Shame and Loss of Face Amongst Asian Students

Shame and Loss of “Face” Amongst Asian Students

 

Recently, as a principal of a small private school catering to Asian students, I followed the daily ritual of greeting them each morning at the door as they arrived at school.  I thought this was a friendly way to embrace the day and have meaningful contact with my students as they began their own day.

However, likely my own fault, when I stayed at the door too long, I also greeted those who came in late, even though school started at nine I was lenient and didn’t direct anyone to the front desk, in the office, for a late pass until 9:15.  It was those students who first began to complain to their agents, who in turn complained to their parents and then to the owners of the school and finally to me as principal that I had shamed them by pointing out they had arrived to school late.  This reaction totally amazed me.  It placed the accountability for their truancy right at my feet.

I was facing what is termed the “Cult of Face” and it is one of the main cultural differences between China and North American culture.  I was quite familiar with the concept of shaming having actually lived and worked in both China and in Kuwait.  The Middle East and China are both regions where the “Cult of Face” is a significant part of the culture. 

In the Kuwait situation there is a double effect happening in the sense that much of personal fate is left to a higher power and that if something goes wrong in life people simply subscribe to the embracing concept of Inshallah, or God willing.  It takes all accountability out of the equation for any personal actions and at the same time in a shame-based society one can not accuse someone directly of a wrong doing, transgression, or short fall if it brings any measure of shame to the individual, family or extended family.  There are therefore layers of protection for personal actions with very little actual accountability or responsibility.

China is very similar to Kuwait and the Middle East in this regard, although there is no official religion, or “Inshallah”shield against mistakes or wrong doings they do have a few thousand years of Confucius thought and teachings that effectively instills the cultural understanding of respect, honor and social standing in terms of face in terms of either losing it or gaining it.  For Westerners the concept of shame as it relates to Face is difficult to grasp even the Chinese have difficulty defining it, yet it remains one of the most delicate instruments by which Chinese social interaction is regulated on a daily basis.  Face translates best to words such as pride, dignity and prestige and relates very closely to the Arab sense of honor in their shame-based society.  The two are parallel.

In Western society, to give some perspective, we aresignificantly more individualistic.  Much of American historyfor example, is based on conquering the frontier associated withthe worth and value of the cowboy the iconic individual.  Capitalism itself is based on the premise of Darwinian evolution of the strong surviving over the weak, there is little sense of common good.  There is a distinct dichotomy which exists between a shame based Asian culture founded on family and common good and Western culture based on individualism, competition and self-achievement in a competitive world.  Western cultures much more define themselves on the basis ofindependence and self-reliance, while in 4000 years, Chinese culture has downplayed the concept of the individual by emphasizing the supremacy of the family and the group.

 

Confucius taught that if you lead people “with excellence and put them in their place through roles and ritual practices, in addition to developing a sense of shame, they will order themselves harmoniously.”

Through the teaching of Confucius, China developed into a shame-based society and as a consequence of this seems to self-regulate.  When I lived in China and given the huge population centers such as Shanghai where I spent a lot of time, I didn’twitness a large police presence.  Shanghai, during the national holiday had soldiers managing traffic, but given the large numbers of citizens, in the tens of millions, I found it extremely orderly.  The numbers of people to me were staggering and I frequently found myself taking refuge in western style cafésalong the Bund, but there was order and harmony.  I attribute this to a large measure of self- regulation, one small example I know.

In working with Chinese, in China, I soon discovered how face and shame were integrated into everyday life, as my co-workerswould say things and promise things with a bow and a smile that I soon discovered they had absolutely no intention of following up on, or even acknowledging that they had promised to do.  I discovered that generally speaking, the Chinese I worked with behaved properly and politely generally to avoid shame and the fear of losing face in front of me and not necessarily because they might feel badly about not following through on their promises.  At first it was an enigma that eventually became predictable.  I realized eventually that anything goes …as long as you don’t get caught.  To avoid losing face one can agree to anything even if you don’t stand behind it or believe in it, or have any intention of follow through.  The trick for the Westerner is not to call the person on their promise.

For example, the staffroom in the school where I was principal in Jinhua, China was poorly constructed.  The cement slab that the structure was built upon was cracked and the room sloped at odd angles in various locations, The curtains acted as a plump line to show the angle of the slope, the walls relative to the floor.  I pointed all of these structural flaws out to the right people many times and got what I now call the “Chinese Nod: Yes, they agree, I was right, it must be fixed.  To this day I don’t believe that room was ever fixed, in fact I believe they abandoned the staffroom after I left and relocated the next principal and his teachers to an alternative staffroom. I often wonder, had I caused them shame for the shoddy construction, was I too forceful in my western ways.  I suspect I was, but only understood upon later reflection, as I worked in my next four Chinese schools and gained some further insight into the intricate mechanisms of shame.

In the West our honour or Face is related more to our personal integrity, we face problems more directly with our facts and figures.  We then take charge and pursue a course of action andtake responsibility for those actions while setting our plan in motion.  In short, we are more direct and action centered. Chinese action plans on the other hand are more based on situational ethics, shame avoidance and no real sense of good or bad because of the situational aspect of problem solving. Their approach to crisis or problem solving raises the ugly specter of lying to protect face.  In Chinese culture it is perfectly acceptable to tell a lie if in the end it serves to safe face, the greater goal.  Lies are not right or wrong they are simply situational, like the smile and nod I will fix your staffroom.  

The goal of the Chinese truth is to save face with the expectation that whoever is on the receiving end should have the skills to read between the lines for the real message.  Open confrontation is to be avoided at all costs and practitioners of situational ethical lies will use all manner of denials and feign ignorance in the pursuit of saving face.  

When I was travelling in Xian, home of the Terra Cota Warriors,the city was totally shrouded in smog.  I made reference to that fact to our guide who corrected me and informed me that it was only fog.  We toured for the entire day and upon returning to the airport at the end of the day I pointed out that the fog had neverlifted.  I as a stupid Westerner again had pushed too far as I was supposed to read between the lines and know what the guide was saying.  We each knew the air was full of pollution.  A westerner like me would say it, my Chinese guide would have you read between the lines in order to save face.  My actions were likely viewed as rude and cruel.

Back to my own school a situation in which East meets West I find that students frequently use the shame-card to avoid responsibilities.  Just to touch base with the Canadian Public school system where I have found students are more outlandish and know their rights and spout their rights and often are disrespectful of teachers and in turn enabled by parents.  This of course is a generalization, but also a dis-functional model.  I am in no way saying the Western model of strong individualism and in-your-face rights is a better approach.  I am saying that as an administrator I have to be aware of the differences between Asian culture and Western culture and the differences are not always subtle.

