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 … a True Tale of Survival

 Guess I am fondly thinking about the summer ahead - thought I would share this with you …

Loveubecause … a True Tale of Survival

Survival – it is not always reserved for the biggest, the strongest, the boldest or most testosterone engorged. Just ask a dinosaur – oops, I almost forgot they disappeared from the earth a few million years back. The dragonfly, celebrated in native Indian and Japanese mythology, looked down upon and unjustifiably feared in some others, well that’s another matter!

No over abundance of testosterone here - I am secure in my manliness, so at the risk of the Arnold Schwarzenegger’s of the world dubbing me a “girlie man”, I shall admit I shed a tear or two the day we packed up and migrated from a bedroom community just north of the big smoke of Hog Town to the ethereal wilds of the countryside, north east of Peterborough.

Though filled with anticipation of new experiences and a more sedate lifestyle, leaving behind fifteen years of memories, the family home of once, newly minted children, many solid, long developed friendships and a wonderfully inclusive sense of community wasn’t emotionally easy.

Happily, any doubts were soon put to rest by the sheer beauty of our new found environment – a midnight blue sky, free from light pollution, bejeweled with a milky way of stars twinkling like diamonds was enough to leave me awestruck with wonder. We were greeted with crisp, fresh winter mornings. Evergreen trees, bedecked and weighted in newly fallen snow were transformed into a forest of mystic, bearded wizards with pointed hats, clad in virginal, sparkling white. Spring came and with it species of miniature, “dandilionesque”, yellow forest flowers I had never encountered before. Thousands of trilliums blanketing the forest floor with a multitude of subtle hues, ranging from startling, bright white to a dark, purpley crimson, were nothing short of stunning. A haphazard garden of early summer, wild, field daisies, all turning their bright yellow centered faces towards my back windows, apparently in expectation of some kind of performance, took my breath away.

Though I anticipated hordes of black flies and mosquitoes to dampen my enthusiasm in summer, few arrived, or made their miserable presence known. Instead, dense swarms of dragonflies and damselflies filled the air, gobbling up a multitude of unwanted pests. With the talent to hover like a Harrier jet, fly backwards and forwards, these keen-eyed insects have a voracious appetite and often each eat upwards of 600 mosquitoes a day. Dating back over 300 million years, 100 million before the dinosaurs, these marvels of nature are the first documented flying insects found in fossil form. Some giant species once had wingspans of 70 cm!

Named for their strong jaws and “teeth” (no, they don’t sting) used to gobble up their prey, dragonflies and their cousins, the damselfly, belong to the order of insects called “Odonata – a word from the Greek, “odon“ meaning tooth. And so it was that our small 17 acres of wooded, natural wonder was christened Odonata Woods, by my wife, “A”.

Yearly harbingers of lazy, warm summer days, these insects, barely modified since ancient times, could probably teach mankind a thing or two about longevity, survival and nature based technology. They are unavoidable reminders of nature’s genius, with immature nymphs possessing gill-like organs that allow them to live for months and sometimes years under water. Thousands of mature adults darken the sky during the mating season, often emerging in coordinated waves on the same day. They aggressively compete for mates, dive bombing through the air like Spitfires re-enacting the Battle of Britain.

Whether we are waiting for our winter tree wizards to conjure up spring, trilliums to celebrate its coming, or pungent, earthy smelling, dried, fall leaves to herald their passing, our multi-coloured, red, blue, green, black and orange Odonata friends are never far from our minds.

But getting back to survival - remember the big “blackout” a few years back? When power went out on the Eastern Seaboard and just about the entire north eastern half of North America a few summers back, we were quickly reminded how fragile we are. With no electricity, the ability to travel, communicate, pump fresh water and preserve food all quickly eroded.  I thought about the elderly, cooped up in apartments in the city, baking like gingerbread men in the heat. I quickly made a calculation of how long the supplies we had on hand might last and where I might get more when they ran out. I am sure the “lawn obsessed” in the suburbs were fixated on the potential of their lush, green, vegetative carpets wilting to more summer appropriate, dormant, natural, brown mats. I was more concerned for my horses and my farm neighbour’s animals and related businesses.  The potential for riots, looting and other disturbance in the big cities was a definite concern and no remote possibility. Our dragonflies?  It was one time I knew we didn’t have to give them a second thought! A true tale of survivors indeed!

