Barking Dogs and Other Sins

On Homelessness and a Guy named Ernie

2009-11-28T15:51:00.004-05:00

I heard on the radio the other day that a church had to fight off an appeal from neighbouring businesses in order to open an emergency shelter for the homeless. I listened to this while driving to work in 40 below weather. It was snowing and the forecast was for another 24 hours of flurries and bitter cold.

Fortunately the church won the appeal, but as I walked from my car to my office – wind blasting against my face – I recalled my years spent working in the inner city as a community worker and, later, as the executive director of a skid row social service agency. I recalled that some of the finest people I ever met were the so-called “bums” of 96th Street. Certainly, they bore responsibility for many of their challenges and situations. But more often than not they were trapped by the attitudes of others, by folks who had jobs, nice homes, a decent income, by folks who, it often seemed, wished that the homeless and otherwise disadvantaged would keep a low profile.

A friend of mine – now ex-friend – used to rant about all the homeless people who went to the public library to keep warm. He couldn’t understand why the City would allow such people to sit around and, as he put it, “stink up the place.” It didn’t matter to him that the library is a public service. The homeless were not part of his public. His solution was to round them all up and put out cots in a warehouse and make them pick up litter along the highway for a square meal. In other words, just another form of the mission mentality: sing for your supper or pick up litter.

The homeless problem here is not that of Toronto or other huge cities, but there is danger in making such comparisons. Knowing it is worse in other cities does not make things better for a homeless person in Edmonton or anywhere else for that matter. Then there is the use of the word, “problem.” For a homeless person, the problem is clearly that he or she is homeless. But I am concerned that too many of us really believe the homeless problem is about where the indigent congregate, how they affect property values, or business. No one wants to shop for camera phones, garden gargoyles, or satin sheets and have to walk past an outstretched hand to spend their hard earned money. Those who protested the church’s desire to shelter the homeless in 40 below weather are, in a sense, protesting the location of the problem rather than being duly concerned about the problem itself.

We forget sometimes that the panhandler or the bottle collector or the old woman in tattered clothing jabbering to herself were not born that way. When I worked in the inner city, I learned that the people there had been nurses, farmers, engineers, chiefs of Aboriginal bands, policemen, railroad workers, not to mention fathers and mothers. Something happened in their lives. They lost their job, suffered a tragedy, became mentally ill. Some took to drugs or drinking. Young people abused at home escaped to the streets and fell into prostitution. These are the people that the church was trying to help.

Of course sheltering someone from the cold for night will not solve homelessness, just like food banks will not overcome poverty in our community. Shelters and food banks are temporary answers to complex social problems. But solving these problems is possible, especially in a city the size of Edmonton, which is located in the richest province in Canada. Affordable housing is the answer along with decent paying jobs for those who can work.

It begins with attitude, understanding, and empathy. Things go wrong in people’s lives and they can go wrong in your life or in the life of your neighbor. Living in a society means that all of us need to nurture that society, protect it, and strengthen it. By doing so, all of us benefit. Higher income for the poor means more economic activity. People with homes cost society less than people without homes. People with decent paying jobs do not have to rely on tax revenue for support. Helping others does result in tangible benefits to those helping. But you know what? These aren’t the best reasons. Some times the greatest benefit is in knowing you are doing the right thing. It might sound corny to you in this day and age of profit margins and the myth of individualism (remember that old bootstrap theory?). And maybe I am corny, but I can’t help but think it is right for a church to give shelter to a homeless person in 40 below weather. How can anyone reasonably argue otherwise?

One more thing. Like you, I am frequently approached for a hand-out by someone on the street. Sometimes I hand over some change. Sometimes I don’t. When I don’t is when I find myself rationalizing that I don’t want to support someone’s drinking habit. Giving them a sandwich would be more appropriate, I tell myself. But of course, I don’t get them a sandwich. I just walk away with my self-congratulatory rationale.

I bet most of us do that more often than not. Yes, I know. Handing over a dollar won’t solve anything. What difference will I make? Maybe I will cause more harm than good. Who knows? Then I remember a fellow I knew years ago. His name was Ernie. He had been on the streets for twenty years – a heavy drinker, the personification of a “bum.” All of my colleagues figured he would die on the streets. Ernie comes to mind for a couple reasons. First, because he was always willing to share what he had – which wasn’t much – with anyone who asked. He was just that way, an all around nice guy, even when drunk on Lysol or cheap wine. Second – and this is really why Ernie comes to mind today – one day Ernie just quit drinking and never started again -- at least for as long as I kept track of him anyway, which was for several years. One day I asked why he just stopped drinking.

He gave me a big smile and shook his head. “I don’t really know,” he said. “I just woke up one morning and said that’s it. I’m done. I threw out what little booze I had in my room, took the empties to the depot and headed to the Gold Nugget for breakfast.”

I guess I was looking for more of a watershed moment from Ernie, some kind of spiritual turning point – anything other than “I don’t really know.”

