LoveUbecause … for Father’s Day

My father and I are two very different people – my son, daughter and I are  very different people. If we were not, I am not sure I could say that my father had been a good father to me and I, a good father to my children.

But it is not as simple as that, because when it comes down to the brass tacks,  the bricks and mortar  that comprise us as human beings and serve as a foundation on which we stand and live as human beings, we also couldn’t be more alike. And similarly, if that was not true, I honestly can say that I would have not been a good father to my children and my father, not a good parent to me.

My father is a complex man and, as my daughter once described me, I am apparently “complicated” too - “but in a good way”. Maybe it is because of their upbringing, the times that we live, but my children seem to have figured this out a lot earlier in life than I did, when it came to my own father.

Don’t misunderstand and think that  “complex” is not meant “in a good way” too, but growing up as a child and well into late adolescence and perhaps even early adulthood, the infallibility of my father stood, for the most part, fairly firm in my mind.  “Complex” was not  really a word that I would have associated him with.

It was pretty straightforward. My father always knew what to do, knew the answers to my questions and displayed a healthy intellect, similar prowess as an athlete, was “fixer and mender” of all things electronic and mechanical and was honest, almost to a fault. To me it was simple - my father was always good at what he did and  … he was always right!

Most of all he was never afraid to demonstrate any of it. Before he retired, he worked as a very well respected engineer and though I know respected for his intelligence  and wealth of experience and knowledge he brought to his job, he was just as well looked upon for his honesty, integrity, judgement and treatment of others, even though perhaps begrudgingly by some who he stood up too, when he believed he was right and they were not! He never shirked from telling people what he thought of them or what he considered their bad ideas, even when politically it might have been better to coddle them and agree. But judging from the huge attendance at his retirement dinner, it is also obvious that he impressed and stood up for those who were worth standing up for and they appreciated it. When dinner was finished a huge cake was wheeled into the room, blazing with sparklers, to the strains of Frank Sinatra singing “I Did It My Way” - and in no uncertain terms, they meant it! I don’t think I have ever been so proud of my father!

But it was in other small ways he demonstrated things that he believed in to us as children. I remember, when I was perhaps 10 or 11, one particular Saturday morning trip to the market. My mother was walking beside us with a large basket of strawberries. Two young men strolled by and cheekily pinched a couple of berries from the basket and took off at a run into the crowd. To their surprise, my father, a very fit rugby player, chased them both down, gave them a piece of his mind and demanded an apology – which, nervously panting, as they tried to catch their breath from the chase, they gave!

It is not that we didn’t ever disagree. In fact, as teenagers, our home was well known by my friends and my sister’s friends as a place where dinnertime discussions could be as deliciously exotic, and sometimes as spicy, as the home cooking that my mother is well noted for. Not many topics were considered out of bounds and excited, heated discussions were not uncommon. My father often surreptitiously played  “devil’s advocate”, just for the fun of it I suspect, but in doing so demonstrated that every argument can have two sides with legitimately opposing view points.

Discussions or not, at that age  I still just didn’t think in similar terms of my father, as my daughter has of me, so thinking of him as “complex” or “complicated” didn’t come to me until a much later age, when I really got to know him better as an adult .

It is a generational thing, I suppose, where boundaries were different, “traditional” models of bringing up children were stretched, by me, into something different than I was familiar with  from my childhood, as I was a “stay-at-home” Dad - tending to my children from infants to young adults, while modestly contributing to our family income, with my writing, art, music and acting.

My father did a lot of things with us –  canoeing, camping going to the cottage – but as a stay-at-home parent I had the luxury of spending more time with my children than my father did with me and my sisters, so as children they probably figured me out a little more quickly, simply based on a greater amount of time spent together during those formative years.

Circumstance dictates that every generation is different, in any event. My father was a refugee from the war in Europe, escaping from the Nazis in Austria to England, where he grew from a non-English speaking schoolboy into an Oxford educated engineer. But it wasn’t really until recently, thinking about Father’s Day, that it came to me how different an upbringing he had, as opposed to mine and my children. During many of those formative years, when he grew from child to adolescent, his father was with the British Army, training and participating in the war. Sadly, it was four years with, I suspect, much lost in terms of his own father and son relationship.

But though steadfast in his ways and principals, change and adaptability have been no stranger to my father.  Moving from Austria to England would not be the only time he pulled up roots and moved to another country.

