The Wheels on the Bus

The Wheels on the Bus

 

School buses have been around, even if the horse and buggy variety, since the 1920’s and have become iconic parts of our educational lore.  Most people have ridden on a school bus at some point in their lives and everyone can likely share a school bus story worth telling.  I have a few.

 

My personal association with school buses began at an early age as from my living room window I would watch my two older sisters walk to the corner just across the street from our house and catch an old re-commission highway coach that served as a school bus.  It would ominously pick my sisters up and take them away in a cloud of black diesel exhaust to... I didn’t really know where. I would not see them again until that same bus deposited them, in late afternoon, as shadows descended, in the same location.  It seemed mysterious, somewhat sinister and caused me a degree of anxiety this almost magical daily ritual of disappearance followed by the relief of reappearance.  School buses were an early onset for my later insomnia and reoccurring nightmares involving abductions, but that’s another story for another time.

 

Back in the mid- 50‘s, as a student, I had no need of a school bus because my local school was within easy walking distance, a mere 9 km straight down the road from my home. My first experience with a school bus ride happened while going on a skating excursion while at that same school, Prince Phillip Public.  About two classes, or 85 students would crowd onto one bus holding our sharpened skates like ceremonial swords while never removing a single eye or leaving a permanent scar on the bouncy, boisterous trip to the arena. There, our teachers, God bless them, had to laboriously help us tie our skates and usher us around the arena as they nursed the many fall related injuries.  Later, the fatigued teachers had to repeat the process in reverse, remove the skates, get us on the bus, attempt to count the surging kinetic bodies and land us again safely at school only to be repeated the next week as part of our progressive Phys Ed program.  

 

My first high school field trip was with Mr Kegler, my grade 10 Geography teacher. It was that same teacher along with that arduously long bus ride to the Kodak plant in Rochester New York that gave me a love for geography, photography and cemented my relationship forever with the ubiquitous yellow school bus as It steered me towards my own teaching career.

 

In University while enrolled in Religion and Culture 101 a basic first year level so called Mickey Mouse course, we as young, responsible adults, boarded school buses from our campus to tour the culturally significant Labatt’s plant in London, Ontario.  That trip was a little more rowdy, loud and out of control than my previous skating trips but seemed to have roughly the same number of people recovering from falls of one sort or another.   I have no idea how the bus driver endured the trip, or what lasting cultural impact it had on us as students, but for various reasons it did prove to be a highlight and milestone in my student life on many levels.  We were not tested on the material based on the trip nor was the university ever invited back for a similar field trip.  It did raise the philosophical question as to whether or not there were ever 100 bottles of beer on the wall.

 

Since that time I have ridden on too many school buses to count.  It seems as I age the frequency of my school bus travel increases and each trip comes with new challenges. I often ponder the safety of the some 40 000 school buses in Canada that carry 2.5 million students daily.  My research tells me that although the comfort level of a typical glossy yellow, the official colour, school bus has not changed  since they were first pulled by horses, the safety levels have improved.  

 

I have often wondered as a parent who has put his own children on school buses, why there were no seat belts.  The answer, perhaps a marketing ploy, is due to the unique compartmentalizing of the seating arrangement such that upper body impact is absorbed by the seat in front of the passenger and therefore is actually safer than a lap belt.  What happens to the person in the front seat, we leave to speculation and offer thoughts and prayers. To add harness seat belts would require changes to the entire interior design of the bus at great cost and likely offers a truer picture of the slow nature of change, but don’t think about that the next time you load your kid on a school bus and send him/her off to school or camp.

 

As a teacher I have supervised many field trips going to museums, historical locations, ski resorts, day trips, and week end trips.  One memorable trip I took with over eager, hormone, enriched grade 9 students was to Niagara Falls.  This particular bus trip is seared in my mind with indelible emotional scars  because I made the same trip as part of a grade 9 regularly scheduled event.  The noise level on a bus during a trip generally increases exponentially from the front of the bus to the back.  Bus drivers through years of exposure to pandemonia have become more oblivious to chaos and can endure, while mere mortals whither.