Even in my grad speech this year I referenced the Shame based culture of China and cautioned students to also be aware of it and not to use it as a mechanism to escape their responsibilities or to avoid seeking help as often as asking for help causes shame as it is can be construed as a sign of weakness.  Generally, I think that Chinese students avoid any situation in which others perceive them making mistakes, including incorrect pronunciation and word skills. 

The thin skin of the Chinese culture is a product of centuries of harmony based on face and the avoidance of criticism.  While in Western culture in this regard many of these so-called offences seem minor in the grand scheme of things and are quickly forgotten, while in China and with Chinese students in particular failing to factor in Face can cause serious repercussions.

As an educator it seems that my Asian students with their shame based hyper-sensitivity as a back drop to their learning, one has to approach them as if avoiding a motion sensor.  One of my teachers caught two students cheating with the use of cell phones on two different tests on the same day.  Each student, although caught, denied guilt, denied knowing the policy about cell phones, then indicated it was an unfair rule, got angry and at no point took any responsibility.  It was like watching the stages of grief played out in several minutes.  To me it showed yet another example of how avoidance of truth supersedes truth itself, all in the avoidance of shame.

 

For Asian students studying in North America their cult of shame and Face for them is like hitting our brick wall of overt individuality.  If the two cultures are to intersect in politics, economics and academic settings we must be aware of these realities.  Westerners must interpret the “smiles and nods” thenread between the lines for the “truth” in the messages, while Asian students need to have a heightened awareness of the dysfunctionality of shame in a Western culture.  Each culture requires a certain level of sensitivity toward the other or as our worlds intertwine all the more there will only be greaterfrustration and misunderstanding.

 

…a person lives by face as much as a tree lives by bark

 

Curiosity under Scrutiny

Curiosity Under Scrutiny

 

Gently my grand-daughter pulled my hand closer for examination.

She scanned it methodically as if doing a grid search for a lost soul in the forest.

I held my breath and hand steady while with her other hand she traced the perimeter of my aged

boney fingers, and my bulging veins. 

Finally, after intense scrutiny she gave a long weary sigh as if making a gigantic medical diagnosis.

Grandpa, she said, “Why do you have such hairy hands?”

Laughing I said, “Well I guess that’s just a man thing.  I really have no control over that.”

She looked up at me, directly eye to eye, as if I were hiding some elemental truth, eventually, releasing

my hand, letting it drop.

Perhaps satisfied with her new found knowledge.  I wasn’t sure.

She left for other more important things, “Bye for now grandpa, that’s enough adult talk.”

 

Hillary Rodham Clinton Did What?

Hillary Rodham Clinton Did What?

 

I think the very first conspiracy theory I heard had to do with Pearl Harbour, in fact at the time I didn’t know what a conspiracy theory was.  I thought it was just some type of entertaining and fanciful way of thinking outside the box whilepresenting another perspective, that definition I’m afraid, would ultimately be very benign and naïve.  The conspiracy theory I heard some 25 years ago stated that America secretly, of course,attacked Pearl Harbour in order to speed up the process of getting America involved and committed to entering World War ll. 

Later, I heard more conspiracy theories through the proliferation of modern-day social media.  I realized very soon that with the acceptance of these “theories” each one sets logical thought backwards, sets civilization and society backwards.  When as aan individual and a society we find ourselves discussing a Satanist pedophile ring run by the political elite, rigged elections, or school shootings designed to push gun control,bonds of logic and civility seem to rapidly dissolve.

All of these so-called theories, including Pearl Harbour, are very extreme in nature, bizarre in fact, yet many people choose to tend in this direction in their thinking.  People who do poorly on critical thinking tasks, like evaluating arguments for example,are much more likely to believe conspiracy theories.  In today’s society such theories are also fueled like an explosion throughsocial media which relies on no real discernment or factual information.

Conspiracy theories for many provide comfort in their somewhat out of the box “solutions” to worldly problems.  They are often highly simplistic solutions to negative events. Through CT people derive a sense of control over events that otherwise seem out of control or unmanageable.  It is a mechanism by which some people who are fear based in their day-to-day thinking can feel a measure of security.  They are a security blanket for the unknown.

There have always been CT, maybe we didn’t always call them as such but anything to explain an eclipse, earthquake or natural disaster, enter also the realm of religion, to the paranoid style of American politics based on suspicion and conspiratorial fantasytoday.  During the American Civil War and during the Reconstruction Period that followed there were many CT which revolved around the idea of Slave Power.  Theories that revolved around how the Southern planter elite would revive the slave economy which would also explain the Lincoln assassination.  If Hilary Clinton, according to QAnon CT, is involved in white slave pedophile trade it seems anything is possible in some minds.

Ironically, research shows that conservatives, not politically speaking, but rather people of that nature have more fears and less analytical thinking skills and operate according toemotionally laden decisions, as opposed to a reliance on facts and data, then do people who are less fear based.  What is really needed to combat these trends is first of all a society in equilibrium as crisis breeds CT.  For example, Twin Towers, Presidential assassinations and attempts from Andrew Jackson to John f Kennedy, Economic Depressions, to listening to War of the Worlds a radio drama, all spawn CT. Since equilibrium is likely impossible then we have to educate ourselves better and have better news sources.

Most importantly we need an educated society with a strong public education system science based, (scientific method) which instructs and teaches analytical thought and deductive reasoning. CT thrives best in a petri dish laden with social upheaval, with poor educational systems, a disaffected population (the election was rigged) and with low social capital (poverty). 

Therefore, at the right time and place CT can and are used as a manipulative tool to sway thoughts and weak minds in an attempt to explain harmful, or tragic events through the actions of a small but powerful group. My own CT, in a general sense,is that a range of conspiracies are directed at any number of governments to show how they abuse their power. The particular CT that applies to the situation will serve to discredit the government, make them appear evil, weak or ineffectual, with the hope of eventually transferring power and influence to outside minority forces to decentralize any type of government power. 

A recent example would be using Covid as a mechanism to show government abuse of power, or was it a mechanism to distribute vaccinations and save people.  Take a side. Another,the AIDS epidemic.  CT: the government was using it to rid theworld of the homosexual population. CT: a small group of elites are using immigration policy to illiminate White Privilege.  

All fear based “theories” based on emotion, not fact, are used to drive minority political and/or private agendas against another group, is just another form of propaganda, which used during a time of crisis, sadly, and with great danger to society as a whole,can collectively sway the course of history.  

The question is do we learn from history?  

The answer, we barely teach it any more.

 

 

My Emotional Support Dog.

 My Emotional Support Dog

 

During my divorce, a process that nearly spanned a decade,which also included my loss of employment directly related tothe unfortunate fact that my ex was also my boss, that led to my down trodden bankruptcy and then out of necessity the eventualand inevitable adoption of Kennedy my emotional support dog. 