“Something troubling you, son?”

I shook my head. “I just thought you would know the reason.”

Ernie laughed. “I can think of them now, looking back. Like I didn’t want to die yet. But at the time, the honest truth is I didn’t know. I just quit.” He paused for a moment. Ernie had always been a thoughtful man and had an uncanny sense of other people. “You,” he said. “You were good to me – and the others at the drop-in, you know, the workers there.”

“Thanks,” I said. “I wasn’t fishing though…”

“Maybe you were, maybe you weren’t,” Ernie said. “But it’s true anyways. It wasn’t that you were social workers. You were just people, good people. You gave me change, bummed me smokes, gave me rides when my arthritis was bad. You just hung out and talked. I never got the feeling you were trying to save me. I hated that – people trying to save me.”

I didn’t know quite what to say, so I shifted gears. “So did you enjoy your breakfast that first day – you know, at the Gold Nugget.”

“Nope,” Ernie said. “I gave all my change to Stanley – you know him, right?”

I nodded.

“He was in a bad way and needed a fix.”

“I see,” I said. And for the first time I actually did see.

I don’t know where Ernie is today, but I have a feeling he is alive and sober. He’s still poor and living day to day on his disability checks. He’s off the streets living in a small room on 96th Street or somewhere along 118th Avenue. But one thing I know for sure. When Ernie comes across an outstretched hand, he stops and gives them what he can. Knowing him, he likely has a chat as well. And when he finally does move along, he’s not wondering if he should have bought them a sandwich. Maybe he understands these things better than we do because he was there and then one day things just changed. I figure that if that can happen to an old alcoholic bum named Ernie, maybe it can happen to folks like you and me.

The very last time I saw Ernie was a couple years after I left my job in the inner city. I was walking along Whyte Avenue on my way to Greenwoods to buy a book. He was headed the other way, moving slowly with his wooden cane.

“Hey, Ernie,” I said. “Long time.”

Ernie looked up at me and smiled. It took him a moment to recognize me. “Mark,” he said. “How’s things?”

“Good,” I said. “Real good. You?”

“Same as usual. My leg hurts a bit more lately than usual, but can’t complain really.”

We stood there for a few minutes, talking about other folks we knew, those who had died, others who had left town, the few who were still walking 96th Street each day. People streamed by us, oblivious to our reunion, except for a young man in a business suit who gave us a dirty look for being in his way.

Ernie smiled at the man. “To have old friends, son, you got to make a few first.”

I laughed. The young man didn’t, but he went away.

And then it was time. “Mark,” Ernie said. “I should be getting on.”

We said our goodbyes and then continued on our separate ways. A few steps later, I turned around. “Ernie,” I yelled.

Ernie turned half way toward me

“Good to see you,” I said.

Ernie nodded and gave me a little wave with his cane and then shuffled off through the crowd.

I looked at my hand, closed it, and crossed the street and walked into the bookstore a better man than minutes before, thanks to an old man with a bum leg who had quit drinking years ago for reasons he didn’t understand at the time.

Like most people, I wish for a lot of things in my life. I hope my children will be happy. I would like more money. I hope I won’t die lonely. I also wish I could be more like Ernie. And on that day in the middle of summer, I wished for that more than anything.

Making Contact

2009-11-20T15:31:00.000-05:00

It wasn’t long after my father taught me to bat left-handed that I took what he taught me to the other side of the plate. That change allowed me to become a power hitter. My father mentioned that my batting average might suffer. Power hitters, he told me, often strike out. I said I would rather hit homers than singles. I was maybe ten and even at that young age, I knew my act of independence hurt him at least a little, but he didn’t press the issue. He knew, as all teachers do, that a student must take what he has learned to use it his own way.

My father was right. I struck out a lot and often my desire for power resulted in my team losing. But I got smarter. When I was in a slump or knew how important it was just to get on base, I switched to the left side. More times than not I made contact: a blooper to right, a skidder of the middle, a late swing liner to left.

Those were my best at bats because they kept our chances alive. I became someone my team mates could depend on. No longer a slugger with a poor average I was a player – a switch hitter who could do both.

Making contact. That is what I learned from my father.

Employment, Homosexuality, God, Talk Radio, and Other Rants

2008-05-18T14:47:00.011-05:00

Though I would never have admitted it at the time, I was a wannabe-hippy. I approached manhood during the late days of the psychedelic era, wore my hair long and tied back, and thought jeans with holes in them were just the thing. I remember asking my father once why no one would hire me for summer work. He just smiled that all knowing fatherly smile I despised (but later in life learned to express) and said, "Well, look in the mirror."

That was not what I wanted to hear of course. I believed I should be hired based on my talent and work ethic - not that I had much in the way of talent yet or much experience to stand behind my idea of a work ethic - but I was a young man of principle.

