Saturday, January 27, 2007

Secret Attic of Mountain Poses

We had one once, in a big old house on an isolated street, near the river that dragged in fog day after day after day. The attic was a spooky place, a place I remember being only 7 or 8 years old. It was a time, a smell, a taste, a haunt of a memory of a child who shovelled into the snow drifts, high into the frozen curbs of real people. But I never dared go there, not even doubled-dogged dared, because up the climb towards the darkness, the Dunta waited and he was not supposed to be real.

My dad was real though, connected to the union hall that prestigiously aligned its docks on Front Street, with promises of wealth and prosperity and unionized banter, the river was the only income for a young man with a young family, and he was lured as any father would be, as his father was, and probably his father.

The ocean smells like seaweed and dad came home everyday feather-brushed in it, mixed with charcoal dust, and he brought white bars of soap and dirty sack of laundry for mom to tend to. We liked dad's work because they had company parties with hired clowns and hotdogs and ice-cream and I had an answer to "what does your dad do?" I proudly responded "my dad's a coalminer" because this is what I thought he did, after listening to all those country songs he played, I just assumed. I eventually would learn he worked at a shipping port that loaded coal onto huge ocean freighters, destined to far, far away places, like the attic upstairs.

Moody Street was a good street, even though there were vampires and zombies and dead people and ghosts and the Dunta. Gramma and Grampa lived nearby on Royal Avenue and we had dinner there every Sunday. Grampa had a lot of sawdust in his shed, which made for easy cleanups when we kids puked up after such opulence. Royal Avenue was also a good street. This is where we went to school, at John Robson Elementary, just a stone's throw away from Grampa's wood chips and Clayton's General Store. I grew up in a block that would have survived a nuclear blast, with all the necessities of life and rumours, and judgement, and food and water.

My friend, who was a boy, Reggie, also lived on Royal Avenue, in "Boy's Block" and had presented me with a trinket of half of a heart, the other half which he kept, thus binding us forever. His mom was there, admiring our cuteness, and I wasn't sure what to do, so I hugged her. I think I lost my half after recess the next day and was too embarrassed to play with him without his token of unity. After all, I had given his mom a contractual hug.

I never cared much for jewelry. I still don't. We kids would rather play near the firehall and sneak into the smokestack, a place where my memory still struggles to coagulate; a long chimney where bats hung and slept and nested, to scare the crap out of kids who broke into the ash stained bricked walls of ancient firepits and cremations of once people. We'd stand in the center of the chimney, gazing upwards towards a shrinking spiral of light, smaller, and smaller, until we were no longer brave enough to withstand the hisses of bat cries, and falling bat poop, and mother yells for dinner.

Boy's Block was like that, a fearful place of hisses and police sirens and men, and bad men who gazed out of window frames all day long, who watched children as they played. Today, my recollection is it was just an apartment complex for cheap rent for women, for single women with child, for men with men, for bad men on prisoner's promise. For bad women and once people. It was for anyone desperate enough to live in a place like this and it's long corridors of doors, which was only one step up from Hell. And to think we only lived up one block from them, divided only by a grand cherry tree.

Then I felt awful about losing Reggie's heart half, a fee that must have dug into a savings meant to take them out of poverty, but reserved momentarily to charm me. Reg just disappeared one day, as did our neighbours, the Wong Family, who had a live-in gramma who prepared dinner by chopping off a chicken's head in the backyard, and we'd watch it run around in circles for a long time, a headless, silent chicken, making us somewhat dizzy in it's death. Then she hung the damn thing up on the clothes line, along the drying towels and laundry, such bizarre things at the Wong House, really, really, Wong.

Sort of like Farmer's Market, where mom shopped for fresh fruit and vegetables, yet it stunk like the Wong house, like pig's pee on hay with the familiar smell of dead chickens wallowing in the air. I hated that place because no one spoke kid, no one spoke fun. Then we'd end up at Army and Navy, another sort of stink, like rotten moth balls and dead cloth, harbouring the old hotdog vending machine on the ground floor, spinning the same weiners over and over again, wrinkled and dehydrated in mothball air.

