Rowing

 

Rowing

What are we really, a sum total of our memories, or our things.  Are we mind or are we matter and material possessions.  What defines us, or maybe a little of both, a lot of one some of the other? Just trying to figure it out as I sit on my rowing machine, in my garage, looking at some of my stuff which also brings back a whole bunch of memories.

I see a pile of squash racquets, a wonderful sport I played with passion, reaching heights of mediocrity in my play, and one now I can no longer play because my heart and body no longer co-operate with my will. 

I look at most sports equipment in that same sad and longing way, the skiis standing in the corner of the garage with the rusted edges.  I put them on last a year ago in Banff as my skills and my knee betrayed me and I realized that was my last day.  

My snorkling equipment from days living in the Bahamas still stored in a bag, I am reluctant to get rid of because I have the lingering vague hope of using them in some far off post pandemic tropical vacation. 

I gaze too at my golf clubs and think of my arthritic wrist, but still hold out hope that playing this game, however poorly, will be my last connection to athletics of any kind other than walking and this rowing machine I now find myself on.

What am I these things or these memories?  

The shelves are packed with our camping gear, equipment we did not use this year, but we did last summer and perhaps again in the future.  Many memories there, of both making and breaking camp, camp fires and forest and beach walks.  

On another shelf a tape recorder/radio I used to record messages to my daughter when she was a child and we lived thousands of miles apart. 

The tools and garden equipment remind me of a host of projects that I joked kept me out of trouble and out of the gangs.

 

I row on surrounded by my stuff and my memories.

Fences

 Fences in reference to Trump 

Robert Frost, who spoke at the inauguration of John F Kennedy, once wrote that “Good fences make good neighbors”.  It was a signature line in a poem set in a pastoral setting.  This line resonants with me as I think to January when another president will be inaugurated.  Trump has also spoken, although less eloquently, on the issue of fences or walls and their relationship with neighbors.  I believe Trump in his own way believes what Frost says in his poem about making good neighbors, yet he speaks from the point of view of an isolationist.

It has always been my view that when mediation fails, when negotiations fail, when all civilized form of reasoning and civility fail, then people, politicians, revel at building walls.

In an historical perspective from the Great Wall of China to the Berlin Wall and everything in between walls do not have a high success rate.  In terms of a cost benefit analysis their return on the dollar in terms of security is actually quite low.  Yet even today The Israelis have built a wall separating them from the Palestinians.  During the recent Olympics in Rio de Janeiro a wall was erected to prevent foreign tourists from seeing the extreme poverty in certain parts of the city as they made their way to various sport venues. 

Walls are the brick and mortar manifestation of social /political failures. Yet Trump has promised to build his wall separating Mexico from the continental United States. Trump will fail as will his wall.

Frost repeated his prediction in many, if not most, of the lectures and public appearances he gave over the subsequent months, and continued to endorse the candidate whenever possible. Kennedy in return quoted from the final stanza of Frost’s poem "Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening" at the close of many of his campaign speeches: “But I have promises to keep, / And miles to go before I sleep.”

Cats are Republicans...

 Cats are Republicans, Dogs are not…

On the Inferiority of Cats who are Users and the Superiority of Dogs who are Loyal

 Cats are users and manipulators while dogs, at worst, are enablers and often just don’t clean up after themselves.  There I said it. There is no simple way around the truth.  Let me clarify even further, just as bipolar America can be divided into Republican and Democratic factions with opposite irreconcilable ideologies, so too goes the world.  The world and everyone in it is either a cat lover or a dog lover. 

 Naturally, the corollary of that statement is that everyone can also, and at the same time, be a cat hater or a dog hater.  With the numerous permutations and combinations it gets incredibly complex and my purpose is not to confuse you.  Let me put it to you as a parable. 

