a plane crash!

Nonetheless, for a time, destiny smiled and Miller’s band was wildly popular. In my child’s mind, what better way to blast myself into the hearts and minds of the public than to play the trombone?

Forward several years. After a good music test, some insufferable whining and a familial appreciation of the note, as my mother is one mean accordion player, it was agreed. At age eleven, I could have that shiny, brass horn! Blast I did – though elementary school, high school, university and beyond. I played lots of good notes and my share of bad. At one time, some agreed I was relatively accomplished. Whatever the review, timing had the ultimate say. Newsflash! The mass popularity of big bands faded, pretty much, thirty years ago! Duh! Go find something else to do, “Glen”!

I moved on. I wrote songs, recorded some tunes – ok, that country record was stretching it a bit. Finally that wanna-be-class-clown was released as I earned a living acting for a time portraying a demented scientist in a rather silly play. For years I also played doctors, lawyers, soldiers, policemen and a host of other characters, flashing by in the background as an extra in television shows, movies and commercials. Oh, the glamour of Hollywood North! Begrudgingly, I admit it went nowhere! Forever waiting for the “Über-audition”, the “big break” – sadly, there were no Tony, or Grammy nominations in the cards – Oscar, well that’s just the name of one of my cats - though Catherine O’Hara did once tell me she really liked the sweater I was wearing. What more could a fellow ask for?

Finally - the art! Discovering a flair for the application of paint to canvas, I found several reputable galleries willing to display and sell my work over the past sixteen years. The possibility in centuries forth, of discovering an “Olscher”, dusty and long forgotten, somewhere in an attic in a number of different countries, is actually there – the value of which - to be determined!  What more can a fellow intent on gaining a certain measure of notability hope for?  I even “Google” well!

Now it may be naïve to think that one can ever top the applause that a plastic Jesus gets in a school play, but I am definitely happy being an artist! Especially with some reassurance that once I take my easel and tumble off this mortal coil, hopefully into the froth of painterly heaven, at least I will be able to say I once had some practice at being an angel – albeit, not well lit!

But here’s the kicker! Ironically, recognition, or perhaps call it “fleeting, mobile, anonymous celebrity”, has shown itself in an unexpected and oddly satisfying way. 

Several summers ago I walked into a local motorcycle shop. There sat a gleaming, classically designed, sidecar equipped motorbike. Was I nostalgically jarred by memories of such machines in old films I habitually watched as a child with my grandparents on Sunday afternoons? Was it the spectacle of similar vehicles that trundled by as an addendum to the London to Brighton, antique, automobile race my father once took me too?  I don’t know, but I had to have it!

With promises of summer, afternoon jaunts through the lush, green, countryside and romantic weekends spent winding down the road from one B and B to the next, my wife was an easy sell.

As a neophyte rider, I took a safety course and a little nervously, the possession of our bike. Prepared for the reaction? Not! A vehicular oddity, for sure!

People stopped, stared, pointed and waved. I was flagged down, thinking something wrong, only to be questioned whether I was driving a BMW - an antique? No – it’s a Russian Ural of the 2003 vintage, actually!

Once, a van pulled up beside us on the wrong side of the highway and just stayed there! Were they trying to pass and just ran out of steam? No, the passenger was taking a picture. My goodness, Paparazzi – at last!

It is like being the only float in the parade. My wife has perfected her queenly wave and I, the expected manly nod, for occasions unsafe to remove my hands from the grips to return a salute from another passing biker. Little children, smile and jump up and down in delight. Grown men, in pickup trucks, break into broad grins as we pass. School bus loads of kids jovially jostle at the windows to get their glimpse and

give us a thumbs up.  I have been followed by mothers, with youngsters, who want to see the bike up close when I stop. “Just like in that Dalmatians movie!” they exclaim. Donut shop and mall parking lots are a haven for the curious and old men wishing to recount and briefly relive there memories of driving similar machines in younger days. A conversation piece?  An understatement!

This three wheeled chariot can be driven, using a little common sense, year round. We don’t expect to win any races, but flipped into two wheel drive we have negotiated back roads that have turned into streams, mud and snow.  Nothing like the 85 km ride we took one New Years Day! Talk about curious onlookers!

Admittedly there have been a few ups and downs with some rather quirky, old style technology, but our dealership has given us good service when required. It would be hard to outweigh the sheer pleasure of driving this machine.

Waving, cheering, we don’t even have to try! There is nothing better than finding pleasure in the unexpected and apparently bringing joy by being the unexpected. And strangely in our anonymity, what better way to spend a Sunday afternoon. What better way to enjoy life!