I honestly can't remember my mom shopping in nice smelling places. This was the worst floor to shop on, with fish tackle, and tents, and army boots. Or we'd end up on the top floor, with all the linens and fabrics and clothes patterns. Rarely, did my mom shop in the middle floors, the fun floors full of toys and gadgets and the soft icecream vending machine. But, in retrospect, we were the best dressed kids at school and never missed days due to samonella or ecoli poisoning.

Mom was multi-talented, like Bewitched, but for real. She could whip up a blazer and pant combo on her sewing machine, have meat in the oven, and still prepare bath time, and laundry time, and once upon a time in the quiet of Moody Street, despite the lingering door to the attic. I knew it was there, it was just a matter of time.

And one day I did go there.

Sabrina grasped her daddy's neck in death grip, hard. She clung on, shivering in the dampness of August's last breath. Like summer had given up and forgotten there were children still playing in the park. Daddy walked her across the street towards her room of dolls and light, towards the safety and comfort and warm bath of mommy.

Something was wrong. She knew something was terribly, terribly wrong.

She was afraid to look. Her pupils avoided looking at us, as she attempted to steer them left, then right, then left, then up and down. She didn't want to go there anymore, to the neighbour's house for daycare. Sabrina's only 6 years old and doesn't know how to be afraid, she never lived near a smokestack, or lived near a Boy's Block. She doesn't know how to say, "my dad's a coalminer".

She can't communicate her being. Not like me, not like when I was six and knew every corner of Moody Street and how to survive it.
The doctors think it's phycological. One doctor went as far as to assess it was my fault because I had dropped her on her head when she was a baby. Another doctor concluded it was a nervous reaction to her being fondled and touched in her privates, and it's a natural, nervous reaction to not use your eyes anymore, to avoid seeing what happened.

No, but that's not what they called it at court. Or at the police station where we videotape her testimony, the one where I inconspicuously stand there and watch through a see-through mirror, like in the god-damned fucking movies, except, my little blonde haired girl is on the other side with the bad fucking guys, showing the undercover fucking cops where he touched her cunt.

And I can't breath anymore, the smoke stack has swallowed me up, taken me to the once people. They called it sexual touching or sexual interference, they can't make up their fucking minds what to call it. And I'm hoping Sabrina doesn't describe her private as a "cunt". Because I've used that word so many times before, please, oh please, Sabrina, remember to call it a vagina. It's a vagina. A vagina.

Sabrina remembers pretending to be like starfish. He asked her to spread her arms and legs and pose like one, and it only cost the removal of his sister from the room for 10 minutes, for 10 dollars.

And the sister would lie, protecting her stink of a teenaged brother with such conviction of family, a unity where the kids had to hide extra food under their beds, where the parents hid extra vodka shots from repeating guests. Their children knew how to avoid the attic, even when there wasn't one.

I tip-toe up the stairs. It's not dark, but it's not light either. The Dunta's up there, I know he is, and he's waiting to be captured. And I'm the only person on Earth who knows he needs to be caught, because if I didn't, there wouldn't be the safety of Sabrina's mom. There wouldn't be the safety of Sabrina's gramma, or grampa, or a happy ending, or a happy beginning, or a middle shopping floor. There would have been just stupid things of another person's stupid being.

Stupid things that just takes one breath, one pause, one step, one step at a time. Step back and breath deep, and drink, and drink and let the emptiness fill up with fog. Fog is good sometimes, especially the ones that recirculate onto itself.

I remember fog being a really good thing when I didn't have the answer and could fall asleep into denial and let the cherry tree defend me, or the sawdust cleanse me, or when I didn't have to be brave enough because they said Sabrina would forget all about it, being as young as she was.