 

On this particular trip I was seated at the relatively tranquil white flag zone at the front of the bus when passing motorists, with blaring horns and flashing lights, gradually caught my attention as they seemed to angrily pass the bus.  I sensed something tragically amiss and began the treacherous journey to the rear of the bus where to my horror I discovered three very large life-like puppets were “mooning” the passing motorists.  I had never seen such a spectacle in all by bussing exposure.  Naturally, I confiscated the three offenders and with some embarrassment took them to ride out the remainder of the trip in the very dangerous front seat.  We just sat and glared at each other the rest of the way.  From somewhere near the cheap seats in the middle of the bus, as if in comic relief, came the cheerful notes of several students in song...

 

“The windows on the bus go up and down

up and down, up and down

All through the town...”

 

I glared down at the puppets and said, “Not a word out of you three!”

 

Marty Rempel

 

 

 

 

Trump and Greatness

 

Trump and Greatness: A Modest Comparison

 

Every empire rises and Falls, it is the nature of things.  The Chinese, for example, were once great and could have been even greater had they not shut down their naval exploration that took them to the Middle East around Africa and possibly even to the America’s all before Isabella and Ferdinand of Spain were even born and during the time much of Spain was in the hands of the expanded Muslim Empire, another great empire which stretched from the streets of Granada to the Philippines.  

 

At one time in history the Arabic Empire was also great, their scientists made significant contributions to astronomy, mathematics, poetry, philosophy and art.  Today, their glory days behind them, they squabble amongst themselves and relegate human rights and scientific achievements to places of obscurity. 

 

The concept of great can mean many different things to different cultures over different time periods.  The Chinese chose to dismantle their mighty navies, stop their exploration and retract into an insular existence because they felt they were already the centre of the universe and had no need for further greatest.  Instead they waited the course of history for the rest of the world to surpass them in every technical way until they were eventually destroyed, no longer great.

 

The United States has risen to be a colonial power, a world power and a super power but today struggles with the concept of greatest at home and in the world.  Donald Trump is a busy man with his MAGA (Make America Great Again) movement and is likely going to run for another term as president.  To do so he must articulate his concept of Greatest for the many American’s who cult-like hang on to his every word. 

 

I know, when I first got Trump on my radar, was really during the initial presidential debates with Hillary Clinton.  I listened and I watched and after the very first debate I thought and firmly believed that the man was a buffoon and had a zero chance at victory.  Clearly I misjudged Trump, the electorate, the times we live in, the power of social media and the weakness of democracy. They all seemed to be tides in his favour.

 

The more I listen to Trump and other Republicans like him the more it becomes apparent that they have no tangible plan for greatest.  No positive initiatives to actually improve the quality of life for most Americans.  He, and they, seem to want most to wage war with Democrats, Storm the Gates of Democracy, and I mean that in a literal and a figurative sense. They wish to destroy rights that have stood for years, build obstacles to voting while basing this on a foundation of patriotic christianity.  The only real thing they wish to build is a wall to keep the “southern rapist and thieves out” while still somehow convincing Latinos in the country to vote for them.  

 

I tried to think of any other leader, either contemporary, or historical, who had the desire to make his country great and/or was considered great like Trump who seems to be  worshipped by his disciples.  After making my short list including a few other American presidents like Lincoln, the two Roosevelts or even Obama, Johnson or Kennedy. I eventually narrowed it down to Frederick the Great of Prussia.  I mean he even has the word great in his name although I don’t believe it was on his birth certificate.

 

Frederick the Great, or Old Fritz as his closest friends and family members liked to call him oddly enough had a few things in common with Trump and there were  some significant differences as well.  For those who don’t know Der Alte Fritz he was actually the King of all Prussia from his father’s death in 1740 until his own death in 1786.  Which roughly translates to 11.5 American presidential terms, something Trump would be very jealous of given his propensity for tyrants, dictators and the such who can virtually rule at a whim forever without any ridiculous electoral college, or that “voting thing” standing in his way.  Not once, for example, did Fritz have to say the election was stolen.  It was his birthright. 