Verily, verily I say unto you…imagine for a moment a Republican gun owner (that takes no imagination at all) who loves dogs and hunting, who while on a hunt happens upon a Democrat walking his declawed, neutered, politically correct cat early one morning. The Republican mistakes the cat and its owner for a deer, a pheasant, a hooded teenager with skittles, a Black rights advocate, or some other game animal or bird. It really doesn’t matter he only needs a target.  He fires, multiple times with his automatic rifle, pauses, then changes clips and fires another 14 rounds.  Since this happens to be in the state of Florida the shooter goes free. 

The scenarios are nothing short of mind boggling.  I hasten to add as a caveat that with my little parable I am in no way implying that all dogs associate with Republicans.  Dogs are just not that stupid.

On a political level, while on politics, cats are actually most like born-again Christians, red-necked, right wing Republicans, not dogs. They like life most while dwelling in boxes, so as not to face the harsh realities of the world.  They dwell in fear and jump at any disturbance.  They  survive on the status quo and do not like change in their environment.  Nor do they like controls or limitations in their world yet demand clean litter boxes at all times.  Their dishes must be full, not half full and open to interpretation.  They live as superior beings when they are not, they dictate and like to be served.  They do in fact prefer isolation and come out of hiding when they need something.  They  are hypocritically willing to accept perks despite their distain and contempt for any leadership other than their own. Cats are difficult to educate and as a result do not accept most household social norms.  They will not sit or roll over.  If angry, and when feeling abandoned, they will however, without hesitation or remorse, deliberately piss on your bed much like Republican radicals who would storm the Capital.  Cats want control and are dictatorial.  Cats are not to be trusted, and why you would keep one in your home I’m not sure.

Dogs, in contrast, are generally liberals and therefore tend toward the Democratic party. It is Democratic presidents that have dogs in the Whitehouse.  Most dogs would nip and growl at a president like Trump. Everyone knows that Trump is a cat lover.  In fact a derelict like Trump has publically admitted his love of pussy.  Dogs are the opposite of cats and are inquisitive by nature and easy to educate.  They mix with family members, protect the family and are loyal.  Dogs may be libtards, but they can be trusted and will never piss on your bed, nor storm the Capital building as they, unlike cats, have a solid moral compass.

 I know much has already been written as to why dogs are better than cats or vice versa, that argument gets nasty because then, by extension, it becomes an issue as to why cat owners are better than dog owners or vice versa.  Does one type of person or animal have something divine, spiritual, or innate superiority over the other. The answer pure and simple, without bias, is a resounding, yes of course they do. Dogs and their owners are better for all of the above reasons and more.  Let me explain why.  I’ll start with cats.

 If one were to Google “cat lovers” there are numerous sites available in which people describe with candid glee how they have been adopted by a cat. Some people refer to it as “Catitude”. In the real world it is more realistic to think of cats not as assimilated domesticated animals, a more reasonable view is cats as clandestine infiltrators of human society.  

 Historically, cats never allowed themselves to be domesticated.  Cats are opportunistic.  Cats were likely first “domesticated” at the same time wheat and barley was farmed.  During Neolithic times when the Agricultural Revolution was catching on and urbanization was all the rage in new settlements such as Shillourokambos, on the island of Cyprus, rodents were attracted to the stores of grain crops.  Cats followed the rodents to the new town sites as an abundant food source and put up with human co habitation as a means to an end.  The point is cats snuck in because they saw and opportunity. They used charm to ingratiate themselves and were even seen to have god-like qualities by the Egyptians and soon cats were the most popular mummified pet.

 Dogs on the other hand were brought into the fold of human habitation because they provided us with useful services and resources.  At various times and in different cultures they served mankind with guard and hunting duties, provided food and fur and served as a beast of burden.  They were a useful and functional part of society and became so thousands of years before cats crept in through the back door.

 Today not much has changed in terms of Man’s best friend. That phrase may be a cliche, but have you ever heard any one refer to a cat that way?