I would awaken to tree full of presents, Christmas presents stuffing the living room, so full of all our heart's desires and dolls, and tea-sets and bicycles. And it's all in black and white, but I remember, I remember the glee and screams, as my sister and brother awoke to Christmas Day. Santa had come again, overnight, then disappeared into another a room, into the attic full of your beautiful art.

Full of mountain poses. You painted canvasses of sunrises, sunfalls, sunscapes, and rivers, trees, fallen skies, and hazel mists, rainbows, and ancient logs, happy streams, and happy colours, and lots of landscapes, and mountains.

Sabrina will eventually be diagnosed with an eye disease that come on by universal chance, a hereditary glitch, not by the suffering of her parent's injustices and sins. It just happens sometimes. It didn't happen because I made her eat hotdogs at the Army and Navy, or because I said swears, or because she was taken by a once people.

You see, the child who offended her, is now a once person to me....a nothing. And the doctors who treated her are nothing, the ones who pandered eight months of her life away to finally figuring out what was happening. That it wasn't in her mind, or her mom's mind, that doctor's are just people, not super humans, not even half-hearted caring ones, like Reggie.

They are far, far less than the monsters I once knew, and the ghosts and the vampires and dead people I was so afraid of, and the Dunta on Moody Street.

They are nothing,

and up in the secret attic, there's....

and I hope Sabrina forgets, because it seems I remember so much.

Friday, January 26, 2007

Clint Eastwood Never Peed His Pants

It was a scorcher yesterday, a high plains drifter sort of thing, with the desert heat rising, a foggy mirage drifting towards the horizon, then, poof, he's gone. And it would happen, in the heat of anger, a child has left daycare, poof, melted by the sun. It was just that quick.

Here's how it happened.

I do a pretty good job running the daycare, taking care of little children, treating them as if they were my own. In fact, my clients praise me for my efforts and I am rewarded with long term relationships, a partnership of caregiving that allows me to see their babies grow and grow until the inevitable first day of school.

I know their children well. I was there.

One little guy is in the process of being potty-trained. He's about 2-1/2 years old and is being bribed to use the toilet. He went from diapers, to training pants, to big boy underwear within a month, poof, he's toilet trained. Or so his parents think.

One day he showed up at daycare in big boy undies because he's been using the toilet at home "all the time", and he gets presents, and if he pees it's just a little accident. At daycare it is not an accident, it's an unhygenic headache I have to deal with, keeping other children away from the puddle, finding the carpet and couch locations where he played, or sat, and peed. It's time consuming.

So I changed him, putting on his spare clothes his mother has conveniently had the foresight to bring, since I suppose their version of "all the time" really means "he's gonna pee because we brought extra clothes". And, yes, the cute little pugsley-wugsley peed again. Did we make a wittle mistake...a wittle waccident.

Listen here, high plains drifter, your little cowboy needs to wear training pants at daycare. You should have been there, it was like high noon had struck, itchy fingers dangling ever so closely to her gun belt, sweat sluggishly sliding down her brow, draw!

She shot me, screaming, "how dare I put him back in training pants over two little accidents, and how they worked so hard to toilet train him, and how unprofessional I am, and I'm going to make phone calls, and I'm going to report you, and your daycare makes my child ill all the time because of the other children, so an eye-for-an-eye, they can damn well walk in my son's pee". Well, that was the jest of it.

All the while I'm wondering who was this person, since I've never seen her act like this before, but I stood my ground, dug my spurs deep into the linoleum and told this imposter, no big boy undies until I am certain he won't pee on my carpets again. Another client was picking up his children and witnessed this whole ordeal, and so did all the little children nearby. It's not nice to yell at daycare, it's scary, it's tacky, it's having no regard for other people in an attempt to have it your own way.

In fact, I compromised. I was willing to allow her son to come in the next day wearing undies, but should he pee in them, I was going to put on training pants, not another set of spare clothes. I was being fair, I think, meeting her half way. But no, she stormed off, with little cowboy riding the reigns, with a training pant weighed down with urine.