 

Like Trump, Fritz didn’t really get along well with his father.  While Trump’s father, Fred was a domineering, but wealthy slum landlord, he was also a cheap miserable individual  lived a very frugal life in the original brick house he and his first wife first moved into all without the use of servants.  Fritz, at least as an adult, dressed himself and although he lived in a palace, Sanssouci, in Potsdam, which was to die for, and was much nicer than any Trump Tower.   Frederick was much closer to his mother Sophia, whose own father just happed to be George Louis of Brunswick-Luneburg who succeeded to the British throne as King George l in 1714. The family was well connected. However, Fritz, liked Trump was emotional scared by his father.  

 

For Fritz that likely came when he tried to run away from home and escape with his lover to England unfortunately as it turned out his lover was Hans Hermann Von Katte, a Prussian officer.  For his effort Fritz’s father put his son in prison for two years and had Katte executed, by beheading, in front of his cell window where he was forced to watch.  This apparently caused a rift between father and son which lasted about a life time.

 

Trump, although not gay has perhaps the opposite problem and I say problem because at the time it did cost Fritz’s lover his head.  Trump simply slept with most anyone who was available, especially if his wife was pregnant at the time.  Historically, it is not certain if this got the ire of his father or just made him proud but one thing is for certain it certainly garnered the christian vote in America as the republicans are known for their family values.

 

While still a young man Frederick had little interest in the family business which was basically power, money and ruling.  To his father’s horror he was more into music, philosophy, horse back riding, literature, French culture and art.  In comparison Trump as a young man was more into the family business of power, money and ruling and knew virtually nothing about any of those things of a cultural or literary bent.  Although with a ghost writer he did go on to write a book about the “Art of the Deal” which did have the word art in the title.  Likely, that was the closest Trump got to what could be called culture. Oh, he was a member of the screen actors guild for his role in the Apprentice in which basically he played himself.

 

Let’s jump forward to the main event and put our two main characters into the peak of their careers.  After being let out of prison Fritz got more in touch with the family program and had a burning desire to make Prussia Great, now this is where Trump and Fritz reach two roads as they diverged in a woods, according to the Robert Frost poem and Fritz it could be argued took the one less travelled as he became an anti-Machiavellian personality.  Trump became the Niccolo Machiavelli personified.

 

When Trump was rising to power in the real estate world of New York he did it all on his own, with, well a little help from his well connected father Fred, who gave him a small start up personal business loan of about a million dollars, or so the fairy tale goes. More likely it was a series of loans totalling closer to 450 million dollars; but that of course was later called fake news a concept developed by Trump.  

 

Trump has said of his parents, as quoted from Philip Larkin “They fuck you up, your mum and dad.” Like Fritz, Trump was formed more by his father, “the 45th president was profoundly shaped by Fred who looms over his emotions and psyche in a very distinct way.” Donald kept a framed picture of his father, not his mother in the oval office, and it is likely his father who proudly and diligently taught him, step by step, from a young age how to cheat on taxes (still haven’t seen them, although he pays more to China than to the USA), how to discriminate in the housing market, and how to scam individuals and the government.  It is uncertain if Donald learned to cheat at golf on his own or with fatherly assistance, or if that just came naturally. none the less Donald was a quick learner just like Fritz.

 

Frederick came to the throne with an exceptional inheritance.  He received a highly militarized state, and although it was a small nation by population (12th largest in Europe at the time) it had the fourth largest army.  The military absorbed 86% of the state budget.  It was by far priority number one.  Frederick doubled the size of the army he received from his father making Prussia a Great Power.  But...

 

Frederick was not just about military conquests and territorial expansion he was what we would call an enlightened despot.  With his power he controlled immigration and tolerated all faiths within his realm.  He supported diversity as the route to greatness by allowing Jesuit teachers, Huguenot citizens, Jewish merchants, Protestant weavers frequently mentioning that nationality and religion were of no concern to him.

 

When considering Trump on immigration he would be the opposite of Frederick the Great.  Trump favours a southern wall. He created policies keeping muslims from several countries from entering the United States, he referred to African nations as “shit holes” and by supporting right wing nationalism he promotes a white Christian America.  