On a clandestine level Kennedy, spelled with one backwards N,as my daughter, who put his name on the front of his dog house had a slightly dyslexic moment and so the name stayed on the dog house and all future documentation, was still just an extraordinary pet.

 Kennedy was not named after the president as I originally thought.  I had given my daughter, I think about 4 at the time,the opportunity to name our adorable Golden Lab and to my surprise about a year later I discovered that Kennedy was actually named after one of Emily’s friends in nursery school. Still an amazing dog despite his namesake not being presidential.

Kennedy grew rapidly with great energy.   I was always in a frantic race to keep up with him and always behind in training and discipline.  Kennedy was by no measure spiteful or vindictive by nature.  With his high levels of energy, order and discipline simply did not take.  While walking him, and much against my nature I used a choker chain with a spiked collar which Kennedy, while gasping, also mocked my efforts at walking on a leash with any decorum. 

It was a Pygmalion situation working in reverse in which I was attempting to civilize while Kennedy remained a pagan by nature and wanted liberation, and total freedom of movement.  While walking, and I now use the term loosely, I reached the Birchwood Trails a system of many kilometers where people also enjoyed cross country skiing and snowmobiling, once there I release Kennedy to the wilds and let him run at warp speed.  It was all fine and good until another walker/skier/snowmobiler appeared on the scene and then Kennedy would be gone, sometimes up to a day. 

Out of desperation I had enrolled Kennedy and myself into dog obedience and training school.  I use the excuse that at that time my right arm was in a cast and I was therefore unable to controlKennedy’s immense power during our obedience lessons, but that would be a lie as it was Kennedy who was to blame as he systematically sabotaged the entire process. 

His ADHD was clearly out of control and neither I nor the frustrated experienced instructor could reign Kennedy in and I was told, and I then passed the word to Kennedy that we had been dropped from the class. There would be no graduation.  There would be no certificate for his doghouse, with the reversed N, nor would there be any dog treats or any form of celebration, “walks” to the park would be curtailed until further notice. It was a sad and humbling humiliation for dog and “Master.”

After Kennedy’s probation I drove Kennedy to Mac Island where the path system began close to where the Athabasca and Clearwater rivers converged.  To get Kennedy out of the van without losing him I had to first go to the rear of the van and secure his leash, no longer choker, that was a joke.  I then sneaked to the driver’s seat opened the door a crack got out went around to the sliding door, open that a crack, grabbed the leash and let Kennedy exit the van. 

Kennedy pulled be rapidly over to the water with the high expectation that I would throw out sticks.  After all he was a water dog and fetching was in his DNA.  With no one insight, as I usually brought Kennedy here either at dinner time or earlymorning to avoid other interlopers on the paths.  I took an appropriate stick and threw it out into the water, in the slow-moving area where the water planes landed. Kennedy didn’t actually return the sticks to me, but if he did it was always a tug of war game so over time, I just found it easier to get a new stick and throw again. 

By the fourteenth stick as this was also a wooded area with many sticks, Kennedy spotted a beaver and in mid-stroke discarded his stick and proceeded to swim mid-stream to “fetch” the beaver.  The beaver seeing Kennedy approach simply took a breath swam fifty feet under water in the opposite direction before coming up.  Kennedy meanwhile baffled zeroed in on the beaver’s new position and strongly and gamely swam in that direction.  

Like the repetitive nature of the stick fetching Kennedy never gave up and followed that same beaver, unless the beaver was of a duplicative nature and had a partner, Kennedy doggedlycontinued to follow further and further away from me and from shore until being the sensitive and concerned dog owner I am I realized that I would soon have to save my so-called-water dog from a potential drowning.  

Kennedy didn’t drown that day but he was nearly disemboweled by two boxers about two weeks later out on the trails.  I know I shouldn’t but I let him run free when I got further from civilization and into bear country which is anywhere from the center of Fort MacMurray to approximately infinity going in every direction.  Today it was boxers.  Kennedy came running towards me rounding a curve and of course I immediatelythought bears.  Soon he was followed by two boxers off leash, I mean what kind of owner does that! Before I could say, “Sharknado” the two hounds of the Baskervilles set upon Kennedy with a resounding fury. 

I thought I was about to watch his death before my very stunned eyes.  Kennedy, also a coward and a realist flipped on his back exposed his belly and all his manly parts (his pronouns even back then were he/him) to the fury of the Boxers as I beat them with a large branch the size of a hockey stick.  The attack abated as the owner of the demented dogs ran around the curve as I placed my stick down protecting my innocence in the whole sorted affair.  Quickly, taking the moral high ground I made some off-hand snotty comment about better controlling their dogs, hypocritically leashed my own dog and strode off stage.

By this time in my life, I was living single and Kennedy really was my emotional support dog.  The one that when things got tough or not even challenging in the least would abandon me without thought of consequence.  Frequently, this happened when anyone came to the door, parcel delivery, pizza delivery, me opening the door in a thoughtless manner, Kennedy would take the opportunity to brazening run around me or through me and make a dash for the streets.  Often, I would get a phone call from a person, a stranger, miles away asking if Kennedy, as identified by name and number on his collar, was my dog.  After admitting that I was I would go retrieve him, and have our sad reunion. 

I think he pretended, or at least put up a reasonable pretense that he was glad to see me. He knew at least to jump up, another bad habit I couldn’t break, bark with little sarcasm and wag his tail with some effort and convincing level of enthusiasm. When you live a lonely isolated single life an emotional support dog of such low caliber falls through the cracks, neither reprimands nor pep talks did any good.  It was as if Kennedy understood no English or was totally indifferent to my emotional needs at that time. 

Kennedy eventually refused his dog house even though I put a heat lamp in it with imported hay from southern Alberta. He generally slept in the hall outside my bedroom.  He snored, or we both did, and it was better if we were separated.  However,by morning if I gave any signs of life such as slow movement,rhythmic breathing, he would leap on my pathetic single bed andfor lack of room, I’m sure not affection, he lay, all ninety pounds, on my chest making it hard for me to breathe. Often mornings, especially week ends if I ever wanted to sleep in or linger in bed, I would have to remain perfectly motionless, as any motion was capitulation.

Once up and Kennedy fed before I had life giving coffee, I would take up position in my easy chair which was situated atsuch an angle that I could throw a tennis ball the length of the living room, into the hallway to the end bedroom. Kennedy would complete a sliding fetch and retrieval and unlike the sticks would actually put the ball in my lap eagerly panting and waiting for the next throw, which I did over and over again as I developed the amazing ability to drink coffee and read my book or newspaper using only my left hand. 