Then the phone calls start coming in, late in the evening, by a husband who has heard her version of what happened, and he sounds tipsy, and I just hang up. Then she calls. Apparently, there's been a big miscommunication. Well, no actually, there's hasn't. You're still not going to have it your way, so fuck off.

I don't take too kindly to threats, you see, she said some dang good fighting words I am not willing to forget. After all, I took care of her son for well over a year, she didn't complain then. I hope she makes all her phone calls, as she attempts to hang my daycare high. I wish her well in all her endeavors, but I already know, there's no one, not one marshal in the land willing to shut me down over her son's tighty-whiteys.


--------------------------------------------------------------------


And just in case there's any confusion with regards to potty training, or any other rules and procedures I follow at my daycare operation, a "Parent's Handbook" is provided to all clients, via my web page. Here's my policy regarding big boy undies (which this client has broken on several levels)

"When you feel your child is ready for potty training, I ask that you begin this teaching at home. I will follow through and encourage your child while in my care. Please keep in mind that the activity level here can distract your child from responding to an urge to use the potty, more so than at your home. Therefore, I will continue to use diapers or pull-ups until your child can and will announce that he/she must use the bathroom (not just at home, but here, also) and can control his/her bladder and bowels for a few minutes beyond that announcement. When the child has reached this point, training pants may be used.

Do not bring your child in panties or underwear until he/she has naptime and bedtime control established.

I also ask that during toilet learning, the child be dressed in "user-friendly" clothing as much as possible. The best items are shorts and pants with elastic waists, or dresses for girls. Try to avoid really tight clothing, pants with snaps and zippers, and overalls as often as you can. Your child will want to help pull pants, etc. up and down, plus clothing with too many "gadgets" makes it harder to get the child on the potty in time."

Monday, January 15, 2007

Choose and be the Dufus at the Water Cooler

I was watching Entertainment Tonight (the U.S version) and all the pre-Golden Globe Award ceremonies and pomp, including the fashion sense of CoJo, our Canadian pretty faced kid-done-good, who almost died from kidney failure, a trusted voice of style.

I had this eerie feeling about him tonight, like I've seen him before, in another life....

CoJo looks more like this now, a chubbier face, because of all the meds he must take for his kidney transplant, but gosh, don't you think he looks like Chastity Bono.

You know, Sonny and Cher's kid. I loved that show.

So, back to the Golden Globe Awards, full of Keifer Sutherland and his hit show "24", then there's Prison Break. I understand both will air on Monday evenings at 8pm. Who do I pick? I love both shows and this is killing me, almost as much as parents who name their kid Wentworth. Come on now. What in the hell name is that. Wentworth. I looked it up, Google says it's a parliamentary constituency in South Yorkshire, and if I want to know more about the genealogy I'll have to pay $24.99 for a subscription...screw that, I'll just let my mind sort it out in a big school yard fight.

What if I show up at work and everyone watched Jack Bauer's escape from a nuclear blast, saving humanity, with speed dial to every presidential elect, three terms in a row, and I tuned into watch Michael Scofield's escape back into prison instead. Oh, I am going to be such a loser geek, then there'll be whispers of my mental stability and loyalty to the realities of television.

Dilemma: "24" or Prison Break.


Oh, yes, T.V. land, you play a naughty game. You've played me a thousand times before in your prime time wars. Do I get invited to lunch with the cool people, or am I brown-bagging it with my just desserts being a fleeting memory of Wentworth's flourescent eyes.

Keifer or Wentworth....Keifer, actually that's kind of weird name, too.

Oops, sorry...wrong Sutherland, but you must admit, father and son look alike,

or

Wentworth....

myspace
Animated GIFs

Friday, January 12, 2007

Put Flowers on My Face

I am increasingly forgetting my past as the consciousness of days melt away into each other, and the other, and the other. I don't do it on purpose. It drives me crazy when my google search in my brain doesn't work. I especially recognize these failed searches when I can't remember quotes from movies, or who starred in what, and their names, and all the titillating scandals.