Enjoying the ride …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Art, Country Living, Motorcycles, Music, Sports
Tags: Art, bikers, celebrity, childhood, dreams, fame, film, life, love, motorbikes, motorcycles, movies, Music, transportation

LoveUbecause … You were a Saint, Martin

LoveUbecause …  You were a saint, Martin

re·qui·em:  Pronunciation: \ˈre-kwē-əm also ˈrā- or ˈrē-\
Etymology: Middle English, from Latin (first word of the introit of the requiem mass), accusative of requies rest, from re- + quies quiet, rest — more at while
Date: 14th century
1: a mass for the dead
2 a: a solemn chant (as a dirge) for the repose of the dead b: something that resembles such a solemn chant
3 a: a musical setting of the mass for the dead b: a musical composition in honor of the dead
(http://www.merriam-webster.com/dictionary/requiem)

I always think it is interesting how seemingly, unrelated events occasionally, unexpectedly, fall into place and culminate in creating personal meaning out of their randomness. The pieces of the puzzle often are created over a long period of time, but whether by serendipity, or some kind of cosmic will, eventually tumble into place, creating a picture of better understanding and appreciation of those around us and those who have come before -  sometimes even in single day, or two.

My wife and I , also “A”, spent this past weekend in a small, historic, eastern Ontario town with friend’s, “B” and “S”, both of whom we have known for many years - “B”, my wife’s friend from high school days and my former university flat-mate  - “S”, his wife of almost 25 years, with whom both “A” and I share a firm friendship and I, in particular, an affinity for the same kind of British humour, as we both hail originally from “the land of Bess”,  and love of all things equine, as we both own and ride horses.

“B” is quite a remarkable man. A small town music teacher, choirmaster and church organist for some 30 years, he has brought joy and music to the communities he has worked and lived in with the unwavering generosity of the gifts of his time and very considerable musical and organizational talents.  He has  directed  and worn enough different hats while participating in, and organizing countless school and community musicals, concerts, recitals and band trips to make the Mad Hatter appear like a slouch! “S” has stood by his side, offering her moral support, skills as a hostess for an untold number of “after parties,” her home, sense of humour and culinary skills  as refuge and comfort to sundry visiting musicians, artists and actors and lent her alto voice as a participant in many of “B”’s projects – she is the veritable “Queen of Patience” - both are to be celebrated  and  admired. Most of all, I am proud to count them as my friends!

“B”’s latest project was to combine two choirs  from two local churches to form a 45 voice ensemble to  perform what is known to some as the “Brahms Requiem” and to others as  “A German Requiem” (Ein Deutsches Requiem).  Anyone in the know will tell you that this is no small musical undertaking for a professional choir, never mind a small town ensemble comprised of  members who possess a wide range of musical skill sets, yet who can never be underestimated, as any possible deficiencies can quite readily be discounted with their obvious enthusiasm, trust in “B”’s leadership and most of all, willingness to learn and perform to the very best of their ability!

The requiem is a very beautiful piece of music and both “A” and I were pleased to participate as musicians in the accompanying orchestra that “B” had assembled from a variety of resources – old friends, students, retired pros and the odd working musician sprinkled in for good measure!

For me, this piece of music has particular sentiments and memories attached as “B” and I both had the good fortune to perform it as choristers with our University choral ensemble some 33 years ago. This was the first time I had the opportunity to once again participate in its performance since - albeit in the orchestra this time, with “B” as the conductor.

What anyone unfamiliar with this piece of music should know is that as a performer the reaction one receives to the performance can potentially be a little disquieting. As a requiem it was written to honour the dead and in Brahms’ case comfort the living, so as a part of a church service, performed in its truest form as a requiem, one would not expect to receive any applause after the final note quietly trails off into an introspective silence.  But perhaps, for some a little selfishly, or more likely for the want of knowing that you communicated with your listeners, as a performer, who has put his or her heart and soul into months of preparation and the performance itself, no outward reaction to your efforts can be a little disturbing – was the audience touched, were they indeed comforted, did they appreciate the beauty, was it a worthwhile experience for them?

As performers those three decades ago, “B” and I, along with another 100 and some singers, were  honoured to perform this glorious piece of music, at a real service and memorial to the former principal of the university, who had passed away, about the time we were originally scheduled to perform it in concert.  It was indeed an emotional experience for many and I can only hope comforting for the man’s family – I think, in retrospect, that the silence that followed the ending of that last chord, cried out more volume, by its very absence of sound, than the sound of any amount of applause that the hundreds of people in attendance in that great hall could have ever provided. It was amongst the  most formidable of  “non-sounds” that I can say I have ever experienced and a testament to my former composition professor’s claim,  that silence can be one of music’s most powerful accents – in this case, even if it did occur, after the composition in question had “officially” ended!