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in Country Living, Uncategorized
Tags: blog, country, dragonflies, dragonfly, dreams, family, hopes, insects, life, living, love, odonata, story, survival, survivors, wishes

LoveUbecause … you want to serve with honour!

I remember quite clearly sitting at the table of my future mother-in-law’s kitchen close to 30 years ago. We didn’t know each other that well. Actually I don’t believe I was engaged to her daughter at the time, so perhaps it is remarkable that she didn’t discourage my future wife  from ever seeing me again - at least based on my silly sense of humour. I don’t  recall if we were both sipping morning tea, or perhaps she was busying herself about the kitchen as she was wont to do, but whatever the activity, she was trying to make polite conversation.

“So what do you think you will do when you are finished school ?”  “D” asked quite innocently.

“I want to be King!” I declared confidently, thinking myself very funny with a twist on a reference to a Monty Python movie. It all had to do with King Arthur, Camelot and such, and a character trying to convince his father that he really doesn’t want to be king, but would rather sing. Being a music student, I amused myself,  but “D” having no clue what I was on about,  paused, looked at me a bit quizzically and moved on to some potentially less troubling line of questioning.

In any event, with an aversion to developing carpal tunnel syndrome from all that waving, the weighty decisions on who to  toss into  the Tower of London, or more likely, the fact I don’t possess a single gene remotely linked to nobility,  I don’t think being King was ever really in the cards … nor in all seriousness would I want it to be!

Leadership is complicated and can be very stressful. I know so, because since I grew up – at least I would like to think so anyway -  I have been there. Some years ago, as a leader of a community organization, I quickly learnt that getting anything significant accomplished at the political level often involves jumping through a variety of hoops, including playing politics, making compromises and concessions while remaining steadfast about not betraying your own principles, rallying community and political support and most of all, never straying from the belief that what you were trying to accomplish was important and right  - even when there were some dead set against your goals.  It “ain’t easy” as they say.

Anyone who knows me, knows that I can be a little cynical at times, especially when it comes to politicians and politics. With all the election coverage, both Canadian and American, over the last couple of years, the back pedalling on commitments and promises when convenient, the “what I really meant to says”, the “yes, he may have supported me, but I really don’t know him that wells”  and variety of sex and corruption scandals being given way too much time on television news channels, who wouldn’t be! We have been inundated with it, particularly on “slow news days”. At times I feel like I am in Punxsutawney in Bill Murray’s movie, Ground Hog Day – it just repeats over and over and over again!

But for all those who see me as cynical, I do want to tell you, I did learn something very important through my own leadership experience. I take very much to heart and keep very much on the forefront of thought when trying to wade through all the political polls, statistics, scandals and assorted  associated nonsense, that there are some very good politicians out there! I know some, met some, and got to work with some who refreshingly, and simply, just  really care about their community. They worked hard to support me and the cause of those who worked with me. Some had the moral fortitude to change their minds in favour of what we were trying to accomplish, sometimes even at the cost of losing future votes, when we convinced them what we were  proposing was right for the community.

We, as a society, seem to have a great propensity to dwell on the negative when  it comes to politicians. We surely look forward to the next corruption scandal, as  judging from the number of times a news clip of an accused scurrying like a scared rabbit from the pursuing press is played over and over on the news channels that rely on our viewership to survive, we must enjoy the chase - even before he has had his “day in court”.

We “tut-tut” and simultaneously relish the salacious details of a wayward politician’s sexual malfeasance. - applaud a tumble from grace  with the enthusiasm reserved for rumours of a Hollywood starlet “forgetting”  to wear panties and later figuratively, and thankfully not literally,  falling off the wagon.

More commonly we are assailed with the views of the disingenuous  yammering on negatively about solid, thoughtful proposals of others for their own political gain, or in pursuit of the rise of  their own star on the chart of radical, political punditry.

There is certainly nothing wrong with political debate, but so often it seems to be more about the sound bites and “sounding off” than the substance, the negativity over the genuine concern. Frankly, as a format , I think it is getting stale and am not sure why there is such an appetite for it. I am sure a lot of politicians would agree with me.