But even more worrisome is how my gray matter has become defragmented and distorted and impulsively tries to provide a quick response to my queries, which usually are more memory blocks with just a hint of recognition. Then these little hints evolve into digression, and I digress, and digress, and digress, until finally I can't remember what it was I was thinking about. My brain is such a slutty tease.

You know, sort of like Algernon, and "don't forget to put flowers on Algernon's grave". See! I did it again! I wasn't going to talk about rats today. I was going to talk about the X-Files and The Warriors, although I'm fairly certain there was a movie made about Algernon, I'm positive it didn't star David Duchovny or that bitch wife of his, Tia. I remember her name because it's my daughter's middle name. She's the one who forced the X-Files to relocate to California after many successful years filming in Vancouver. She got wiped out by a big tidal wave in some movie, can't remember, but I do recall David's whine "I want to be with my wife", o-boo-hoo, then the producers just up and left. Then he starts shitting about Vancouver being an ice-aged forest. Don't get me started.

So, what I really was thinking about was how the kid next door comes over and asks if Brandon can come out to play. Abracadabra, I'm transported to movieland, and The Warriors and favorite line "Warriors, come out to play-ya".

And there's the girl, Debra Van-van-van-van,
who was the daughter of Ted Baxter from Mary Tyler Moore, but on a different show.


I wonder how she's doing? She had that big steamy kiss with that hunky guy in The Warriors. I think he's dead now, no wait, it's his career that died after starring in that crapola movie, The Shining, no, not The Shining, it was Glitter-something. Oh who cares, at least we got one good cult film to rant about a generation later.

I loved Valerie Bertinelli.
I hope she's not dead. She reminds me of Debra Van-van-van-van, except she started to piss me off when she referred to her husband, the king of guitar, as "Edward". Come on now, bitch...it's Eddie, Eddie van Halen, okay, no one calls a rockstar Edward.




So Valerie was in a T.V. series
a successful one because I watched it all the time, and the mom had red hair, just like


Lois


in Family Guy. I love Stewie.

Anyways, I went to watch the X-Files being filmed once.

It was amazingly boring. The guy I worked with, who came up from the California office because, apparently, we Canadian counterparts are too damned stupid to write Ada,
had a rented home on some prime land in Richmond, an isolated back country scene, with a verandaed house and a sign on the front door, "He has Risen". Talk about poor language skills. So the scene involves a car chase and a big truck full of chicken cages, and they topple over and, oh what a mess. I think it turned out to be the most boring X-Files episode of all time, and I was there.

And this all began because I couldn't remember the name of the woman who was the partner to David, you know, the brainy redhead skeptic doctor. Gilligan.

Thursday, January 11, 2007

Capoeira - Cool Martial Arts


I've noticed I post many of Sabrina's activities. My son, Brandon, has many interests as well. He "loves" Capoeira and is currently enrolled in Kikara Kickboxing. He'd like to switch, but I'd much rather keep him in something safer, where they only learn to break opponents arms and legs and such, and not their necks. Capoeira seems to be more like martial-gymnastics-art, sort of like kickboxing, but with style.

Monday, January 08, 2007

Family Guy Meets Randy Newman

For some reason, my YouTube videos have not been loading on my Blog. I have had to re-post alternate videos. Hopefully, I can paste the original, intended ones back later. Until then, for your enjoyment, I present:

Sunday, January 07, 2007

Sabrina's Space Scamp '06

Space Camp 2006

Cartoon People have way more Fun

a UFO testimony

Skylight's Edge
DATE: Monday, June 13, 1994, TIME: approx. 2:20-2:30am.LOCATION: Surrey (Newton) B.C., a testimony to UFOBC investigators:

Visit UFOBC at http://www.ufobc.ca/

We have a sky-light installed in our bedroom, which is directly above our heads where we sleep. It is approx. 5 x 3 ft. clear plexiglass, there are no obstructions, allowing clear view of the sky. My husband awoke to the sounds of our toddler in the next room, and is the first one to notice a strange object in the sky. He does not wake me, wanting to confirm first his observations are that of a u.f.o. I am suddenly awakened by his yelling to look, but it is not until after the event, we discover we were looking at two separate objects. I open my eyes to the sky and immediately see it: a triangular ship, almost perfect, yet I believe it was longer in width, but not by much. I cannot describe my feelings at that exact moment to suddenly have someone scream at you "there's a ufo !" and then opening your eyes to one.

The reality has not yet set in and you simply watch. I saw it move from one end of the skylight to the other. It seemed to just float across, or gently slide across the sky (it made no sudden, jerky movements whatsoever), very slowly and at a low altitude. I am not a good judge of distance, but it would be lower than a regular airplane as its size suggested to me. The whole incident of watching this particular object lasted about one minute.Once I had the shape embedded in my mind and thoughts, I began noticing other characteristics. I recognized that it was sort of invisible, but not quite, transparent, perhaps liquid, and yet it was a solid object made up of clouds and the surrounding darkness.

The edges were definitely defined, I watched it move and knew where it was all the time. I was looking straight up at it and could not see 3 dimensions, just the bottom. There were about six circular rims of light; the two at the widest part of the ship were larger and radiated a rim of orange light. The centres were solid and had no lights and at the time I thought these to be pads. Even then, I remember thinking they made a mistake by not closing the pads tightly so as to allow an escape of light. The next row of 2 became smaller and less bright, as did the pair after that. I am not sure if there were 3 pairs or 4. Surrounding these large circles there were several smaller lights and in retrospect, after hearing other descriptions of similar ships, these could have been stars.It made no noise, although I could hear several police sirens outside.

When it went out of view I continue to look up at the other u.f.o., which was much higher up, lit up as if a cluster of stars. I knew it was extremely high up, yet it was the size of a basketball. To me it appeared to have bands of light slapping out into the darkness. The after shocks were traumatic. I was afraid to turn on the lights in the house and was horrified when my husband went outside to try and videotape his u.f.o. During this time I telephoned my parent's house who live in the North Delta, out of fear or perhaps just to say good-bye. After that call I decided to call the police and ask if they had u.f.o. reports. I then tried to contact Vancouver International Airport tower, but no one answered the phone. I told the police operator that my husband was outside taping and within 10-15 minutes a police officer came to the house. He obviously thought we were crazy or something, asking first if I was on medication. I had to greet him in the driveway as he was shining his car spotlight into the house ... finally when he came in he asked what happened, etc. He did not write anything down, and appeared to be more interested in the tape we said we had. During this visit, I was noticeably upset, crying and having this police officer was no help at all. I had seen a u.f.o. and already someone didn't believe me.I took a chance to look through the phone book for other organizations I could call and left a message with Steve Beuck.

During the night I learned my husband did not see the larger u.f.o. and it amazes me how something so obvious, so big in the sky could be missed.I called my mother the next day and she told me she had gone outside on the deck to look for the u.f.o. Understandably, she was upset after receiving my terrifying phone call, and after 10 minutes or so decided to go back to bed. It is when she turned to leave off the deck that she saw a flash of red light in the sky.

I always wanted to see a u.f.o., always wondering if they were real or not, but now I wish I hadn't seen it. I know more than I should... there are new boundaries, new worlds, which carry on beyond the scope of all my learnings, life experiences. I also look out into the skies, a different perspective now, and look for the formations of triangular shapes within the clouds.

Daniel's Drawing: [13 June 1994 2:25-2:30 A.M.]
"Looked at what seemed to be extra large satelite, but knew it wasn't when it stopped. Then moved back some, up & down, then oblong circles. I then woke up my wife. It moved very fast & was very high. I did not see the triangular ship my wife saw."