This game would continue winter or summer outside as well and I think Kennedy “loved” me the most when I had a tennis ball in my hand or even had one close by.  In summer I filled a kid’spool with water placed my lawn chair at the opposite end of the yard and threw the ball into the pool which I could hit 9 out of ten shots.  In winter even at minus thirty I sat by my firepit and threw the frozen tennis ball about 30 feet to the back fence where Kennedy often did a leap and got the rebound for an extra 2 points.  

I can’t explain why I loved that stupid dog so much but I really truly did.  Maybe there is such a thing as unconditional love. No matter how many times Kennedy ran away, or disobeyed me or used a sarcastic tone, chewed furniture, peed on the rug, woke me up too early, demanded food, nipped me too hard at play, reported me three times to the SPCA, escaped my fenced in back yard or followed me to school one day and ran lose through the school to all kids delight…I still loved that dog.  

Eventually, out of necessity to get a life I moved back to Ontario. I had to find another home for Kennedy, a sobering under taking. Previously, my ex got the cat as their characters were a perfect match.

I wrote up advertisements, this was before the age of internet and social media, but like social; media I created an advertisement for Kennedy riddled with lies with an adorable picture and through the help of the bulletin board in my vet’s office, where I had Kennedy neutered, hoping for more compliance, I found a good home for him.

And I swear without a word of lie or any exaggeration I can barely type this last sentence as I am bawling my eyes out and hyperventilating as I think how much I loved that dumb, stupid,disobedient, neutered emotional support dog.  I can still see his happy oblivious face and lolling tongue hanging out as he poked his head under the fence of the backyard at his new home where they had not only kids but lots of sticks and tennis balls and that was the very last moment that I had the last sight of my dear dog Kennedy with the reversed N and how’s that for emotionalsupport.

 

Marty

 

 

Tales my Grandfather Told

 Tales My Grandfather Told

 

The Shaw Festival Theatre had just let out its Christmas crowd from the classic production of White Christmas. Snow crunchedunder our feet as we approached the parked car.  We were all chattering about the play we had just seen and making comparisons to the Bing Crosby, Danny Kaye, Rosemary Cooney and Vera Ellen original. The younger of us, especially the grand kids, had no clue what we were even talking about.

“The singing may not have been Bing quality and the dancing may not have been Kaye quality but a classic story, just that one lady, OMG, the one working in the Inn could not sing, that was just too sad.”

We packed into the car and headed out to the Queen Elizabeth for the two-hour drive home.  I had grown up near Niagara and this had been part of my home turf.  As kids we had made frequent bike trips out to Niagara from St Catharines and sometimes on to Brock’s monument and Niagara Falls.  My parents, typical of the time, seldom, if at all, knew our where abouts.  We, and by we, I mean my brother, myself and several friends made a bike caravan leaving early in the morning and returning to our respective homes close to sunset.  As long as we made it before the street lights came on, we were in the safety zone as far as my mother was concerned and I was never certain if my father was ever aware of what we were doing, where we went, when or with whom.

It was on the same road we were now driving on from the theatre having watched a serene and classic Christmas play thatalmost 60 years earlier by good friend, Art, lost his sister Grace in a tragic car bike accident.  Grace was out delivering papers on her bike when she was violently hit from behind and thrown into a farmer’s field. She was hit so hard she probably died before she landed.  

It was the first tragedy and death I had experienced and it hit us all hard.  Each time we made the bike trip to Niagara, for we were never deterred, we would stop at the spot where Grace died and sit astride our bikes for a moment of silence, sometimes Art would be with us, before heading on to finish our road trip.   Those were different times and perhaps safety, or even a regard for safety had not been devised or seriously even aconsideration.  As kids we lived like feral cats and wondered for the sake of adventure.  Our lives were full and joyous for the most part

Driving back from the play we missed the turn off leading to the highway.  “Looks like we missed that last turn to the Queenie, this is Lakeshore where I grew up and these are the places I remember as a kid.  Guys this is my memory lane.”

Not to spoil the glow of the recent play we had just seen I didn’t tell anyone about Grace and her bike accident as we passed the spot. 

“This turn to the left takes you to Avondale Dairy a place we would bike for ice cream on week ends or in the summer, sometimes on a Sunday my father feeling generous would drive the family out here, but we would never admit to him that for every time he took us, we had been ten times on our own.  Had I stepped up to the counter and said to one of the scoopers I’ll have the usual they would have known exactly what to get me.”

I continued with my tour guiding with my captive audience as we drove the long way to join the highway. “This is McNab school where my brother went to grade eight.  We biked out here frequently to go hiking and hunting at our base camp near the lake.  We had an arsenal of guns including everything from pellet and BB guns to a 22 rifle.  Later we added a few shot guns but since we were raised Mennonite, we put a self-imposed cap on our arsenal.  I admit we were merely stupid kids.  We didn’t know any better and as such randomly and without care shot birds and squirrels and just about anything that moved, in large numbers.  There was one day that a group of old order Mennonites with a higher level of ethics and scruples witnessed our carnage and unknown to us at the time found our bikes and as a punitive self-righteous gesture let the air out of our tires.  It was a long walk to the nearest gas station. Had they not been Mennonite they would likely have slashed our tires too”.

Approaching the Welland Canal lock one lift bridge I pointed out the 20-ton semi-circular counter weight that was now securely fenced in because back in the day, that would be my day, it was not. I pointed out that, “During those times, in the wild sixties, we took great joy in placing coins, usually pennies,in the path of the counter weight as the bridge went either up or down.  In the process and under such weigh a penny would increase in diameter by a factor of approximately three.  Mind you there was the danger of losing a finger, hand or arm as the bridge weight moved thus the fence on location today.  The fence adds safety, but removes adventure.”

And if we go straight on along Lakeshore, we get to an access point at the end of Vine Street the landmark street I lived on which gives access to Lake |Ontario where of course we would go skinny dipping.  We weren’t allowed to swim in the lake unsupervised and since we were never supervised in was best not to come home with incriminating evidence like wet bathing suits.

Along Vine Street run the many plum, apple and pear orchards and vineyards that we liberally stole from on our way to Prince Phillip Elementary School each and every day.  We were chased by many farmers who it seems kept us both fed and exercised. 

“Grandpa, you were quite a bad ass kid.  I’m not even allowedto go out alone in my neighborhood?” 

“Yes, I get it Ryan times have changed a lot and we were a little wilder and freer, but you are so totally right times have changed so much from when I was a kid growing up to now. You know I have many more stories those were just a few travellinghighlights, to be continued if you ever have the time.”

We eventually got back to the highway and conversations turned to other topics as we made our way home and it did turn out to be a very White Christmas that year.

 

​​​​​***

“Keep your eye out for the supply drops, they fall out of the sky and have all the best stuff.”

