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When you’ve had your license for many decades, there is that innate sense of control that comes with the autonomy of being a driver.

In some of my uncomfortable dreams, I am behind the wheel.  The unpleasantness arises not from a loss of control over the vehicle, but from a sense of being directionless, lost, or not knowing the way back home.  The scene may be a narrow dirt road through the bush, winding, and with many potholes to avoid.  I’m trying to reach some unnamed, but important destination, to which I have been before.  Sometimes, I have to stop, get out, and move a fallen tree, or shoo away an animal.  After what seems a long time, the urgency grows, and so does the fear that I have taken the wrong road.

My Dream Self, the inner critic that scolds me for stupidity, says things like “You don’t recognize this path, do you?  How long are you going to spend on this foolishness?”  I respond angrily, self-righteously, “It IS the right path, I’ll show you!”  Whereupon another seeming eternity passes, and it ends after a final turn in the road, when, in front of me, there is a gigantic rock fall, or a flooded bridge.  Impossible and impassable.

Usually, this is the point of awakening.
What’s peculiar is that in recent episodes of this repeating story, and as my age advances and the body is not what it once was, I seek, through imagined strength of will, to challenge these impossible barriers.  At the rock fall, I find a fallen tree trunk and use it as a lever to topple those stones one by one into the river.  Next time, if it is the flooded bridge, I gather dead trees and lay them across the stream.

I awake with a sense of accomplishment, but also with a memory of the struggle, and I have managed to silence that critic for a time.

What all of this signifies, only Freud knows.  I have my own suspicions, but that’s for another time, and perhaps a more private place.

Breathing deeply from a long brisk walk, I sit to write this.

On a very cool October day, the one before I turn 67, a young boy of about twelve approaches me on the path.  He’s a handsome kid, with red red hair and freckles, and has no qualms about making eye contact.  He smiles, begins to run.  I smile back, and I fancy I see the future in his eyes.

Oddly, what’s been brought to mind is the memory of a curious painting.  I do not know the artist or title, but it is of a mother embracing her young son, who has a discouraged expression, but, at the same time, one of hope.  She gestures up and away, with an earnest and joyful smile.  The two follow with their eyes, and the boy seems to understand that his mother is trying to show him a brighter future, and telling him not to be sad.  I do wish I had it to show you.

Older and more cynical now, “connected” with the immediacy of the horrors happening around us, listening perhaps too much to the prophets of doom (lest I become one myself), I struggle to find the extraordinary, the promising, the angelic, and the kind.
I want to, and it is there.  I know.

In the face of the red haired boy.
In the soulful eyes of a 3 year old girl, who spoke to me so much like an old soul that my heart skipped.
In the charity of some that I meet, the fleeting faces with clear and present eyes,
and in the brave hearts of those who are actively opposing, at their own risk, the specter of rising authoritarianism.

These cannot be extinguished and must, one day in the future, prevail.

picture credit:  https://storify.com/ProfKarim/envisioning-the-future-university

So as to regard the infinite Universe.
For the softening of things, the greater peace and quietness.

The appearance and sounds of the creatures of the dark.

The spiritual renewal that can come with dreams.

The darkness of the soul that needs be known for us to experience Joy.

The mystery, the majesty, the melancholy.

A time for sweet and soft Love behind the shades.

The coolness

The settling of sleep on tired eyes.

The protection and rest given to the wild creatures of the world.

The unseen terrors that creep and lurk for some, longing for its end,

So as to love the Day.

Every night

Washes the air mask that keeps him breathing

Puts hot cloths on his sore eyes

Does the Physio stretches for his sore back

Takes the pills for heart, insomnia, reflux, and depression

Installs his earplugs to shut out the nightly noises

Snaps the night guard onto his teeth to stop the grinding

Tapes his mouth shut so the airflow from the machine will not escape

A little cream around the nose to prevent itching

On with the mask, out with the lights, Sweet Dreams.  ZZZZZZZZ

Good day everyone.

The wife likes egg salad, but prefers someone else to make it. I think it’s because of the very fiddly part of the procedure, which is the peeling of the little suckers.

Experience gained from gutting avocados in order to make guacamole has led me to apply the same method to the dreaded hard boiled egg.

I found a dozen or so that she had cooked and refrigerated, then went to work on them.  Fetched a sharp knife and a teaspoon, then cut each egg in half and gently scooped out the contents into a large plastic bowl with a flat bottom, being careful not to include any shells.  In less than five minutes, I had them all “peeled” and, using a potato masher, ground them up to just the right consistency for a chunky egg salad.

Added some scallions, mayo, a little salt and pepper, and, most importantly, two or three tablespoons of the juice from sweet pickles.

Yum, and happy peeling!