 

Fritz was considered enlightened back in the 1700’s as he recognized the worth of people as resources to build a great nation. Trump is taking America and the world more to a stage in the Middle Ages, one of isolation and stagnation because he recognizes people as pawns, including his followers.  His concept of greatness is anything that feeds his own ego.   Frederick used immigration as a vehicle of growth and prosperity.  Trump feels he can accomplish the same by giving the rich and the super rich tax breaks.  

 

In terms of the arts and science. Frederick was a patron and a participant.  He felt opera was a way by which the ideas of enlightenment could be spread and even broadened the access to opera by making admission free. He also reinstated the Berlin Academy of Science, making it a world wide centre for research, an institution closed by his father as a cost cutting measure.

 

Trump in the arena of arts and science is a moot point.  He doesn’t really recognize science, nor does he understand it.  He does realize bleach is a chemical.  As for supporting the arts, while building the NY Trump Tower he did agree to preserve two art deco friezes located on the building occupying the construction site  of his new building thereby showing support for the arts.  He did recognize their value; so I concede that point.  However, when he discovered the cost of their removal in order to preserve them he had them destroyed with the building. 

 

Donald is a one maybe two dimensional person...money and power.  His legacy, to be sure, will consist of the fact that he made us know hate again, although he didn’t invent it, he’s more of a revivalist.  His core of supporters will love him blindly while those with analytical abilities will be haunted by visions of the Civil War and a divided nation.

 

Frederick the Great brought prosperity through the ideals of enlightenment despite his authoritarian and military characteristics.  By comparison Trump is taking a once great nation, seeing its weaknesses and preying on its vulnerability for his own gain.  He gives nothing back. Nothing Great about that!  Donald is a fake!

 

 

 

One Very Good Teacher

One Very Good Teacher

 

On the coldest of winter days my intrepid mother would pull me on a wooden sleigh with curved metal runners, I was bundled up immobile and beyond recognition on the cross-country trek to my kindergarten class with Miss Linkletter at Prince Phillip Public School.  It was there that I learned to count and sounded out the alphabet years before Sesame Street ever aired on television.  My earliest memories of this class included my inability to use a coat hanger in order to hang up my coat which ultimately led to a total reliance on coat hooks and a fear of trying.  I had a slow start.

I do clearly remember nap time when we would, as a group, lay our little blankets down in a large circle on the cold, hard linoleum floor and pretend to sleep while Ms. Linkletter busied herself preparing for our next activity.  In cold weather every morning was like an indoor recess for her.  I can say with all certainty Ms. Linkletter was my first love, a secret until now.

In later grades after failing grade one I especially liked art and music classes, but soon realized that taking joy in such activities did not necessarily bestow me with any natural talent and I soon made peace with the realization that my love for those passions soon withered because my grades never matched my passion and there was no grade for passion. 

I did like show and tell.  My dad made me a wooden violin, or maybe it was a small guitar. He had cut the shape on his jig saw out of quarter inch plywood, then stained it and painted on strings and a dark circle for the hole.  I don’t know the technical terms now or then but when show and tell came around I was too embarrassed to show it. Instead, I hid it in the coatroom.  

The first time I got the strap was for throwing snowballs in the “No Snowball” zone which was exactly the area between the soccer posts.  To this day I believe Mr. Lowen was waiting for me to cross the boundary from no man’s land with an active snowball in my hand so he could send me and my brother and two hangers-on’s directly to Mr. Hall’s office for the strap.  

The four of us stood in absolute fear before our diminutive, but powerful principal as he gripped one by one our wrist in one hand and the coarse leather strap in the other then wound up in ahard ball pitchers wind up and let loose a forceful downward strike that displaced the air in the room as the belt made contact with my hand.  I did not yell.  I faced forward and received four on each hand, as I did the following week for the same offence.  The only thing that ultimately saved me was the coming of spring and the melting of the snow.