I can very well imagine any politician and especially the new President, waking up on some mornings to come and possibly regretting their aspiration to be, “king”, president, governor, city councillor, or what have you.

By all accounts, throughout the world, there is a new enthusiasm for the political leadership in the US. There is a remarkable chance for everyone to embrace the coming years with a new optimism and hope, even in dark economic times. We probably have unrealistic expectations, but let’s not hammer them with negativity for the sake of being “political”,  even as the reality sets in and once again we realise that the vision of  Camelot is closer to a fairy tale then history – it doesn’t mean that the world cannot be a better place!

Fewer step into the political arena than should for good reason. Even though, as the public, we constantly complain about “overpaid” politicians – yep, there are some – mostly they work ridiculously long hours, put up with a plethora of constituents who would try the patience of Mother Theresa and many  are derided for another’s political gain when, truly, they believe they have the good of their communities at heart.

There is nothing wrong with trying to keep politicians honest about their commitments, or offering up a constructive critique on performance, but they are people and guess what,  they really do have a right to change their minds - just like you and me - and not to be taken to task for realising that they were wrong before – isn’t that a quality that should be applauded and not discouraged?

There are some simple truths. There will always be politics in politics. There will, unfortunately, always be some bad, corrupt and dishonest politicians and those who make decisions based purely on their prospects for advancement, or re-election, but on balance, the good politicians will far outnumber the bad, particularly if we encourage them to serve,  instead of giving them every reason not to at every turn …

but mostly, LoveUbecause …   there are still many,  who want to serve with honour, are qualified to serve and have the energy to serve, and at times, as witnessed by the estimated 1.8 million people who attended  Barack Obama’s inauguration in Washington, that can be nothing short of awe inspiring!

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in Politics, Uncategorized
Tags: Barack, honor, honour, inspiration, love, Obama, politicians, Politics, president, public service, service

LoveUbecause … you’ve been dog gone away!

Anyone who knows me, knows that animals play a big role in my life - cats, dogs, horses in particular. If you have been following the blog, you may have had a chance to read LoveUbecause … you’re from a picture in a magazine! and “met” Harley, my only once dreamt about Irish Wolfhound - BTW Happy Belated Birthday, Harl! (he turned 2, just yesterday).

So not to feel left out and over shadowed by his giant friend, I thought I would post a piece I wrote a couple of years ago about Bentley, our Australian Shepherd (with a mention of “the Spin”, their other “beaglish” friend). 

“Hello – You’ve Been Dog-Gone Away! ” was first published in “Dogs In Canada” in 2006 and subsequently in the United States by the “Aussie Times” 2007. I hope you enjoy my musings! 

Hello – You’ve Been Dog-Gone Away!

It strikes me just about every time I drive up my laneway.  There are just some things that I probably never would have had the privilege to enjoy, had I remained living within the confines of the city. In these troubled times when one of the few constants seems to be bad news in the newspaper, it is truly comforting to know that come rain, or shine, sleet or snow, when I arrive home I will be greeted with unwavering, unbridled joy - and no, I don’t mean by my wife and kids – though bless them, I know they love me – they are only human.

Given that I have never owned say, a pet llama, I guess I can’t undeniably say there is no other creature that

 exhibits quite the same enthusiasm. But I do have eight cats and three horses and even knowing they all have a great affinity for me, there are times when their egos definitely get in the way. On a bad day, with a quick turn and a flick of a tail, my arrival can definitely be dismissed by one and all as purely coincidental to their presence. But to see so much energy bottled up so tight, trying its best to escape with undulating glee from such a small being, just can’t be taken for granted. Imagine a furry, calico body bouncing with delight, a wet tongue flicking across your face and a rubbery, black, snorting nose bopping you on the chin and I think you get the picture – my dog, Bentley, gets very excited when I get home!

Found as a squirming ball of fur at a horse auction, we wondered for some time if his squished little visage would amount to anything but a rounded fluff ball adorned with a wet, black nose. Genetics soon kicked in and we have discussed on several occasions whether Bentley is perhaps, in a round about way, actually related to Pinocchio! He definitely sports a snout not to be scoffed at.