I recall turning 35 and thinking that this was the age that my parents decided to immigrate to Canada. I found myself, similarly with a young family, thinking how brave that was as they packed a minimal amount of belongings into old tea chests and had them shipped by boat to a new country that they had not even visited before. Leaving everything they had come to know as their home could not have been easy. And making arrangements for his parents to follow must have only added to the stress.  But though we left with only a few suitcases, the tea chests to arrive later, it was put to us as children as an adventure – one that we embraced and simply enjoyed! My father, the consummate planner, had a new job waiting and as individuals, and a family, we have been fortunate to grow and flourish here. I believe it was one of the best and most courageous decisions my father and mother ever made, as it provided us with unimaginable opportunity to be who we wanted and hopefully to be seen as having made  worthwhile contributions back in gratitude. For that I will always be thankful!

It would be dishonest to leave anyone with the impression that we were some kind of “Leave It To Beaver”, 1950’s, 60 ish  TV  family led by a “Ward Cleveresque” father. My father was known to raise his voice to us when we didn’t measure up, or did something that he didn’t think particularly clever. Excellence was expected and, in my view, perhaps not praised as much as it could have been when achieved. But then I am sure there is a list that my children could readily produce that would rival anything I could say about my father’s parenting style being less than perfect. After all we are all only human – and there is a  valuable lessons for our children to be learned from that.

Well I have grown up a lot since seeing my father as less dimensional then he really is. Yes, I learned he is complex - how he likes art, music and dance, apparently he even wrote a poem or two in his time. He is fallible, right often, but sometimes wrong. We don’t always agree, but he is always the first person I call when I need advice. He is there to support me and help me when I need him most. He is honest and principled and most importantly taught me to be an individual and “my own person” who, when it counts, always strives to do his best  - I hope I have shown my children the same.

What I also know is that  he used the tools that he was provided with to be the best father he knew how – he is just that kind of person, not demanding anything less from himself than he would hope for from another. I know he always loved me because he demonstrated that in so many ways as we grew up. As we have both grown older he says it a lot more now and I like that too. So here’s back at you, Pa … I love you … just in case anyone doesn’t know!

Happy Father’s Day …  and thanks!

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Holiday and Seasonal
Tags: child, family, Father's Day, grand children, holiday, legacy, life, parent, values

LoveUbecause … a thought for Mother’s Day

So it is 4 o’clock in the morning.  I guess I am doing the cliché writer-artist thing – I had a thought in the middle of the night , so I thought it best to get up and write it down before the muddle of sleep throws it back into that  inaccessible part of my mind called  “forgetfulness”, “sleepiness”,  or wherever that part of my brain is, where everything that is clear can just as quickly be  lost with the break of day.

I have to admit I  found myself laying awake for the past few nights thinking about exactly the best thing to write – the right thing to write - because you see, today is Mother’s Day and for a variety of reasons I am unable to be with her. At least not in the physical sense,  like in  other years when I was  able to be “there”,  give her a hug and a small present – tell her that I love her.

I know that I will phone her later today and we will agree, as on other special occasions when distance separates us, that it is not so much the exact day that we celebrate something, but rather the fact that we didn’t forget that is most important. We will get together on another day, in the not too distance future, and have an “unofficial” celebration, as we always inevitably do. But for whatever reason, that doesn’t seem to be enough to satisfy me this year. There is something more – something more to be thought about and said.

So in the whirl of thought that is halfway between dream and wakefulness I have been thinking about all the important things that my mother has taught me, the qualities that I could write about that sums her all up and lets everyone know what a wonderful person she is - but that doesn’t seem enough either.

Just as we might go from mall to mall, shop to shop, looking for just the right gift for a special person, no, that is not the right one - not that it would not be a good one. Something more important needs to be said.

So it was, finally, early this morning that I realised what was perhaps more important - a better gift -  what was  better for her to know, better for her to hear than just “I love you – love you for who you are!”

It is from me, as her child. It is about my children, as her grand children. It is about legacy – her legacy as a mother. It is about what the very essence and nature of motherhood  should be – creating new generations and ensuring that they grow into good people, thoughtful people, respectful people, decent people.

Now don’t for a moment think that I don’t know I have more than my share of faults. The list is long! The wisdom of age seems to make me more aware of that every day.  But when I look at my children, I realise I often see my mother - her qualities, passions and values.  I see what  she taught me as her child and what I have tried my best to teach and share with them as her son.