In the Spring came marble season and a time of competition out on the yard, with little chance of the strap unless a fight broke out over excessive losses or cheating.  We served up our games like a small casino at a fair ground.  The few fights I got into during this time were relatively inconsequential.

 

The frost had left the ground

the school yard transformed

to a cratered lunar like surface

as happy kids with numb fingers

squinted and took aim in

winner takes all games of:

Eye Drops,

Potsies,

Hitsies,

Snap-Crackle-Pop

or

Blanksies

 

A vocabulary for size:

 

Croak, supersize,

jumbo, bolder,

peewee and mini

 

and one for appearance:

 

Fogs, Specks, Cat’s Eyes, Sharks, Oilies,

Horsetails, Steelies, Ghost Galaxies,

Red Devils, Onions, Bloody Mary’s, Rainbows,

Skunks, Jewel Crowns, Crystals, Frosties, Spies,

Blueberry, Black Knights, Chestnuts, Galpears and

 

...never ever forget the lonely,

 

Plainie.

 

Few things on the yard match the excitement of

a mass marble scramble, or the eagerness in the eyes

of a potsie winner proudly clutching

a Royal Crown bag full of marbles.

 

Some days I would give a jumbo rainbow-swirl

to be ten again.

 

Later in math class my teacher mocked me for my weak numeracy skills while working on a slide rule.  In conversation he had asked what I wanted to do in my future and I had told him I was interested in science.  I remember his derisive laughwith mocking tones as he told me my math skills would have to be a little tighter and he added a chuckle. Whatever joy I had seen out in the yard playing marbles was dismantled with onecruel comment.

I eventually concluded that the teachers were right and I was far too sensitive for my own good and for a while I just stopped taking school seriously at all, that was until I met my Keagler in grade ten Geography.  He gave me back my passion for Geography, and trivia, nature, travel, humour and life.  His classes were like the joy of playing marbles out in the schoolyard and learning new things all at the same time.

 I took every class with Mr. K that I could.  I believe because one teacher helped me re-discover myself and my passions and overcome my insensitivities, I was able to eventually succeed as a student.  I never excelled at art, music or math, but I did connect with Mr. K’s son who I envied and through him was able to send greetings to his retired father in Fort Myers wishing him well and thanking him for being my teacher.  I don’t know if he ever got the message, or if he did if he remembered me out of a long career of students, but I do know I will never forget Mr. Keagler for making me the Geography teacher I became. 

 

In The Circle of Safety

 

In the Circle of Safety

 

“Yesterday was a very traumatic day for me because I had to part with something that was very near and dear to me on both a practical and emotional level with which, over the years, I have developed some would say an unhealthy connection.  Its not like I did it against my will or that I dwelt or festered on it at length. I came to the decision on my own in well-spaced chronological and incremental stages over a period of about a year before spontaneously acting.

 

Its not like I’m a collector of things, either flotsam or jetsam, but I suppose, to be perfectly honest I do like to hang on to things that I have used over the years as if we have some level of symbiotic attachment in terms of loyalty and spiritual connection. Let me give you an example to clarify. I graduated from Laurier in 1975 and kept most of my text books until about 2001 long after they were functional or even remotely relevant to the topic.  In fact, they were so out of date it was likely comical and by some measures sad and pathetic.  However, in my defense, it was compelling and soothing at the same time to have these books even if I never, or say rarely, looked at them after graduation. 

 

I find that when I go on a little trip like to the Middle East or China, I often find that in my absence Cheryl has done, in her infinite wisdom and in her prevue of organizational Zen master has given, destroyed or thrown away some of my cherished often unused collectables.  She never says anything to reference her clandestine activities, but over the years I may say things like: Where are my cowboy boots from that trip to Tijuana?  Where is my blue briefcase with supply teaching materials from when I substitute taught in Toronto in the 70’s?  What happened to my complete set of Hardy Boy books from my childhood that I was saving to give my grandkids one day?”  The list goes on.