In contrast, we were fortunate enough to perform portions of the requiem in concert, while on tour to another city and university. The reaction and applause we received, both for our ensemble and soloists,  more than provided us with the reassurance that we had not done Brahms any disservice. Both were experiences I shall never forget!

So it was with interest and perhaps a little trepidation, that I wondered what would transpire once the  final notes trailed into silence and this latest performance came to an end - especially after the woman who introduced the concert indicated that the performance would be dedicated to several members of the churches’ congregation who had passed away this past year. I momentarily wondered if the concert would be taken as just that, still a concert, or perhaps that this announcement had, in the minds of the audience, become more of a memorial to those who had passed on. Whatever was to transpire, I didn’t want “B”, or his singers to be disappointed after the months of work they had put into preparing for this one night and whether out of reflective silence, or appreciative applause, I hoped they would come to know that their efforts were worthwhile.

Happily, perhaps with a collective mind of their own, as apparently this audience was indeed comprised of clever, sensitive people, after the singers and orchestra sighed to an end, inspired by the music and performance, a required commemorative, respectful silence was intuitively observed, serving as a punctuation mark before the audience, which jammed the church to standing-room-only capacity, broke into applause, accompanied by a standing ovation. Brahms, “B”, his singers and musicians had worked the musical magic that the audience had hoped for and the evening was an all round success!

The concert ended around nine and it was just after ten o’clock when “A” and I got in the car and began our trip home -  about a two and a half hour drive.  We chatted about a variety of things - fuelled by several cups of coffee and  the warnings of many to watch for the deer that often have a bad habit of bounding Kamikaze-style in front of oncoming traffic on this particular section of highway,  I was careful to keep attentive and prompted “A” to stay awake and help keep me alert with that in mind.

“It was a little odd today,” I said about halfway through our journey.  “Do you ever think that when things repeat themselves, kind of out of the blue, that they have some kind of significance?”

“Maybe … sometimes”, “A” responded.

“Does the name ‘Martin’ mean anything to you?” I asked.

“Not really,” she said.

“Well, I thought it a bit funny. It isn’t an uncommon name, but on the other hand it isn’t that common of one either.  It came to me three times today, in a bit of a strange way.” I went on. “Remember when we went into that antique shop in town this afternoon? Do you remember what the guy said to the other man behind the counter?”

It was a small shop and I hadn’t really paid too much attention to the two men when we walked in, one of whom sat on a chair in front of the counter and one behind.

“Well I guess it’s time you kicked me out, Martin,” said the one man in front of the counter in a jovial tone, or at least very similar words to that effect. It was the name “Martin” that for some reason caught my attention, not his exact words,  as I assumed one man was in for an afternoon chat and was about to get on his way. That was all I heard of the conversation.

It was only a few moments later that I began leafing through a box of old, faded photographs that lay on a stand in the corner of the shop. Old and young faces looked back at me in sepia and black and white tones, probably captured, few with any hint of a smile, many quite glum, at the end of the nineteenth century, perhaps some at the turn of the next. There was a bride and groom, some very matronly, stern women in hats, a baby, all making me wonder who they were, what their lives had been like and how their photographs, once precious to others, ended up with a random assortment of strangers in a small town in Ontario. But it was not the mysterious faces that caught my attention so much as one particular photograph that had a brown cardboard frame glued to it. “Martin Photography” was engraved in gold letters along the edge – significant at the time, catching my attention, only because I had heard that name spoken only moments before.

“I don’t really know why that all came to mind,” I said to “A” as we continued our journey, “but this afternoon when we were at “B” and “S”’s. I was sitting in front of the fire and picked up a British newspaper that was laying there – the Weekly Telegraph, I think it was called. “S” told me she likes to pick it up occasionally.”

The newspaper contained an interesting article about an Italian woman who was looking for the family of a British soldier. The story went like this. During the war, the woman’s mother, who was about to give birth to her and her twin sister, ran into some medical difficulties. The British soldier risked his life, eluding sniper fire and braving mined roads and horrendous, winter weather conditions to bring the woman’s mother to safety and a hospital which could provide appropriate medical attention and aid with the birth of her children. A few days after the babies were born, the soldier left the woman a photograph of his two young children to remember him by. Unfortunately, shortly afterwards he was killed in action. The older woman had always wanted to track down his family to tell them what he had done for her and her daughters and to return the photograph. She died recently and now the daughter was hoping to find the family of the fallen soldier by publishing the picture and reunite them with the photograph, on her mother’s behalf. 

“The only thing she, or her mother knew about the soldier was that his name was ‘Martin’!  Kind of odd, eh?  Martin – three times in a day.”

“I guess,” said “A”

I suppose I was tired and getting a little “punchy”  from all the coffee and was starting to convince myself rather irrationally that the name “Martin” had some significance. Three times in one day – the rule of threes – things happen in threes and all that nonsense.  