It is their love of a traditional family dinner, their respect for nature, determination to try to do their best, love of animals and music, compassion for other people, thought to generosity and consideration of others - and yes, the realisation that that we are human and anything but perfect. Sometimes we fail, sometimes we fall, but knowing that your mother is there, either in person or in spirit, makes it just that bit easier to pick yourself up and try again – try to do better.

Seeing those values, that common thread, that legacy created by her,  shared  generation to generation - a gift given by good mothers and a gift returned to good mothers. Could there be any better?

Loving you, Ma, as always …  Happy Mother’s Day!

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Holiday and Seasonal
Tags: child, children, family, grand children, legacy, life, love, Mother's Day, parenting, values

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

LoveUbecause …. you are mystery!

If there is one thing in life that we can always count on, it would be that there will always be mystery. It may be the mystery of why people behave the way they do, for the good or the bad, towards each other. It may be the questioning by  a child of “why the sky is blue”, “why the stars twinkle” or “is there really  a pot of gold  at the end of the rainbow” - wait a minute I know a lot of adults who don’t really know the answers to those questions! But if you really think about it, no matter what our circumstance -  rich,  poor, old, young, happy or sad – with each day that dawns, we really have no clue as to what is going to happen. So like it not, be you a secure or insecure person, we are presented with mystery each and every day and so we better learn to deal with it as best we can.

I think mystery - though when you think about it, with each passing second is actually omnipresent, - is something that as human beings we tend to ignore, or maybe accept with a certain amount of resignation – especially as we get older.

As children we constantly question, test boundaries and push life’s buttons to see what will happen, but as years pass, many of us tend to fall into life patterns and routines and start to ignore, or perhaps just forget what made life so exciting as children – that omnipresent mystery!

Besides the general wonderment of childhood, I clearly  remember my first feeling of the sense of mystery. I don’t know my exact age when I became cognizant of it, but I am thinking it was probably around the time that I was old enough to walk and I, or perhaps my older sisters where tall enough, by hook or by crook, to reach a door handle.

Back in the 1950’s and 60’s my Grandparents lived in a very old town in England, actually one that claims to hold the title of  Britain’s oldest,  and   the place that I happened to be born . Their home,  one of several attached to an imposing complex of stone buildings, which still occupy a picturesque spot on the River Thames, provides many of my first memories.  It wouldn’t be until much later in life that I learned  some of the true mysteries of this place.

I am not quite sure the purpose of my Grandparent’s actual house, but the huge building it was attached to was originally built at the beginning of the 19th century, reportedly by French prisoners  from the Napoleonic War. It was originally erected as the County Gaol (jail) and functioned as such for about 60 or 70 years, before a large portion was converted to a granary and subsequently, a grain and feed business, where my Grandmother was employed for several years. A smaller portion became the County Police Station, which I still clearly remember for the blue light that hung on the wall outside. But as a child I knew little of that, or the gruesome history of the  hangings that took place at the jail and later reports of the hauntings by the ghosts of the condemned, who apparently dwell in the large portion of the building that was converted to a recreation centre many years later.  Other than the puzzle of why iron  bars obstructed  the windows of some of the buildings that adjoined  my Grandparent’s house, I thought and knew little of the mysterious complex. Their home was a happy place where we visited often on a Saturday, or Sunday for lunch and sometimes stayed for weekends, when we visited after moving to another town when I was about five.

Memories – lunch - we were to be prompt, or my Grandfather would be sitting at the dining room table sipping his soup, if we arrived any time after  one o’clock.  Television – my Grandparents had one -  we would lie curled up in front of the fireplace with Peter, the one-eyed, black lab watching a program about an English “bobbie” called “Dixon of Dock Green”, “Dr Who”, or from what I recollect, some of the first episodes of  “Coronation Street”.  The new green divan – from the back of which many a “hi ho Silver” was yelled,  to the worry of my Grandmother, partly because the couch was new and mostly because she was anxious we would rap our heads off the floor, as we straddled the back and than tumbled to the ground, dramatically getting “shot” off our “horses” in  re-enactments of portions of episodes of “The Lone Ranger”. There was the damp smell of a small, walled  outside area, off the kitchen where my Grandfather kept his motor scooter, which mingled with the whiff of gas from the pilot light from the old gas stove in the kitchen, when the back door was opened and produced a strange odour, that I am sure I would recognize still today, should it waft by my nose.  Not so happy, and  attested to by the faint scar I still bear, was my third birthday, when I ventured to pat a dog that lay tempting in the sun, just a door down from my Grandparent’s. He lured me in with his pleasant face and seemingly demure demeanour and then promptly sunk his teeth into my hand, as I reached out to pat him. Happier, and so memorable, was the tending and comfort I received from my Grandfather. He was for the most part a man of few words, but he sprung into action to tend to my wound, as I so clearly recall, with an unopened field dressing and tube of bright yellow, sulphur cream, that he still had squirrelled away from his days in the army in World War Two.