I had just flown a routine reconnaissance mission in the Battle Bus over Mystic Island looking for the optimum drop off spot. This followed by a jet pack assisted descent to the island’s surface, when suddenly with no explanation my jet pack disappeared and my avatar, on screen, continued the rapid descent with parachute like butterfly wings. I had no apparent control over what was happening next. “Ryan,” I shouted out what’s happening?”

It’s okay. Just remember grandpa when you land its basically kill or be killed. Move fast pick up weapons and supplies, destroy things, go into buildings, but keep moving and get weapons.”

I landed, my yellow butterfly wings morphed away and miraculously and with mixed emotions I had a woman’s body with a tight nylon suit and an automatic weapon. I was a maniac out of control shooting everything in my path. Just following orders, sir.

“Ryan, what is happening?” I repeated. Even though I held a control in my hand to play this game I had no idea how to control my character and in an instant before I could cause any more harm Ryan snatched the remote from my hand and continued the battle on my behalf. My ten-year-old grandsonhad just saved my avatar’s life.

As he bravely fought on, I could see the fury in his eyes, as his boyish hairs on his forearms stood on end with his adrenaline rush. At the same time as he ravished the landscape, he gave a play by play and instructions which resonated with his obvious disappointment in my lackluster performance and sounding very much like an admonishment at the same time.

“Remember grandpa you are playing against up to a hundred other players. Its not like you are alone out here. members of your squad are depending on you. You don’t have time to feel sorry for your loses. You have to be quick. Think on the move. Get weapons.” Just as he used his pick axe to break down a structure in his way. I need wood, bricks and metal to build. I have to protect myself and be on the attack. Grandpa I have to do it all and you weren’t really helping!”

His eyes had a demonic gleam like he was possessed and I realized he was still armed. I quietly left the basement, without detection, and so ended badly my first tutorial on Fortnite Battle Royale.

I have to admit the video game had a certain dynamic, violence-packed-adrenaline rush appeal. I could also tell, at a glance, that it was not just a mild interest Ryan had in Fortnight, it was a full-blown addiction. He spent multiple indoor hours upon hours on the giant basement screen with his interests focused on little else.  What to do about this obsession this was a new world to me?

At bed time a few nights later, while “baby sitting” and pet sitting the dog, Annie, an American Cocker Spaniel and the cat, a Benegal, Milo. It fell to grandma and I To get the grandkids through the nightly routine in a somewhat orderly and timely fashion. Ryan and Aurora being opportunists also knew this as a period of vulnerability and weakness and therefore a window of opportunity by which to extend bed time to the max, watch more TV get extra bed time stories, more play time wherever their energies and interests might take them.

As for myself having already raised four kids and learned all of the tricks and had the thrills of a blended family I bought more into the philosophy of externally gruff but ultimately cool grandfather and hell to many of the routines. Those are for parents.

Grandma took on the case of Aurora while that night my energies were focused on young Mr. Ryan. Who at the moment was busy feeding his turtle Clive. Clive who had been found in the backyard the previous Spring had grown to an enormous size and had already outgrown a 10-gallon aquarium and was presently pushing the limits on his, as I could only assume his gender, as it could be just as easily a her and therefore Clivette, 20-gallon aquarium. Clive(ette) was due for release this coming Spring to a creek bed nearby before he had to move into the family bathtub as a permanent squatter.

“I guess you’re going to miss ‘ole Clive when you let him into the wild”

Ryan thought for a moment. He always gave his thoughts sufficient pause before speaking, as he was ever the thoughtful kid.

His answer somewhat surprised me, “Well, just like freeing Willie I guess. I think it is time.”

“Yeah, can’t argue with that”, I then segwayed into, “so what do you want to hear for a bedtime story?”

I grabbed a few pillows to lay against the head of the bed. From that vantage point when the motion sensor light from the closet turned off and only the turtle night light and Clive’s aquarium light, with the steadying unrelenting thumping of the aquarium water pump, Ryan and I were able to look back, stare up and examine the star covered sky of the Milky Way ceiling created through the effects of cosmic wallpaper on the ceiling. Although we saw no comets streaking by, it was a breath taking sight to take.

As I picked up a story book from the bedside table, Ryan said, “You won’t change the story as you read this time will you grandpa?”

I feigned shock. Ryan when have I ever changed the plot, characters, or any level of conflict in a bedtime story?”

Again, the temporary pause as he thought as if drawing up an incriminating list of evidence for the prosecution side, well he started, “There was the Good Night Moon story where you switched out the moon for Uranus, then there was that story about The Giving Tree, where the tree wasn’t exactly generous and how about the Beirenstein Bears story that time…”

I thought it was like asking the Monty Python question “What have the Roman’s ever done for us?”

“Okay Ryan,” as I cut him off mid-sentence, “I get your point.”

Busted.

“I didn’t always think you were listening to the finer points of a story and so I was testing you and may have changed a few minor details. So good for you for your excellent listening skills. Listen, what I really wanted to talk to you about was Fortnight.”

Changing the topic certainly got me out of murky waters and perked his little ears to a topic that truly interested him.

“Do you have a Fortnight Story?”

“No not really but I do have a little grand-fatherly Fortnight advice for you if you are really to hear me out.”

His interest took a giant step backward.

“I think I know what you are going to say because my parents already told me.”

“And what did they tell you?” I asked.

“The game is too violent; I play it too much. I don’t play with my other toys, or go outside enough and they made me sign a contract.”

“Seriously, I didn’t know that, so what’s in your contract?”

“Not that’s its legally binding, or anything but they are my parents. It says basically how long I can play, when I can play, with which kids I can play. It gives all the rules of controlling my game playing…”

“Okay good, and you willingly signed this document, did you?”

Well not like I had a whole lot of choice; they are my parents.”

Yeah, good call, wise decision. You know who butters your bread, or however that expression goes.”

“So where can I see a copy of this signed contract?”

“It’s hanging above the computer in the pantry next to the calendar.”

“Great, I’ll check that out.”

“Anyway, to put my two cents worth in I watched you play Fortnight the other day and actually I wanted to thank you for showing me the game and explaining a few things to me. I can see you have a real passion for the game and I have a little better understanding of what it is and I think I get why you like it so much. It looks like a ton of fun and very definitely has a cool factor.”

I paused. “Here’s the but, I think your parents may have a point in you signing a contract and you playing it may be a bit too much and why that might not always be such a good idea. Anyway, think about it and we can talk about it again later, K?”

“Sure” Ryan was pensive.

“Anyway, Good night, Ryan, don’t let the bed bugs bite.”

“Grandpa aren’t you forgetting something?”

“What’s that”

“My story!”