At one time when we were kids my best friend had another friend called Martin, my father has a cousin called Martin, I thought.

“Our neighbours used to be called Martin. My first martial arts instructor was called Martin,” I offered. “… can’t quite think why this would be anything about them.”

We continued a few more kilometres. “I seem to remember something about Saint Martin’s Day, when I was kid in England. I think maybe we used to celebrate it at school or something.  Or maybe there was a story from my mother and how they celebrated it when she was a child in Germany,”  I finally said, “I just don’t quite remember. Does it have something to do with Easter? Wouldn’t it be funny if today was Saint Martin’s Day! ”

“I really don’t know,” my wife concluded patiently, now more interested in getting a few minutes of sleep before we arrived home. “but I am sure you will get on the Internet as soon as we get home and look it up, won’t you?”

And so I did, sometime around one o’clock in the morning,  finding out why for me, and perhaps for those who read this, the name “Martin” was by chance, or design, of significance.

It turns out that Saint Martin of Tours was a  reluctant, Roman soldier, who later became a monk. He was noted for his kindness to a needy beggar who he came upon freezing in the snow. Ripping his cloak in half and giving one portion to the beggar, the poor man was saved by Martin from certain death.

Just by coincidence, Saint Martin’s day falls on November 11th, also known as Remembrance Day, Armistice Day, or Veteran’s Day, when people from many countries around the world commemorate the ending of hostilities at the end of World War I, as well as those servicemen and women who served and died in subsequent wars.

I couldn’t help but think back to the rehearsal for the Requiem a couple of days before.  As an instrumentalist, there were two movements in which I didn’t play, so I went to the back of the church to listen to the choir and orchestra. As I lent against a wall, I noticed a memorial plaque to several  soldiers who had  been killed in the First World War. Vimy, the Somme, Ypres were all listed as battles in which these young men had fought and perished. Vimy, a place I visited a number of years ago, I am familiar with. I toured the battlefield, visited the imposing memorial, the small Canadian and British cemeteries that dot the surrounding countryside, as well as the massive German cemetery, which provides a resting place for over 44,000. I even wrote an article for the Toronto Star about the experience. 

I find that memorial plaques, war memorials and war cemeteries often give me a similar feeling to viewing old photographs, just like the ones I leafed through in the antique shop. I can’t help but read the names, or look into the faces and wonder who these people really were.

Did they live good lives, especially the young men, before being thrown into the quagmire of the war and meeting premature deaths? Who were they as human beings, before becoming soldiers? What might have become of them? What might their contribution have been, had they not died?  How many would have become men, like my good friend “B”, and made similar remarkable contributions to their communities?

There is obviously a sadness to such places, but moreover, I often feel a great loneliness, a sense that though memorialised by  plaques and grave stones, that perhaps some of these men would  still feel forgotten, were they able. And so it was,  as I lent on that church wall, reading their names and wondering about their lives, both lived and lost, that I couldn’t think of a more appropriate time to be listening the Brahms Requiem - this beautiful piece of music, written to honour the dead and comfort the living –   a remembrance to them and a brief salvation from that loneliness.

Just by chance, I suppose, that I happened to hear the name, “Martin” three times in a day, think about Saint Martin and find out a little bit more about him. Just by coincidence, Saint Martin’s Day falls on Remembrance Day.  But these last few days - the weekend – has been for me, in its own right,  a kind of  Remembrance Day - the performance of the Brahms Requiem significant,  the reading of the article about the soldier, Martin,  who had in his own right saved another, just like Saint Martin, by providing his own form of a “cloak” to save the woman and her unborn twin daughters. There was  the link from the old photos in the antique shop, to similar ones printed in the newspaper of Martin’s children. It all served as a reminder to me, and hopefully to you, as you read my story, that we should spend a little more than one day a year thinking about those who lost their lives in war and the untold human cost in terms of human relationships and lost contributions.

I hate the notion of war, or stories that sanitize it and strip it of its real ugliness.  As civilized people, we should be beyond all that and be able to recognize it for what it is. But the story of the British soldier, Martin and that of Saint Martin, are really both about acts of humanity, not about soldiers and the “glory” of the cause – right, or wrong, if there ever is really such a thing.

I hope one day Martin’s children will get their photograph back and learn of the heroics of their father - that is the very least they deserve. But whether we choose to remember Martin, and others like him, with a requiem, silence, a prayer, applause, or by passing on the stories of those who chose to “divide and share their cloak”,  the most important thing is to do just that - remember. I am guessing there is probably one Italian woman, looking for the family of a British soldier, who couldn’t agree more …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Music, Politics, Uncategorized
Tags: Brahms, community, life, love, Music, people, Politics, remembrance, requiem, sacrifice, war