An Australian Shepherd - a breed which strangely enough doesn’t even originate in Australia  - “the Bent”, as he is known, has never even seen a sheep. But that doesn’t stop him trying to herd just about anything in sight either - just ask those eight cats who have been systematically encouraged into one corner of our outdoor deck on a summer’s day. Curling his body towards me, with a nubby excuse for a tail furiously wagging, he tries to instinctively push me this way, or that.  I have never quite figured out why he picks one direction or the other, sometimes changing his mind in “mid-herd” and I am not sure that he has either – it is just something he feels compelled to do!

We have all heard the clichés – “a dog is a man’s best friend – but this goes way beyond. Unconditional love just doesn’t readily describe it. Perhaps a little over the top, this perpetual happiness at seeing me should not be confused with not knowing any better. Though other reoccurring visitors sometimes get similar treatment, even if they haven’t crossed our threshold for several months, others, the fellow from the courier company in particular, are definitely “persona non grata”. A canine of discerning taste – that’s the Bent.

Always shadowed at “hello time” by his stalwart, elderly, pal Spinner,  who’s own display of affection has been somewhat tempered by age and the fact that wedging his pudgy “Beaglish” frame between me and bouncing Bentley, is all but impossible,  the Bent just wouldn’t do well anywhere else. This boisterous enthusiasm would just be a little too much for a dog bottled up in the confines of a city home.

Barring that on a rare occasion, he is busy sitting at the base of a tree barking at a raccoon that has sought temporary refuge from this self-appointed shepherd, as they certainly don’t like to be herded, I can pretty much guarantee that whether I have been gone an hour, a day or a month, the Bent will be ready to rush, vibrating from the forest, porch or front door and let me know that in these troubled times it is just plain good to be home. What more can a fellow ask for?

Sharing the love from a well licked dog owner …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in Country Living, Dogs, Pets, Uncategorized
Tags: Country Living, Dogs, life, lifestyles, love, Pets

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

LoveUbecause … you were my first real bicycle!

Bygone Biking Times … 

It is not that uncommon for me to come across seriously minded cyclists while driving the back roads out here in the country. They travel singularly, in pairs and less often in large packs. I am more than a little awe-struck by the gleaming, silver bicycle frames, perhaps drawn from some complex alloy of metals once reserved for the space program. There are a seemingly, infinite number of different coloured, aerodynamically, streamlined shapes for helmets - the sometimes bug-like impression, enhanced by intense silver, black or gold reflective eyewear. Variations of cleated shoes, the similar next-of-kin once only seen on the football field, are in abundance. Spandex and Lycra stretched perilously tight over bulging thighs and buttocks, sometimes due to too much exercise and alas, sometimes due to not enough.  The number of gears, sprockets, well lubricated chains and possible permutations and combinations of this complex equipment - I couldn’t even hazard a guess! Arguably this is just an impression, not a judgment, but the thing is, as an onlooker, a non-enthusiast, I just can’t help but think these futuristic road warriors look a little out of sync with the natural surroundings. More importantly, for the most part, the impression is one of being a bit driven.  I am not actually convinced that they are enjoying the journey. It is the destination that counts and just how fast one can arrive. I just can’t help but think back to simpler times when cycling was just that - simple.

I remember as a young boy straddling my bright orange Super Cycle and pedaling about the neighbourhood on hot summer’s days.  I liked to think of myself as a bit of a maverick as other children scooted here and there on more traditional coloured bikes - generally red, racing green or perhaps even midnight blue. But it was a time before there was much disposable this and disposable that – it was a time when there was less of a need for Reduce, Reuse, Recycle, because in great measure many people did it anyway – they could not afford to do otherwise. So, in tune with the times, I purchased secondhand, what I considered my “metal steed”, on which I would ultimately endlessly charge about the neighbourhood, from a friend of my best friend’s brother.

I paid the handsome sum of ten dollars which had been painstakingly accumulated from allowances, birthday and Christmas gifts. To me, the freedom was well worth every hard earned penny. I went to view the bike, which originally was fire engine red and leant rather forlornly with a punctured tire against the wall of the seller’s dimly lit, front porch. It didn’t look like much, but it was affordable and I had imagination – a new version would definitely cost three, four or more times the amount. I was assured it was in good working condition and that the tire would be repaired. I excitedly made the deal on the spot.