  Dogs serve as seeing eye dogs for the blind and sniffer dogs for various branches of law enforcement.  Dogs star in movies and many became famous such as: Rin Tin Tin, Lassie, (probably the most famous of all), The Littlest Hobo (a Canadian star), Clifford (a giant red dog), Brian (from Family Guy who drinks martinis) Goofy (beloved by all), Bolt, (has actual super powers), Snoopy (an author), Marley (a Loyal family member), Dino,( from Flintstones technically a dinosaur) and 101 Dalmatians (more than 100). 

 When I google “famous cats” I get hits which include unusual and uninspiring characters such as: Mr Bigglesworth (Dr Evil’s pet), Church (psycho cat from Pet Cemetery by Steven King), The Cheshire Cat ( Psychedelic drugged out cat), Garfield (hedonist). I find that there are no true super stars, such a sad litany of burnt out animated characters and has been character actors. There are no cat super heroes and if there were it would be like comparing Super girl to Superman, (see my article on gender and super heroes). 

 When we think of lonely and isolated members of society such as cat ladies, those sad individuals who live hermit like lives hoarding this in that in the company of scores of cats, we must be reminded there is no dog equivalent to this malady.  There are no “dog ladies”.  Dogs are just too well adjusted to put up with such crap. Cats are neurotic to begin with and just perpetuate mal adaptive social behavior among certain sub sets of old women in the population.

 When we hear of heroic rescue stories of mountain skiers being buried in avalanches such heroics are associated with Saint Bernard's and the like.  I have never seen a cat rescue anybody. 

 I ask you. What is the stereotypical situation in which firemen find themselves coming to rescue what out of a tree?  Yes, that would be a cat.  Dogs do not need to be rescued.

 I rest my case. Cats are generally users within our society.  They serve no useful purpose.  They manipulate people with cheap tricks and antics.  Purring.  Really.  Are you actually fooled by that?

 A dog is loyal, useful, functional and can follow commands like sit, beg, role over and play dead. Cats don’t even respect authority, so they don’t follow commands.  They don’t even listen.

  Its not that I hate cats.  I have actually owned several, eight in fact. They were all called Kitsie.  Kitsie III was my favourite. True, they brought me a small measure of joy as a child, but when I think of my childhood in its broadest sense, it is really the adventures with friends and our dogs that stick in my mind.  When I divorced, it was my dog Kennedy who got me through some pretty rough times.  No cat would have the empathy to deal with social healing on that scale because they are users just like my ex and that’s why she got to keep the cat.

Marty Rempel

Crossing Tunis

Crossing Tunis

 Being a pedestrian in Kuwait is a dangerous occupation, this piece describes my daily walk to school...

Crossing Tunis

 

In my perpetual quest to become physically fit I make the 15 minute walk to school each day and walk back most days.  Some days I cheat and take the school mini bus. On this morning I wear my bright yellow nylon jacket.  I look like a street cleaner, as many wear brightly coloured jump suits, but the point is I feel safer, like wearing white at night, another safety concept that has not caught on here. 

My thoughts are premature as a white Toyota van carrying school kids to the Pakistan Happy School merrily swerves towards me.  I felt that the three inches to spare between the van’s mirror and my chest was a near death experience.  The driver probably felt three inches was a wide margin for error.

As I walked on I noticed that an older Egyptian man, warming himself by a fire in front of his parked front end loader, was laughing. He had obviously been a witness to my near miss.  I gave a shrug indicating who can explain crazy drivers.  He then pointed at his own chest as an indicator that he acknowledged my bright yellow jacket.  I ran my hands along the length of the jacket and shrugged again. I felt like a third base umpire as I communicated with my hands. Without language we had shared a moment in Kuwaiti traffic history.  Of course if I misinterpreted our little exchange he could have been saying that foreign infidels need bullet proof vests to survive.

My walk takes me passed many sights and sounds and tactile experiences enough to stimulate any learning style. On the side streets and in the absence of anything resembling sidewalks, dexterity is essential to maneuver around the garbage dumpsters, parked cars and the variety of urban flotsam and jetsam that abounds.  I wear very sensible shoes, with good traction and thick soles.  I have reflexes like the feral cats that inhabit the dumpsters along the route.  I am sure footed and alert.  Actually, that’s mainly a crock of shit.  It’s 6:30 in the morning.  I’m slow and semi comatose and in no mood to talk to another living person.  I am walking a gauntlet and still fear for my life.