I’m not a hoarder in the sense like one of my cousins is, or was,I think she is now a recovering hoarder.  I guess it may be a genetic infliction, but she would have actual piles of magazines, egg cartons and such all over the house so that one had to walk in the aisles between the piles.  I may be deflecting my transgression but I am not a pile guy that is more on the continuum of cat ladies.  I am strictly a dog guy which is more mid-spectrum at worst, if I have to get technical and defensive.

I thing keeping stuff lends an element of security and safety.  It brings contentment and is a registry of a life lived. It is a series of life related souvenirs testifying to places been, memories and experiences lived.  It is a museum, oh bad choice or words I see that now.  Let’s say an articulated collection of personalized artifacts that define time, place and personality in a decorative sense blending texture and colour. Stuff is nothing short of a testament to life.

 

People collect coins, stamps, baseballs, sports paraphernalia, travel pennants, postcards, ball caps, bottle caps, beer coasters and any number of items in eclectic fashion and all seems normal and socially acceptable.  I mean the item I threw out yesterday served me well and I was sad to see it go, but go it must.  We said our good-byes.  I put it, them actually there were two in this case, in a bin beside the actual garbage can.  It was a Home Depot orange pail we used for mixing cement.  I had two off them just in case.  Anyway, I put them in the orange pail as an intermediary step to going into the garbage pail so not to rush the process.  What if I had second or third thoughts on the issue etc.

When it comes to larger items like a car and I am by no means a car person.  I expect dependability, safety and getting from point A to B and points in between in relative comfort and economy.  It should likely be a Subaru, preferably with heated seats, mirrors and steering wheel, but other than that I really have no preference.  Leather seats would be good, memory seating options and if you can still get a CD player so much the better otherwise a car is a car.  I tend to get attached to my vehicles and hate to see them go. Its like we bond even though I know they are simply mechanical inanimate assembly like objects possibly with feelings now that AI is programmed into them but I digress.  

 

Anyway, I work in Toronto. I drive a Subaru there and either I have a mild dementia, or there are things missing when I get home.  I know we are thinking of down-sizing and of coursethrough natural selection items will be sacrificed for the greater good. For example, where are my lucky socks? I thought I had four sets of pajamas? Is my tooth brush really the blue one? You see the problem is I’m getting a little paranoid.  

But I know and I understand and have come to grips with the reality of my situation. I’m a man of a certain age. I run my life. Things are just things.  I am fine and that’s why I threw out my seven-year-old Solomon running shoes with the multiple holes in the toes last Thursday and I’m okay with that and my wife is always right in these matters and all else.”

“Thank you for sharing, Marty. I know that was emotional for you and may have been difficult at times.  Would you like a tissue?” 

“This is a circle of safety who would like to speak next?” 

In the Circle of Safety

 

“Yesterday was a very traumatic day for me because I had to part with something that was very near and dear to me on both a practical and emotional level with which, over the years, I have developed some would say an unhealthy connection.  Its not like I did it against my will or that I dwelt or festered on it at length. I came to the decision on my own in well-spaced chronological and incremental stages over a period of about a year before spontaneously acting.

 

Its not like I’m a collector of things, either flotsam or jetsam, but I suppose, to be perfectly honest I do like to hang on to things that I have used over the years as if we have some level of symbiotic attachment in terms of loyalty and spiritual connection. Let me give you an example to clarify. I graduated from Laurier in 1975 and kept most of my text books until about 2001 long after they were functional or even remotely relevant to the topic.  In fact, they were so out of date it was likely comical and by some measures sad and pathetic.  However, in my defense, it was compelling and soothing at the same time to have these books even if I never, or say rarely, looked at them after graduation. 

 

I find that when I go on a little trip like to the Middle East or China, I often find that in my absence Cheryl has done, in her infinite wisdom and in her prevue of organizational Zen master has given, destroyed or thrown away some of my cherished often unused collectables.  She never says anything to reference her clandestine activities, but over the years I may say things like: Where are my cowboy boots from that trip to Tijuana?  Where is my blue briefcase with supply teaching materials from when I substitute taught in Toronto in the 70’s?  What happened to my complete set of Hardy Boy books from my childhood that I was saving to give my grandkids one day?”  The list goes on.