But getting back to that mystery – it was what was known as “the forbidden room”, that tempted me and my inquisitive sisters for several years. Entry, supervised or not,  was not allowed – at least not until we eventually became “old enough”. The room occupied a quadrant of the upper story of the house, just to the right at the top of the stairs. I don’t recall ever actually being told what was in the room, or even if it had a key, but in those days locked or not, if you had been told not to enter, than you didn’t enter – it was as simple as that – it was forbidden!

 Perhaps what heightened the fascination was our reading of the book “The Lion the Witch and the Wardrobe”. My sisters used to read portions of it to me and I would routinely check the back of my Grandmother’s wardrobe, just to see if there perhaps was an entrance to Narnia there. Well there wasn’t, but there was “the forbidden room” and the notion of what magical place lay behind that door stimulated my imagination for hours. Was it the entrance to some other unworldly place where talking lions did indeed roam? The “dust fairies”, as I thought of them, suspended in the light that would beam from the top of  a small window that occupied the space above the door to “the forbidden room”, only heighten my expectation. It must be a magical world!

But as a mystery, it was eventually solved. It would seem by the state of my father’s garage and mine, as his son, that we are genetically predisposed to hoarding “stuff”, just as apparently his father before him was. Things are perpetually kept for “a rainy day”, when indeed they will have a revived use of some sort. Odd car parts and miscellaneous pieces of wood and metal, that always have a use the day after you throw them away, inhabit our garages - collectively a testament to days when we did something we enjoyed, rather than tidying up.  And so it was – we eventually came to know that “the forbidden room” was my Grandfather’s version of a garage, where he housed an unimaginable amount of old television sets, parts to old clocks and even great portions of a motor cycle  that had once belonged to my father. Though there were no wayward lions escaped from the zoo, magical fantasy lands, or the gnomes or goblins I had imagined inhabiting “the forbidden room”, I must admit not being disappointed the day I was escorted in for a visit. The vast array of intriguing objects, bits of radios, clocks and mechanics that were strewn about, on and under the tables and benches more than satisfied my expectation. It was probably a much smaller room than I remember, but then I was a much smaller person, and the mystery of what all these things were, and the question of  if I might one day be able to have one, or two select pieces as a memento, was large in my mind.

I was lucky enough to return to England with my son a number of years ago and show him the house where I was born and some of the places where I grew up. The old Goal was still functioning as a recreation centre at the time, so we were able to actually go into some of the buildings  -  other mysterious places never ventured to as a child. The house my Grandparents once inhabited had been divided into offices, but I nonetheless rang the doorbell and asked if  we could come in. Much of the house had been renovated and many of the offices were closed for the day, so unfortunately we were unable to visit where the bedrooms, kitchen, living room and dining rooms had once been -  but at the top of the stairs, the opaque window above the door to “the forbidden room” still emitted a beam of bright light, where the dust fairies danced and once again, just for a brief moment, my imagination was stimulated as to what mysteries lay behind.

Sharing a little mystery …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Uncategorized
Tags: Britain, childhood, England, life, love, memories, mystery, philosophy

LoveUbecause … “A Slice of Bologna - A Memorable Slice of Life!”

LoveUbecause  … 

“A Slice of Bologna - A Memorable Slice of Life!”

 Stay-at-home parenting - glamorous? No! But nonetheless, life does sometimes amount to a celebration of the seemingly mundane – namely, making a good bologna sandwich – In my book, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that!

 Let’s rewind. Coming to Canada in 1965 and being parachuted into grade three, smack dab in the middle of the term, could have come with its own set of childhood traumas. Thanks to the sensitivity of my teacher, the transition was smoothed out with a little practicality.

 It was like on television. Classroom door opens. Principal escorts new kid in. Class members vet him like a goat entering the auction ring. Class bully thinks him a good prospect to lead out to slaughter. Some pretty little girls think he would be better kept as a pet.