Friday, January 05, 2007

Sinful Pleasures of Dirty Street

Christmas holidays always bring out the best of us, our instincts of charity, kindness, compassion and forgiveness are all boosted to extraordinary levels, overflowing our hearts to the brink of sinful gluttony.

The snow blankets everything, as it quietly piles into a soft cushion of cold, it's purity is unassuming and impeccably simplistic for angel molds. The decorations on our homes in the neighbourhood are plentiful, competitively bursting with grand aluminum evergreens full of blinking bulbs and mechanical reindeers with swinging heads. We stand in the center of the cul-de-sac, pivoting like the reindeers, pointing at each other's crafty panoply, which are always the same year after year.

Ana stands in the street for a long time. It's a bit unnerving, leading us to speculate she's spying again, which she is prone to do. But she's not very good at it, we can usually see her head pop out from the side of her house, or see her from the top window, blinds rolled up, window wide open to the dead of night. Not only does she watch us all, she wants to hear us all, too. Sometimes Daniel and I would have long conversations of fabricated stories, how our drug dealer is arriving soon, where do we bury the body, or discuss plans to erect an eight foot fence around the property, all in chain link and barbed wire.

Most people find Daniel more approachable than me, which I can understand because he truly is a nice guy. He doesn't like to make waves and would prefer quick, courteous solutions. His mindset is of communication that gently rolls in and out from sea, infuriating Ana more, since she assumes Daniel is a weak tide, dead stopped at the beach. I am not that nice westerly wind and when it pertains to this nutcase bitch next door, I am hurricane of furry.

Before the snows came, Fall had slumbered the trees along the creek, turning maple leaves into brown hands waving in the wind, until they fell off their arms and spiraled to the ground, covering the grass and street.

This irked Ana. She hated the messy aftermath of Fall, the stench of hibernation and the fun activities the children found while they paraded in the mounds of crackling leaves. She often screamed at them to move away from her property, pick up the leaves, or go to your backyards.

But the kids have become accustomed to Ana's outbursts and began to ignore her as well, since on several occasions her abruptness resulted in visits from the Surrey R.C.M.P., phone calls made by irate parents fed up with her harrassment. Pestering adults is one thing, but intimidating children is a whole different matter, and Ana treated the children as if they were deaf and aged.

One evening when Daniel came home from work, a particularly arduous day, he plopped out fo the van and began walking towards the front door, but was unexpectedly detained by Ana and her high pitched Romanian accent, "Daniel, who put this dirt on my driveway? Daniel, why you do this?"

Daniel could ignore her most of the time, but not when he's tired and just home from work, and certainly not when he sees the dirt she is grumbling about is only a few crumbs. I was proud of Daniel as he flew into a rant of expletives, how preposterous to think the neighbourhood is responsible for monitoring her precious space, then accountable for it, too. If she thought a grain of dirt was a big mess, she was in store for a healthy bout of reprisal.

That night, Daniel and I raked up all the fallen leaves, shoveled dirt and brought out the hose, and we littered the entire cul-de-sac with a mixture of debris, making for one huge mud pie. We made quite a ruckus at our task at hand, breaking into devious giggles, enjoying ourselves immensely as Ana rolled up the blinds. It felt good to be sinners.

The next day when we awoke, we waited for the fallout. The street was besmirched and damned, smelling like menstrual blood, stained and muddy, more than I remembered it under the cover of dark, under the blackness of Dracula's cape.

We heard their garage door open, then their car sped away, churning up leaves in it's wake, stirring the mess all up again. And that was all we heard for several days.

On the third day, while Daniel and I watched television with the kids, the sun was slipping behind the horizon casting an orange reflection clouds, there was a knock at the door. It was Ana and her husband, bearing gifts. She wanted to wish us a Merry Christmas and handed us a card and a bottle of homemade wine. Then she hugged me. As they walked away, my facial expression still frozen in forced smile and shame, Daniel and I pondered what was happening, was she surrendering, forgiving?