I’m not a hoarder in the sense like one of my cousins is, or was,I think she is now a recovering hoarder.  I guess it may be a genetic infliction, but she would have actual piles of magazines, egg cartons and such all over the house so that one had to walk in the aisles between the piles.  I may be deflecting my transgression but I am not a pile guy that is more on the continuum of cat ladies.  I am strictly a dog guy which is more mid-spectrum at worst, if I have to get technical and defensive.

I thing keeping stuff lends an element of security and safety.  It brings contentment and is a registry of a life lived. It is a series of life related souvenirs testifying to places been, memories and experiences lived.  It is a museum, oh bad choice or words I see that now.  Let’s say an articulated collection of personalized artifacts that define time, place and personality in a decorative sense blending texture and colour. Stuff is nothing short of a testament to life.

 

People collect coins, stamps, baseballs, sports paraphernalia, travel pennants, postcards, ball caps, bottle caps, beer coasters and any number of items in eclectic fashion and all seems normal and socially acceptable.  I mean the item I threw out yesterday served me well and I was sad to see it go, but go it must.  We said our good-byes.  I put it, them actually there were two in this case, in a bin beside the actual garbage can.  It was a Home Depot orange pail we used for mixing cement.  I had two off them just in case.  Anyway, I put them in the orange pail as an intermediary step to going into the garbage pail so not to rush the process.  What if I had second or third thoughts on the issue etc.

When it comes to larger items like a car and I am by no means a car person.  I expect dependability, safety and getting from point A to B and points in between in relative comfort and economy.  It should likely be a Subaru, preferably with heated seats, mirrors and steering wheel, but other than that I really have no preference.  Leather seats would be good, memory seating options and if you can still get a CD player so much the better otherwise a car is a car.  I tend to get attached to my vehicles and hate to see them go. Its like we bond even though I know they are simply mechanical inanimate assembly like objects possibly with feelings now that AI is programmed into them but I digress.  

 

Anyway, I work in Toronto. I drive a Subaru there and either I have a mild dementia, or there are things missing when I get home.  I know we are thinking of down-sizing and of coursethrough natural selection items will be sacrificed for the greater good. For example, where are my lucky socks? I thought I had four sets of pajamas? Is my tooth brush really the blue one? You see the problem is I’m getting a little paranoid.  

But I know and I understand and have come to grips with the reality of my situation. I’m a man of a certain age. I run my life. Things are just things.  I am fine and that’s why I threw out my seven-year-old Solomon running shoes with the multiple holes in the toes last Thursday and I’m okay with that and my wife is always right in these matters and all else.”

“Thank you for sharing, Marty. I know that was emotional for you and may have been difficult at times.  Would you like a tissue?” 

“This is a circle of safety who would like to speak next?” 

A room with a View

A Room with a View

 

We’ve moved many times and done many renovations in the last two decades since we ‘ve been married.  The shortest and one of the most difficult moves was when we moved diagonally across the street to our present house.  Our objective, or at least one of them was to give my mother-in-law a home and move her from her present one on Vancouver Island.  We went out to the island helped her sell her house, pack her things and got her as far as Edmonton where upon deep reflection, acute anxiety and coaching from outside sources she changed her mind.  We kept the house because the deal had gone through.

I love that house it’s located on a ridge between two parallel streets and it has a half-acre wooded lot with many lovely gardens we have created with much “blood sweat and tears” over the years.  Being on a hill we have an excellent view of our neighbourhood, or the kingdom as I prefer to call it.  From the top of the hill in the back yard I can sit in our pergola and actually look out over our house roof to the world beyond and relax and dream, that is before the leaves grow in to ruin the view and the mosquitos take over before I have to surrender my territory.  From my perch I have an expansive view of our street, see the people walking their dogs and their kids.  I see the fast walkers, joggers and runners.  One girl even does laps of the block walking backwards.  The height and perspective definitively give a sense of power, control and perspective.  I love to observe.