 “Class, this is “A” from England,” Miss “P” announced. “ “R”, you are going to be “A”’s new friend!”

 And so it was. “R” and I drifted in and out of each other’s lives as friends until I graduated from university.

 Now just as the Chinese have a year of the monkey or rooster. Between age twelve and thirteen, when”R” and I were particularly close, I had my “year of the bologna sandwich.”

 My mother dubbed “R” “the once-a-weeker”, as he would join my father, mother and I for lunch at our home on a weekly basis. In turn, I frequently walked to “R”’s and lunched with “R” and his Mom.

 My mother’s lunches were delicious, but to me, “R”’s Mom was simply “the bees-knees” – she made bologna sandwiches! You have to understand that my family was European - my mother, German, my father Austrian. Mushy commercial, white bread was sometimes tolerated. Lax schinken – nobility. Bologna – uncivil! Unsalted butter – a constant. Prepared commercial mayonnaise was not welcome to cross our threshold!

 Bologna sandwiches? It was about being Canadian! It was about having something I never got at home. It was about “R” and I sitting on the couch flipping through the Eatons’ catalogue while his Mom prepared sandwiches and called us when they were ready. She always smiled, never had a harsh word and enjoyed listening to whatever we had to say. If it was rainy and cloudy outside, I always remember it feeling sunny in that kitchen. She was simply a kind lady who made great bologna sandwiches with fresh, cottony white bread, mustard and mayonnaise. As a kid that was important to me! 

After that year, “R” and I drifted apart as really good friends. We attended high school together, but circumstance didn’t see us spending as much time together as companions.

 ”R”’s Mom tragically died a few years later. I remember coincidentally meeting “R” and his sister in the shop where I worked part-time during the holidays, and they told me of her passing. Though I genuinely felt an important part of the spirit and soul of my childhood had unexpectedly been ripped away, I awkwardly had little to say. I was a teenager. Death was simply unfamiliar to me. For that, even now, more than thirty years later, I feel a need to apologize.

 Several years ago I met “R”’s sister at a high school reunion. “You know I will always remember your Mom for her great bologna sandwiches,” I blurted out. I might have misinterpreted, but I think she was slightly insulted, as obviously the sum of her mother’s life was much more than fluffy white bread and a luncheon meat. Without my attached sentiment, it must have struck her as being a rather stupid comment.

 But here is the thing. My kids like bologna sandwiches! Every time I make one, or any sandwich with cottony white bread, I smile and think of “R”’s Mom. It simply makes me feel really good! And to me that really counts! 

At the end of the day, the Mick Jaggers, Princess Dianas, and George Bushes might have been newsworthy - for entertainment, good reason, or perhaps bad . But comparatively I don’t think of them much. Many of us live life desperately trying to make a noteworthy contribution. We don’t realize it is the little things we do that count and will be remembered. It is remembering people like “R”’s Mom that reminds me, that as a parent, I am important not only to my own children, but hopefully to their friends who visit too. It is about not feeling awkward to still give my son a hug and tell him I love him when he leaves to go back to college after a visit home. It is about taking the time to go for a ride on our horses, or chat about just about anything with my teenage daughter. Sometimes it is sitting down around a dining room table to eat and laugh over a family dinner with my children and their friends. Sometimes it is just being there. And sometimes it as simple as making a bologna sandwich with love, kindness and a smile. 

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Uncategorized
Tags: family, friends, life, love, parenting, parents

To Anne … LoveUbecause … you are my Valentine

To Anne … LoveUbecause … you are my Valentine

So I must say, I have resisted a little, writing anything for Valentine’s Day, not because I don’t think it is a great idea to have a day set aside to celebrate the love we have and share with that someone special, but rather because I hoped that LoveUbecause would be a place where we could do that every day of the year.

But the truth is, I would be remiss to ignore the occasion, never mind  undoubtedly put a little arrow in the heart of the one I truly love, were I not to comment  - and that would definitely not be in the spirit of things. So here I sit late on Valentine’s Eve,  tap, tap typing to the rhythm of what has made my relationship with “my beloved” thrive for some thirty years now.

 Thirty years! Gone seemingly in a heart beat, fleeting moments, cherished memories, romantic dinners, little children, moonlight strolls, special holidays - come and gone like tomorrow was already yesterday, with an ease to be appreciated, and with a humility that only the relentless march of time can offer. It has been an enviable adventure!