The repair was delayed a few days due to an emergency in the seller’s family, so with heightened anticipation I arrived to pick up the bicycle.

I remember, quite cautiously making the journey, only a few blocks, home. I dutifully stopped at every stop sign, hand signaled every turn, whether there were other vehicles there to see me or not – a habit which for the most part I still maintain. But it was the travel between those stops and turns that quickly changed into sheer joy. The wind blowing through my hair, the warmth of the sun on my face, my pale, spindly, little legs strengthening as having only one gear – “go” –  they were challenged by hills, the ups and downs to the shopping centre, the long trips I made with my best friend clear across the city and back.

We explored back streets, bought candy at newly discovered corner stores, ventured upon and intimately became familiar with the twisting trails of a huge city bush lot that was known only to the local boys as “the swamp”. Daredevils - we mastered “sweet jumps” that would have put Napoleon Dynamite to shame and escaped “swamp bullies” who sometimes ferociously chased us when we unsuspectingly encroached on “their” territory. It was never about the destination - always the journey – the adventure.

They were carefree spring, summer and fall days when video games, DVDs, personal computers, Lycra, helmets and deraillers either hadn’t been invented, or were still unfamiliar to most. We were the knights of our neighbourhood, madly pedaling by the lurking dragons – loose dogs that roamed menacingly about, sometimes in small packs, waiting to chase a boy on his bike. We dismantled, lubricated, patched and repaired and when the failing red paint became too unsightly, I boldly spray painted my frame bright orange!

It all went on for several years. But as is the nature of childhood, time and life, things changed. Coming home from school one day, I discovered a visiting aunt and uncle had left me a bulging envelop generously stuffed with cash for a new bicycle. A brand new, metallic, blue, ten speed racer was purchased.  My orange road companion was eventually left to deteriorate and rust at the side of the garage, but the spirit was never lost. So still today – yes, I wear a helmet – but it is the feel of the wind and sun on my face that makes my ride – the smell of cut grass, fields of daisies and the occasional fox peering cautiously from the forest. The Spandex – sorry, I shall have to leave that to the road warriors!
Anticipating the coming spring and summer seasons …

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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Posted in Cycling, Sports, Uncategorized
Tags: bicycle, bike, childhood, stories, youth

LoveUbecause … your comments inspire!

In my initial post to LoveUbecause.com I wrote that I would be writing new posts based on comments left by readers. Inspiration can be a complicated and sometimes elusive thing, but after reading both the posted comments and personal emails I have received so far in response to my writings, I can say that the elusive quality of inspiration has been well surpassed by a plethora.

It is not so much the subject matter that is pushing me towards new posts, but the interesting and unexpected things I am learning about my friends, relatives and acquaintances, as, to date, that is who has been leaving comments. Having been in the room when others have been reading the new comments, I have witnessed readers being touched by your thoughts, some broad smiles and “hey, I didn’t know that!”

I guess it is a bit like sowing a wild flower garden of mixed seeds. You throw the seeds to the wind and, if you are lucky, the colour, variety and expanse of the blooms is more breathtaking than you had ever imagined. Similarly the width and breadth of your comments are more than I ever expected!

“R”, I would never have imaged that you love me because I am “complicated, but in a great way” - I think I like that!

Richard, I had not idea that you entertained at hospitals and nursing homes – but I somehow can’t imagine you being “untalented” at anything!

Jenny, your comment about Mike thoughtfully giving you the stuffed dragon he won at Wonderland not only shows the generosity at the heart of Mike’s nature, but celebrates your sensitivity for remembering so many years later – and I like that too!

Hilary, you are so talented in so many ways. I never imagined you being nervous about performing, but kudos for doing so anyway, as the rewards reaped from your performances by your audiences are obviously incalculable.

And Marilyn, though we don’t really know each other that well, your comments gave me insight into what a wonderful, generous and devoted  person you must be. Simply amazing!

For all those who have read the posts and commented, I think it is marvellous to get to know each a little better. I know of course that over time there will be comments posted by those I don’t personally know, but hopefully they too will direct their friends and loved ones to their comments to equally and mutually enrich their lives.

So with that said, please visit and comment often, as it never hurts to offer a little love!

“A” the “O” in LVE!

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