From inside the house, on most days, during mosquito season, and during the winter months I can sit at the kitchen island and look out from on high and view the wild life that passes, the squirrels that annoy and feed on the bird seed I leave for the cardinals, chickadees and all those who are deserving of the seed.  There is the occasional fox, coyote, many chipmunks, who are also adept at stealing bird seed, there are the racoons who come at night, so hardly count.  There are also several feral cats that make our yard part of their route as they hunt birds, mice and voles.  Early morning, I can be found at my stool at the island looking out and looking down in a trance like state at whatever moves sipping my morning coffee as if in a coma.

I have had some more unique and unusual sightings as well, other than the morning I found a fox sleeping at my front door. Late at night, or early morning while quietly, in a meditative state, drinking herbal tea, I especially revel in the spectacular view of the northern lights dancing in green splendor across the night sky, which at first, I found to be very odd considering Waterloo is located at about 43 degrees north latitude and the northern lights are typically much further north, like in Alaska or Siberia.

The lights reminded me of my time spent in Northern Alberta travelling the ice roads and working with the Cree and Dene. However, when I shared my observations with some neighbors there was no collaboration and confirmation only odd stares and silence so, naturally, when several months later, also about three in the morning, I saw the herd of migratory buffalo come through on my street I said absolutely nothing.  I didn’t even post any of the pictures or video clips I had taken to document the event to social media.  I sensed the high level of doubt and skepticism and proceeded to keep a low profile about my observations and encounters.   

Having seen the buffalo, or is it bison?  I was certain there would be more sightings of something in the near future.  I wasn’t wrong. The night the Cessna made the emergency landing on my street, I guess after the buffalo/bison incident, I was no longer totally surprised.  I went out and chatted with the pilot for a few minutes and helped him fuel up with some high octane I had stored in my garage even though it was not 100 avgas he didn’t seem to be picky and take off, other then snagging, a few branches from the crab apple trees in the median, was routine.  Its not like you see a plane land on your street every night and it was actually another five months until the Twin Otter made a similar emergency landing.  Really for a quiet street that leads nowhere I was getting more action than expected.  What are the odds of two landings in a few months?  Go figure!

Sitting at my kitchen island early mornings, late evenings, took on a new air of anticipation as I never knew what to expect next.  I still have no idea why the Tour de France cyclists came through when they did.  First, the support vans and police car, with flashing lights, came through followed next by a few of the lead riders.   The pack came about a minute latter followed by several of the stragglers over the next several minutes.  I had seen a similar world cup event the previous summer in Glasgow, Scotland and other than the choice of location on my street actually knew what to expect. It’s an exciting event.  

The next morning other than a few water bottles strewn about there was no real evidence that there had even been a race and as I searched, no mention of it in the media.  As per usual I kept my mouth shut on the topic. 

I never understood why any of these activities ever woke the neighbours, especially the night the formula cars roared through.  There must have been at least twenty high revving cars, but since our street is short and as I said leads to no where the cars were moving relatively slowly.  Why they had to set up the formula pit in front of my garden always baffled me, but it was amazing the precision with which they could change a set of tires, fuel a car, check the engine vitals and send it off down my street at high acceleration.  I was in awe and spilt my ginger peach tea as I rushed to the window to get a better view.  In the morning, as with the Tour de France, I had some minor clean up, raked the garden over and put kitty litter over a few minor oil spills.  All and all not bad.

My soon to be son-in-law recently had me listen to a pod cast about extra-terrestrials who have landed and been documented in Arizona. It seemed very far-fetched to me at the time, but after what I have seen on my own street before my very own eyes, and since he seems to really believe this stuff, I promised him I would give an honest listen to the rest of the pod cast. And I will as I value his good will.

 Perhaps during the listening of it I could slip in something about Northern Light, buffalo herds, emergency airplane landings, Tour de France and Formula races on my street, although I doubt if I have any credibility. I have secrets I must live with, but in the mean time I have never enjoyed my after mid-night herbal teas and my well positioned kitchen window so much.  If we ever sell our house, I can market it as a house having a room with a view.

I may not wish to ever sell because I have to say the circus parade that went through last night was nothing short of amazing, cleaning up after the elephants not so much.