Along the way I must cross Tunis Street one of two main streets in Hawally, the ghetto suburb in which I live (editorial comment). Kuwait was never designed for the pedestrian.  This is an automobile society.  The traffic is thick, continuous, fast and evil.  As I approach Tunis from a quieter side street I feel my adrenaline rise, or it might be bile.  I begin to awake from my stupor knowing full well that I must soon be at the peak of my game in order to cross this busy road. Life, as I know it, is in the balance.

Moses had it easy with the Red Sea.  Having the ability to part a sea is not actually a level playing field.  Knowing full well I could not part the traffic and realizing the force is not with me, nor seldom is, I tentatively walked on the sidewalk (now there was one) parallel to the constant flow of TATA buses, scooters, trucks, taxies and foul smelling diesel engines.

I turned and scanned the horizon for a gap, even a subtle, tiny one, in the line of traffic, looking for my window of opportunity.  Horns blared.  I controlled my panic.  Knowing I must do this thing.  I must get to class my students need me. They depend on me.  They hang on my every word. The future of the free world depends on my crossing Tunis.  It’s a bogus little pep talk I give myself before launching across the street. Sometimes it works. Today, I think not.

I was about to go for it, cross Tunis that is, when to my utter surprise, and partial satisfaction, my pants started to vibrate.  It was Cheryl on the cell phone.  I was then able to give her a real time narration of my crossing of Tunis at morning rush hour.  I felt like my hero Jack Bauer.

“I want you to know that what ever happens I love you.  I have to cross the street now” I stepped off the curb.  I was dizzy.  Grit, from the wind generated by the stream of traffic, was flung into my face and blurred my vision.

 “I see a gap.”  I cried into the cell phone.  “I’m going for it.”  I had to dodge left, zig right; there was constant enemy fire from my left flank as mortars and light artillery fired from the northern trench.  I feared for my life even as my men exchanged fire.  I could still be the victim of collateral damage.  A victim of friendly fire on the way to work.  I would not have it.  Flak had hit my port engine and I was flaming out. Bullets pierced the thin skin of my aircraft like a knife going through butter.  There was no time to write a decent simile. I instructed my crew to bail. Hot engine oil was spewing through my cracked windshield.  Black smoke screened my visibility.  I was losing altitude fast.  I had to act quickly. 

Immediately, I dropped and rolled and tossed my backpack even though it contained some vital supplies.  I was now lighter and could move faster.  I had bought a few precious seconds.  I lurgt forward.  “Bogies at 12 o’clock,” I screamed into the cell phone.  Smoke again blurred my vision.  I saw an opening and went for it.  I had reached the median.

Here blue helmeted UN troops patrolled.  It was a temporary safety zone. The air grew calm as in the eye of a hurricane. Still on my cell to Cheryl, she asked me to stop by the store and bring some milk back on my way home.  I explained that I was under fire, (she may have thought that was a metaphor), and did she want skim or 2%.  I stepped off the curb and left the safety of the median.

Tear gas drifted toward my sector.  I tore my shirt sleeve off and wrapped it around my mouth in order to breathe. My life did not pass before me but every movie cliché that applied to crossing busy streets in war-like conditions did.  There were only three. I shouted out to who ever would listen.  “You looking at me?’  You’ll never take me alive you dirty copper.”  Finally,  “There’s no place like home.”  In desperation I quickly clicked my heels three times.

“Medic!  I need a medic” and I was on the curb.  I had crossed Tunis.

I noticed people on the sidewalk were looking at me oddly, must be a cultural thing I thought.  What, have they never seen a person cross the street before?  Regretting the loss of my backpack and my torn shirt, I got to work only five minutes late.

Marty Rempel

Survivor