While sunset almost completed, releasing the last shimmering light into the street, Daniel and I raked up the mess, hosed down the dirt and returned the cul-de-sac to it's pristine state. We drank her wine that night, and then we forgave her for all her evil shortcomings, because somehow, free booze made us feel that way.


SPECIAL NOTE: This was Christmas 2003. Not much has changed since. Our neighbour is still a nutcase, still hates a messy street, and still harrasses both adults and children alike. The only difference is that we no longer answer the door when she comes a'knockin'.

Thursday, January 04, 2007

Reunion

Can you blame us, my God!
that was a year.
She faces them, now
Exit, stage left
They've changed
have I ?
Quick, someone call out a name.

Seeing them, now
tuxedo stiffs and pictures of elegance.
Flickers of Haight-Astbury
mellow-yellow poise,
through beers and cheers
they reminisce,
breaking into song, now
cracking voices uncertain of those
Woodstock words.

Seeing them, then
when cars were cars and yeah, yeah, yeah.
When love was gratis
but paid a price to Charlie,
and Neil leapt for us all
on the Mare Tranquillitatus,
and flowers
were everywhere.

Did I ?
Remember when Abbie wrote the "F" word
on the english-lit wall,
protesting prose,
and girls wore hot pants hot
intertwined rainbow threads, and
groovy,
and Jane asked would anyone mind
if she turned on, and
brother Peter was ridin' easy.

Remember when some grades were high
and at school we chanted the place
to Be-In, wow !
and man-o-man, they wore the cheesecloth tight,
and to Tommy and Dickie,
we said goodnight.

Damn it, now!
who would have thought
we'd be standing together again,
older than what we thought old would be,
speaking eloquently.
No one could possibly understand us,
or our yesterdays
when souls easily touched,
freely.

and that's the way it was, this day.


SPECIAL NOTE: I wrote this poem for a woman I once worked with, who was attending a 20 year class reunion, having graduated high school in the year 1969. Which means, I penned this poem in 1989, long before internet web searches, easy access to knowledge. For some reason, 1969 was a fascination for me, with all that occurred in that year, a year to remember. My apologies for events left out, but equally as fascinating. Colleen.

Shawn Ashmore - will you marry my daughter ?

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At the 2006 Gemini Awards held in Vancouver, B.C : meeting Shawn in the foreground is my husband, cool dude (who Shawn mentioned was the best dressed, with the fab shades) and my daughter, with the long blonde hair, and my sister is in the middle.
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Space Camp in Huntsville, Alabama

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2006 December 8

Dear Military Police Fund, The CNIB (Canadian National Institute for the Blind), and Debra, my mobility teacher and friend:

My name is Sabrina and I am fourteen years old.

This past September I participated in Space Camp for visually impaired students in Huntsville, Alabama. I am writing you to thank you for donating the funds for me to attend this camp, which I enjoyed tremendously.

I made several new friends from across the world, and learned a lot at Space Academy and enjoyed the gravity machine, making a mini rocket ship to launch, and sharing my room with other visually impaired girls from Saskatchewan and the U.S.A.

I missed a week of school, but I learned a lot at Space Camp, and gained confidence simply by being away from home, far, far away, taking long plane rides, and sharing my daily experiences with kids who were also away from home for the first time.

Thank you for allowing me this opportunity to experience what it’s like to be an astronaut, an adventure that I will remember forever.

Have a Merry Christmas and a great New Year.

Kindest regards,
Sabrina
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http://www.tsbvi.edu/space/

My daughter is in love with a Cartoon Character

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I guess it could be worse. She could have fallen in love with an actor or a rockstar.


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Shawn Ashmore at the 2006 Gemini Awards

Lukas' cool hairdo

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Sabrina with Lukas Rossi and Gilby

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