“Right, so what would you like to hear my lad? Are you reading any of the mystery books that grandma and I gave you for Christmas?”

“Sorry, but the Hardy boys are, I don’t know what but I’m not really into them. They’re boring”

“What’s that you say, wow Ryan I’ve read every single one of them when I was your age and older and I absolutely loved them. There is even the Nancy Drew version for girls. Have you not seen the movies? You’ve seen every other movie available on the planet at least twice?”

“No, I like more the Adventures of a Wimpy Kid. They’re easy to understand, lots of pictures, like sketches and the words are easier.”

“Okay fair enough, as long as you are reading something you can’t just be doing Fortnight and watching TV. I had to hold back before I got too preachy and turned Ryan off to the idea of stories and the joy of reading.

“Fair too that I can’t expect you to like reading what I read as a kid. I know things have likely changed in a hundred years.”

“You think.” Came Ryan’s somewhat sarcastic reply for which I gently swung a pillow to the side of his head.

“Hey give me a little break here kid.”

I could hear grandma reading to Aurora in the other room, so time was running out for the evening bedtime routine. “Listen Ryan why don’t I just tell you a story about when I was a kid and we can, you know, compare notes. You teach me more about Fortnight, if I’m not too slow to learn, and in return I’ll tell you about the wild times of being a kid your age 60 years ago before colour was invented and the whole world lived in black and white in a world that had toys with friction motors, there were only 12 channels on television and kids played outside until the sun went down.”

“What’s a friction motor?”

“You’ll find out, but first deal?”

“Is what a deal.”

You teach me Fortnight I’ll tell you stories about how kids played back-in-the-day. We compare.”

Ryan stared at me for too long, perhaps weighing the pros and cons of my proposal and maybe seeing that I was perhaps a little unhinged and he had very little if anything to lose and in fact this could buy him more Fortnight time. He agreed.

“Okay, but tough love tonight we are out of time; so, as we stop for station identification on channel 4 we will stay tuned for Howdy Dewdy Time tomorrow night. Your parents are gone for a few more nights, so we can pack more in tomorrow night. Now lights out, good night, Clive, Good night, Ryan. Love you to hyper space and back.”

Maybe, I thought, I was total out of touch with my grandson’s generation and my expectations were unreasonable.  As I quietly left Ryan’s bedroom and said my last good nights, I did my personal flashback. On the way to school my friends and Iwould wander through orchards and vineyards, talk, joke play tag and eventually reach the school yard where we would meet up with more friends and join in with a group game of marbles, frozen tag or touch football. It was all about social interaction, games and having fun with friends.

Later in life with my own kids I deposited them at a bus stop and watched as a big yellow school bus would whisk them away to their school. Today, as a grandfather I stand on a corner with the neighborhood parents as they drink their morning coffee and gather their children on and off the bus morning and afternoon. Making sure the bus driver sees them and notes that parent and child have connected and all is safe before driving on. On occasion a child gets dropped off at the wrong spot and it becomes a national scandal, parents demand drivers be fired and school boards be more accountable.  Over time parents have become more uptight and protective.

In the process of being protective school yards have collectively become safer and at the same time perhaps sterile and less fun. Not all bad. I think of some of the things we did as kids, the trees we climbed, the holes we dug, the games we played and I often wonder how I physically survived my childhood. We swam in the Welland Canal. We built rafts for Lake travel. We did 20-mile bike trips all with no parental knowledge or input. By today’s standards we did a lot of wild and crazy things.

Times have changed and we have become more protective and I think to a fault.

When I drive through any neighborhood in any town large or small in southern Ontario and likely if I had that same drive in any hamlet, village, town or city anywhere in Canada, I do not, or very rarely, do I see kids outside at physical play individually or in groups. Perhaps the only exception to my observations is iconic road hockey, which I hope never disappears from the urban landscape. It gives me hope for the future.

I believe children have lost their ability to organize themselves to play in groups outside of a school yard and without adult supervision. If I took a random sample of kids, or kids that were friends and gave them baseball equipment or a soccer ball and placed it and them in a field, my guess is that they would not know what to do. They could not make teams, select captains, show leadership, designate positions, calculate the division of labour, mediate disputes, or most importantly have fun outside participating in a physical activity. Children of today’s generation would be in a social void without direction and unless they could google a solution to their dilemma they would remain at a loss. Their thumbs would be twitching until someonerescued them, or threw them an I-pad.

I am 73 and grew up before computers and the internet. My TV world had 12 channels with little violence. My TV time was regulated and generally was a family activity including Ed Sullivan and on Saturday Mr. Green Jeans and Captain Kangaroo. I walked to school and played hard outside at recess and lunch. When I got home from school I put on my “play cloths” and met with my friends and was gone until dinner. My parents may have had a vague notion of where I was and with whom I was playing.

We build forts, played hide and go seek, organized baseball and football games, made hockey rinks without adults in the winter and played all the seasonal sports, we camped out in the back yard and explored the neighborhood on our bikes, reenacted cowboys and Indians, cops and robbers, and pagans and missionaries when our sisters played with us, all without the intervention of a single adult. Life was good. I had a wonderful childhood.

As night fell mothers in the neighborhood would call out for their kids for dinner. We would in turn yell back, “five more minutes,” anything to buy more time. Once in we would eat as a family with no TV on in the back ground. After dinner was homework, more unsupervised indoor play time, building plastic models of cars and trunks, using my Mechano set, or mini bricks or more likely pieces of scrap wood from my dad’s basement wood working shop. I read Hardy Boy books and then off to bed to repeat the process the next day.

I can’t help but contrast what I experienced in my childhood growing up with what I observe today and can’t help thinking that I pads, cable, Netflix, video games, internet, cell phones and the like have been more curse than blessing. Children and young adults are losing connections with each other, the family fabric is suffering and dialogue is being muted with the pause button of the electronic age.

I also recognize that society is not the safe haven it was when I grew up. It is a darker environment now and children do need protection. But when I see children hustled off to gymnastic lesson, swimming and music lessons, then soccer and everything else I think we have also gone too far in another direction. Too much of a busy schedule and too much organization I think may also stifle an element of individual and group play. We have come so far that we have organized, protected, and structured our children to the point where I think, in many cases, kids need more breathing space to play with other kids in the absence of electronics and adults.

Give them a ball, a bat a skipping rope, a football, a doll and let them play and see what they do. They may surprise us! I keep hoping they do.

 

 

The Contract

Fortnite Contract

Agreement between Ryan Lee and his Parents

For Ryan to maintain continued access to Fortnite and other videogames, YouTube, cell phone, or any other electronic device, hereto referred to as devices he must abide by and adhere to the following set of rules and restrictions.