In my 67th year, I have just applied for another job.  Serendipity has resulted in things coming full circle for me, as you will see in a later installment.

My career began at the age of 14 or 15, when I got a part time job in a bakery, learning the art of making bagels.  I had to fish the partially cooked dough circles out of a steaming hot water bath, lay them on long boards, brush them with egg, finish them off with poppy seeds, and slide them into the oven.  Many burns (many times) until I learned what the hell I was doing.  My first paycheque was $10.85, and my Dad made a copy of it and had it framed.

Onto another part time job as a grocery clerk, bagging and doing carryouts for the customers.  Took a couple of bus rides to get there, and then I got fired because I was too slow and dropped too many bottles of pop.

Then, there was a job at a Woolco’s warehouse.  It was so far away that my Dad had to drive me there.  I don’t think I lasted more than a week or two, then quit because of homesickness.

Between this time and the end of high school in 1968, I helped out sporadically with my parents’ business.

Upon graduation, it was time to get a little more serious, and I landed a full time position with the Borough of North York works department.  The many and varied duties that were assigned to me included Sanitation Engineer (garbage man) and maintenance of town properties.  One particular week, our crew was working on clearing out a ravine through which a river ran.  It was choked with junk of all kinds, and the hillsides had become a dumping ground.  I had made friends with a fellow by the name of Andy, and we were usually assigned as a pair.  We were working on the slope, picking up refuse and tossing or rolling it down to the bottom to be incinerated in a large bonfire later.  I picked up a heavy wooden headboard, and, after checking if all was clear below, gave it a heave.  It started rolling rapidly end over end down the steep slope when, out from behind a tree stump stepped my buddy.  It got him square in the head and knocked him down.  You can imagine my horror.  I ran down the hill to get him, and he sat up, none the worse for wear except for a good bump and cut on his scalp line.  We got him attended to, and I was astonished and grateful that he did not hold a grudge against me for the incident.  A few days later, Karma came around and got me.  The two of us were carrying a large stump over to the fire, when Andy tripped and dropped his end, resulting in my end coming up and hitting me square in the mouth.  Several teeth were loosened and went through my lip, and to this day I can’t grow a proper moustache over the scar.

Next:  Bad Boy and beyond (Working Life installment 2)

I like dogs….and they like just about everyone, or so I think.

We have cats, though.  Through 40 years of married life, we’ve never had a dog.  Put it down to laziness, our work schedules, or the likelihood that the animal would be cooped up in the house most of the time.  I feel that we have done ourselves and the dog a favour by opting for the kitties.

Yes, dogs are known for giving unconditional love, and, many times, that’s what you need.  Reminds me of a quote from somewhere that went “I hope one day to actually be the person that my dog thinks I am.”  (sorry, I don’t know the author).

Cats are known as creatures that are more independent, aloof, and self-sufficient. You can go away for the weekend, leave some extra food out, and have peace of mind knowing that they will not tear the house apart and can largely take care of themselves.  Of course, versus dogs, the kitties will not usually come running and display sloppy affection when you come in the door.  In fact, they may look as if they didn’t miss you very much at all.

Why have such an animal?  Well….they do have ways of showing their love, and not just when you open that bag of treats.  We presently have three of these creatures, being as the fourth one passed away a year ago.  Independent personalities for sure.  The old guy that passed last summer was my constant companion.  Followed me wherever I went, always wanted to be picked up and scratched, and was a sucker for somersaults on the bed.  If you didn’t spend enough time with him, he would sit there, stare at you, and yap.

One of the others can, I swear, tell time.  Every night at about 9:30, it stands by the cupboard where the treats are kept and starts yipping.  God forbid if you leave the kitchen, because it will follow you and hound you until the bag gets opened.  This same one has a morning routine where it comes over to me while I am having breakfast and sits right there until it gets a ten minute head scratch.  Then bites you to signal “that’s enough.”

One (and only one) comes when you call it.  Runs across the room and jumps up on your lap.

There’s a story that’s been on the news and the internet for a while, and I kind of hope it’s just someone’s fancy, that cats (and dogs) are used as therapy animals in hospitals and homes for the aged.  The part that bothers me a little is that the cats, when left to roam in these facilities, will gravitate towards the person who is close to death.  In that case, my number must be up, because I’ve got ’em stuck to me all the time.

Thirty odd years ago, when our first child was born, we had a single kitty that we had had for quite a while.  When we brought our son home,  the cat showed a curiosity towards him.  As he was just a newborn, we got a little apprehensive and watched it closely.  When our back was turned, we were shocked and surprised when it crawled into the bed with him.

Wife yelled out “The cat’s in the cradle!”, whereupon we made the difficult decision to deport him to her parents’ place.  It spent the rest of its career there.