Not that life has not had it share of ups and downs - most of which, I wouldn’t wanted to have missed -  for the good, the not so good, and always for the experience to live and learn. Yes, life has issued its share of bumps and bruises, but for the most part it would be dishonest not to say many were  of my own making – pushing some limits that perhaps had better been coddled, figuratively, and occasionally literally, sticking my chin out when there was a fist, or foot in flight and daring to try to live my dreams, when the unacquainted had  little resolve to make them happen, or more kindly, perhaps just flooded with  too many other dreamers  with which to contend,  and thus helpless to see them all through – but then that is the lot of the artist, writer and musician – success, vainly measured on an immeasurable stick of life, where really you must be content to have painted, sung, written and played, as the satisfaction of the performance and the appreciation of any audience is the true measure of the worth!

So my  Valentine, “how do I love thee? Let me count the ways …”, yes I could offer a verse, but I think you already know.  It would be for our children you have borne, the joy that we have lived, the hand to hold, the shoulder on which to lean and the anticipation of many more  years, love and memories to come!

But wait - tap, tap, tap – it is that rhythm again  -  the sometimes awkward  clack, click and rattle of me “marching to the beat of my own drummer”, as they say - you give the gift that many do not know - that many do not comprehend – you give me the gift of allowing me to be me – you never said “oh, maybe he will change - hopefully he will change “. You love me for who I am, and love me for travelling my own road - bumps and all - and I love you for that, more than I can ever hope to say. And as a writer, artist, your husband and more importantly, a human being what more could I ever really ask for?

Loving you always … your Valentine,

“A” the “O” in LVE!

P.S. to my friends, family and visitors, please leave a message for one of those you love … and …

  Happy Valentine’s Day!!!  

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Posted in About Love and Life, Holiday and Seasonal, Uncategorized, Valentine's Day, Write On and Read The Wall
Tags: celebrations, dreams, life, living, love, relationships, valentine

LoveUbecause … you are “life”- a circuitous route!

“circuitous [sir-kew-it-uss]

Well it is Friday evening and another week has passed. I guess, as many, it has had its ups and downs, but for the most part, it has been pretty good. This week I have been going through a lot of material that I have written in the past, searching for pieces I think appropriate  and hopefully worthwhile for visitors to LoveUbecause.com .

I came across the following, which I wrote on the occasion of my 50th birthday ( not so long ago ). I guess I wanted to put down in writing a few of the things I learnt in my first half century on this earth. Maybe not that original to some, but nonetheless important to me.

I know I emailed this out to some of my family and friends at the time, if for no other reason than the recognition that they had actually been a part of teaching me something. To be honest, I had forgotten I had written this, so if nothing else it is a reminder to me of what I have learnt and something, hopefully worthwhile, for others to think about. So here goes … “my words of wisdom” …

” Life should be a circuitous route – to be cliché, because life can often be just that, “it is about the journey, not the destination” and “the road less travelled.” (Robert Frost) It is about being a student and a teacher and learning as much from your students when you are the teacher as you hope they will learn from you. It is about loving and giving and hoping for a little love and respect in return when the time is right. It is about realizing how imperfect you are, striving to change, forgive and forget the imperfections of others. It is about realizing how much you know and sharing that knowledge with others. It is about realizing how very little you know and always wanting to learn more. It is about wives, children, family, friends and pets and animals that offer unconditional love for little in return but just that - love, respect and consideration. Life is about memories and earning them - sometimes unexpectedly. It is about going out of our way without always knowing the rewards, about welcoming the unexpected and learning from it when it is indeed just that - unexpected. Life on balance should hopefully be good, but we unfortunately do have to accept the good with the bad, the ugly, frustration and disappointment – without the total package we would never learn to grow and never have truly loved or lived. Life is certainly about money, power, position and material things – that is reality - but ultimately, hopefully we learn how little we need of any of it to be happy. Life is about a lot of other very important things that I have missed, but it is also about not philosophizing too much and getting on with it. Just please remember …

Life should be a circuitous route – if we lived it from beginning to end as directly, efficiently and cost effectively as possible, it would indeed be very short!” (© 2007 Andrew Neil Olscher)  - with a nod to Freud, because appartently he had something to say about this too!  Though I am not sure it was quite so “uplifting”!  I’ll let you look that one up on your own time.  (A.O.)

Here’s hoping your weekend meanders a “circuitous route”!

Sending a little love you way …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in About Love and Life, Uncategorized
Tags: family, friends, life, love, philosophy