Addiction Issue

Devices have proven to be addictive, and as such, we as parents reserve the right to restrict your usage based on our opinion of your mental state… if you seem overly stressed about device usage, become withdrawn, irritable, aggressive, depressed, or are behaving abnormally we will remove devices and establish a new and healthier social pattern. By signing this contract, you also acknowledge the fact that you have an addiction to devices and must proactively work to limit your usage. That is plan daily schedules and adhere to them.

You also agree to the following rules as stated below:

- Minimum of three hours of daily outside or creative play (e.g.Lego, transformers, war etc.)

- 30 minutes each day of exercise, to be completed before screen time in the morning

- All school work completed as requested

- bed made

- Shower and teeth brushed on time every day

- We expect an immediate response when asked a question or when told to do something.

Signatures

Parents _________________

Ryan ____________________

__________________________________________________________________

 

“So, Mr. Ryan correct me if I am wrong but what I found out about your game is that in Fortnight characters gather weapons, and to me, at least that seems like the potential for a very violent game to be playing. I mean why have weapons if you aren’tgoing to use them? Although when I did my due diligence, searching online that is, the game makers kept repeating the fact that there was no blood shed, or at least none that was visible in this game, so although many, die in the course of the game, many, many, no one seems to bleed out, simply a miracle of modern science. Did I get that right?

“Anyway, okay, Ryan, you know how you want your parents to buy you a pellet gun for your birthday? While I support that on one level, mainly because I had one at your age, along with a number of other items of mass destruction. I’d like to tell you a little story about many of the things that can go wrong with gun ownership and the theme from your game that when you have weapons in real life you tend to use them and often in very stupid ways. Let’s call this a cautionary tale. So, I really need you to listen carefully to what I have to say here. Unlike our violent American friends to the south gun ownership takes on different meaning in Canada, but will get to that later.”

“As a kid I always thought that Davy Crocket’s coon skin hat was the coolest thing, as was his fighting at the Alamo against all odds. Like every Mennonite boy growing up in the 50’s I wanted a hat and a rifle like Crochet’s."

“Who is David Crocket grandpa?”

“Thought you would ask. So, you know what a Mennonite is?”

“Yes, grandpa, you are. Did your family drive a horse and buggy?”

“No, actually we had a blue 1953 Ford when I was born. We had a TV, my dad made homemade wine and we had a TV set with the aerial hidden in the attic so no one, especially other Mennonites, could see it. That was way before cable and internet.”

“As for Davey Crocket, he’s a stereotypical American frontier folk hero who is actually not that important to my story. Just another American who loved guns, got himself killed, but some say died a great hero. He is the opposite of a Mennonite.”

“You see for me growing up Mennonite I wasn’t really supposed to know about guns, or have guns, in fact we were supposed tobe pacifists. And before you ask, I’ll just tell you that a pacifist is someone who believes in not fighting, but is really fascinating by guns and violence despite what his parents and church tell him every day of his life, like most Mennonite boys.”

“I got my cap and rifle one Christmas as snow lay round about. Ironic, that I would receive a weapon on a Christian holiday. Ryan, I’ll tell you how I nearly shot my eye out during the first week I got my pellet rifle but that is another story. I can tell you that I walked around for several days with a pronounced red dot on my forehead between my eyes right where I got hit by a pellet from my own gun. My mother, so observant about many things, never questioned me as I passed it off as a mosquito bite. But rest assured she knew. If you get nothing else out of our story times remember this Ryan, mothers are not dumb. They know everything. If you think you’ve hidden something from them and have fooled them, guess again. Now, fathers on the other hand that’s a different story. “

“My brother had, and very hidden from my parents, a 22-handgun, a 22 rifle, several pellet guns, a BB gun, a 410-shot gun, a 12-gauge shot gun an AK-47 (just kidding) and a cross bow a friend had made out of a car spring, although technically not a gun. It could send an arrow four inches into the trunk of a willow tree, so I think it qualifies as serious weaponry. It would be an under-statement to say that we were well armed, at least my brother was.

Marv, my brother, taught me to fire a gun so I wouldn’t end up shooting myself in the head again. He knew our mother would be disappointed if I did. We would often drive out to CleasonSnyder’s farm out in Winterbourne towards Elora, in the general direction where your parents first lived in Conestogo, by the golf course. There was lots of privacy and empty space there where we would take rifle practice in their quarry.

Did you know, for example, that a slug, a solid piece of lead, could penetrate the engine block of a Chevy. “

“Amazing”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Bounty Hunters (1962)

My older brother cautioned me,

lean the rifle against the fence while climbing,

rest it easy under the arm while walking.

He showed me how the slug from a 12 gauge

could enter the engine block

of an old ford pickup truck in the gravel pit at

Cleason Synder’s farm.

There we hunted ground hogs.

Lifesaving action for the Holsteins,

a cow could break a leg down a ground hog hole,

at fifty cents a pelt we were eager to comply.

 

 

“I know I was impressed too. My big brother taught me how to safely cross a fence line with a rifle without shooting myself. He had great patience as he showed me how to line up my target, hold my breath and squeeze the trigger at a target. On Fortenightthose are skills you don’t even have to consider. There is much more to shooting and safety than the game let’s on. Then again it is only a game!”

We shot at and, often killed, ground hogs, pigeons, barn cats and song birds primarily. Whatever was in season. Yes, in retrospect, while it is true, we were doing a bad thing, it seemed so right at the time. There was no Green Party. There was no environmental movement. There was no endangered species list. We were just stupid Mennonite boys with guns on God’s green Earth doing what, as it turns out, came quite naturally.

“Are you sure you want to hear this story? Don’t fall asleep on me!”

“I’m good grandpa I really want to hear it; then can I brush my teeth and go to bed?”

“Yeah, for sure. Promise.”

On weekends my brother, myself, our friends Walter, Kurt, Donald, the Kaettler brothers and other hangers on in our strange Motely Crew would bike past the Welland Canal at Lock number one. Where, if we had the time and the inclination, we would place a penny under the bridge’s massive counter weight.

The joy at lock one was the design of the bridge with its 20-ton semicircular cement counter balance. We can drive there sometime and I can show you. It’s still there doing the same job. Here we would take great joy in placing our pennies brought expressly for this purpose along the track followed by the counter balance as the bridge either raised or lowered. It was our educated group opinion that this bridge did a far superior job in squashing pennies than did any CNR or CPR train ever could. In fact, it was almost like comparing real money to counterfeit. When showing off my inventory of flattened pennies I would always take great pride in pointing out that the flattest of the flat were lock one original in mint condition. I wish I would have saved some of those pennies.

When a ship usually of Liberian or Panamanian registry came through (I thought those countries had huge navies) we would then be thrilled to watch our penny get flattened like a pancake. The same works with trains and railroads tracks, but sissy boys today can pay fifty cents and have a machine do it for them and it will probably say San Diego Zoo or Niagara Falls on the penny when all is said and done. Just not the same when you risk your own fingers. Not that I’m saying that’s what you should do.

Anyway, biking past lock one we eventually crossed the bridge and continued along the same paved road where Art Reece’s sister was killed by a drunk driver while riding her bicycle in late Fall while delivering papers. Art wasn’t with us on this road trip but we would always make a point of stopping at the spot we determined to be the exact spot of her death and take a moment of silence.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Train Flat Coins

The joy of a penny is to see it flattened beneath the wheels of a passing freight train.  I still have a collection of coins that has met its end under tons of flying steel on a CPR railroad track.  Nothing in my childhood quite equaled the marvel and adrenaline rush of a high-speed train only a few feet away as it pounds along the rails sending vibrations through the ground to your feet reaching your very finger tips.  Even better and more thrilling is the 20-ton counter weight on the lift bridge at lock one of the Welland ship canal.  Gingerly placing coins under the gigantic semi-circular slow-moving weight as the bridge ponderously lifts permitting lake freighters to reach Lake Ontario or Lock number 2, was a boy’s delight in physics.  Flatter by far than any CN or CPR flattened coin, a true collector’s item of great value and merit.  Today, a secure and sturdy metal grate barring any such childish activity surrounds the weight preventing the joy of a generation.  Today, we pay fifty cents for an arcade-like machine of gears to flatten our coins and emboss them at a tourist attraction like Niagara Falls.  Childhood somehow… just not what it used to be.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

None of us really knew Grace, as she was several years older, but Art was our friend and we thought we at least owed him that amount of respect and sensitivity for his loss. We felt oddly that we were special, for at our tender ages, actually knowing someone who had died. Fifty years later when I drove this same road by car the distances seem compressed and everything somehow seemed smaller. I still know where to slow down, just before the rise in the hill. I still remember where Grace died.

I told you some of this after we were returning from the White Christmas play in Niagara-on-the Lake at Christmas time. After the Canal we pass the turn off to Avondale Dairy, where on special Sunday afternoons our parents took us for ice cream. We were all tempted to turn off an abandon our quest for the greater good of ice cream, but we save that for another day and toil on out along the two-lane highway, when not accompanied by parents to what seemed like the edge of the known world.

Our ultimate destination was McNab School where my brother actually attended classes during the day in grade eight. The local school board had reopened and renovated this historic school house because of the explosion of baby boomers flooding through the elementary and high school systems.

A winding creek flowed below the play yard and this is where we liked to hike, make camp and go hunting for wild game. To clarify it was basically open season on any type of bird, rodent, ground hog, rabbit, barn cat, bat, large insect, snake, or turtle we could find. We had a very broad scope of interest and understanding of nature. He had not yet heard of ecology.

This was safari country. We parked, but did not lock our bikes. Bike theft was still in a developmental stage at this time.

We hefted our backpacks full of beans, wieners and Kool-Aid and hiked to the Interior along the creek. Once situated we fired our guns at random targets. Walter fancied shooting at branches usually patently unaware of who was in his line of fire on the other side of the branch. I shot a blue jay that day, not a baseball player that would be wrong, and apparently there was a witness to my deed. A situation that would later teach me about cause and effect.

It seems that day we were being watched. Apparently, we had wandered into Mennonite country without really knowing it. It’ssomething like doctors without borders, one could easily pass into Mennonite lands unaware. We heard a commotion back where we had our bikes parked by the school. We quickly elected to send a scouting party to investigate.

We did not like what we found. Running off in the distance like mad dogs and Englishmen were several Mennonite boys, you could tell by their distinctive dark clothing, suspenders, bowl haircuts and flood-like pants. Their baggy untailored pant legs flapped like kites in a tropical storm as they moved away from us at great self-righteous speed.

Everything happened so fast. We went for our bikes to give chase, only to discover that the tires were all flat, every single one of them, on all seven bikes. Walter came running up the path behind us and when he put two and two together, the kid was a math whiz, maybe he was a speed reader too because a sign attached to my bike said, “Blue Jay Killer.” Walter fired from the hip at the fleeing Anabaptists, another name for Mennonite, and got my brother right in the stomach.

So, you see where I’m going with all of this, even though it sounds like lots of fun. It wasn’t right to shoot little forest animals and birds like we did. In the process my brother got shot in the stomach, and then after all that we had to walk several miles to get back to the nearest gas station so we could pump up our tires.”

Other friends we had were similarly armed, but I suppose the significant thing here is that they were not Mennonite friends. To this day I am not sure if my other Mennonite friends were actually armed and had a cache of weapons like my brother and I did. But to maintain a balance to the discussion keep two other points in mind: we had two sets of friends Mennonite and Non-Mennonite and second and maybe most importantly to my everlasting soul, I was the younger brother and therefore was less culpable.

“Grandpa, I get all of that, but tell me how did you shoot yourself in the head with your pellet gun?”

“Is that your take away from all of this? I’m trying to tell you we were stupid and we did dumb things.”

“Sure, but just tell me, I think it might be another good story.”

“Good night Ryan!”

I’m not trying to imply that life “back in the day” was better because it was simpler. I just prefer to see kids playing outside with balls and skipping ropes, playing tag, baseball or touch football in the rain or sunshine and certainly there is nothing more comforting and reassuring that certain childhood traditions will live on then when watching children playing out on school yards with their skipping ropes during a warm Spring Day, as in their happy sing song voices, I hear them say, “Strawberry shortcake, huckleberry pie, who’s going to be your lucky guy?” The enders then up the pace and rush through the alphabet until the skipper misses the rope and it is at that very letter of the alphabet when the rope and skipper stop that fate has been sealed forever in play.

I then walked over to my granddaughter’s room.

“Hi cupcake how are you doing?

No answer.

What’s up buttercup?

Her head faces down her eyes dilated fixed on the screen I get no response.

After a few more minutes of this Aurora comes out of her trance like state. “Grandpa would you like to see what I’m watching?”

My only avenue at communication is to buy into her offer, so I do. “Sure, what’s so important?”

“This is a video I made and I can change the faces with this program to make them look funny and distorted and voices sound like a chipmunk.”

I watched and started to laugh and then I laughed some more. “My gosh Aurora, that’s so funny show me how you do that, that is an absolute riot!”

I had to admit out of all of that screen exposure came some creativity and maybe the time wasn’t all wasted and maybe I was being too much of an old school judgmental jerk. My granddaughter had a truly creative flair with this technology with a well-developed sense of humor.

“Aurora,” I began, “Are you up for a little story about when I was your age?