I soon discovered that principle had some flex. Money - or the lack of it - does motivate change. A clean pair of black jeans and somewhat shorter hair neatly tied back were all it took to land a part time job in a print shop. I learned later that my prim attire may not have been the deciding factor after all. My boss turned out to be a perverted Gay man who thought his employees should, as he put it, make him feel very, very good. I felt otherwise and moved along to job at a candy factory owned by a friend's father.

Before going any further, let me say that I do not want to be misunderstood. I do not equate being gay with perversion. But I do believe perversion to be a characteristic that any person, no matter their sexual orientation, can exhibit. I don't know why but I never was never keen on worrying about someone's sexual preferences.

I do confess that when a boy (Billy, if I recall) called me a "homo" I felt badly, but I didn't know then what a homo was. I just figured it was bad because all the other kids laughed and began chanting "homo, homo, homo" until Mrs. Bailey told them all to be quiet. By the time I realized what a homo was, I was in a different grade and Billy had moved away.

I remember not caring about if people were homos or not. I just wanted to set the record straight for some reason. Some might say that means I was against homosexuality. In truth, who knows? I was 11 years old. My recollection is, however, that I just wanted to be recognized for who and what I was.

After all, today I am a Democrat, but that doesn't mean I think Republicans should not be allowed to get married - though of course it would not be appropriate for a Republican to marry an Independent.

I don't mean to make light of the crap gay and lesbians have had to put up with from the Bible thumpers and others who believe they know how the rest of the world should and should not live. Anyone who thinks the Bible they read is the verbatim word of God is hardly one to take seriously. Knowing what God thinks or believes is just tad arrogant, don't you think?

In fact, the God I have a beer with now and again is just not a hateful deity. A bit pejorative at times, sure. But I have never heard him say a bad word about anyone. And on those few occasions I have pointed to a passage in the Bible and asked Him about it, I have heard him say more than once, "Oh, that. I was misquoted."

A few years back, my wife and I moved to Plant City, Florida. It's actually officially called the City of Plant City. That should have been a warning I guess. Anyway, it's a community of around 40,000, about 25 minutes from downtown Tampa. We live in the historical area in a wonderful two storey built in 1903. Plant City is known for its strawberries, and trust me, the berries here are the best you will find. There is a lot of wealth here, a growing population of professionals, and a large population of working poor. People of all kinds - good and bad.

The old South still resides here, with both its charm and insidious racism. I love how people address my wife as "Miss Ruth." And that southern accent - it bathes words in something sweet. The city has many beauty pageants, but they are segregated. When you watch the Strawberry Festival parade, for example, the blond and blue-eyed beauty contestants ride the floats at the beginning of the parade, and the beautiful black girls show up much later, representing their own pageant in the back of the parade bus, so to speak.

I am sure the blacks feel the racism, but most whites I talk to don't seem to notice. It's not that they pretend not to notice. Racism is so engrained, so organic, they truly are not able to see themselves as racist. They know racism is a bad thing, but they just can't see themselves in that picture.

If you point out that their fear of their daughters dating a black man smacks of prejudice, they become indigent and insistent that they don't have a racist bone in their body. When I mentioned to a woman I know I hope Obama will be our next president, she gave me a blank look and then asked me in a her sweet drawl, "Is he that black man?" That's all she knew about him. Then again, what do you expect from someone who thinks George Bush is the "best president ever."

Anyway, I digress. Or least I digress a little. One morning, Ruth and I went for breakfast and sat in a booth next to two young men. One was dressed in a sleeveless tee-shirt (fondly known as wife beaters in these parts), with a skull and crossbones tattoo on his arm. The other was decked out in a dirty green gators shirt and seemed to smile too much for my liking. You know the kind - that goofy, omnipresent grin that has nothing to do with happiness, much less enlightenment.

Now we are not the type to eavesdrop, but also believe that if people's voices are of sufficient volume to cross the border of our personal space, we should not be judged harshly for listening.
I am not a naïve man, but at times I find it hard to believe there are people in the world with thoughts as twisted as the minds of these two men. Somewhere in the middle of their pancakes and fritters, one of them said, "Dem Gays."

That's all he said. Just out of the blue - "Dem Gays."

The other fellow kind of grunted as if to signify his understanding of what his friend was saying. But after he swallowed his food, he added, "Huh?"

"You know. Things would be better if it weren't for dem gays."

"Oh, yeh. They're sick."

'It all began in San Francisco, you know."

The other man nodded. "Yep."

"They all got together there. Even have parades and all."

"That's sick."

"They shoulda stayed spread out, don't you think?"

"Yeh. Spread out."

"The economy would be better if it weren't for those kind."

"Gay Jews are worse ya know."

"Yeh, no kidding."

I'll stop here. But I have to add this: true story. Okay, true sad story. What's even worse is these two young men probably go to church on Sunday and carry concealed weapons legally at night. All you need to do to carry a gun around these parts is ask for permission and get a piece of paper that says you can. You can be denied if you have a criminal record, but not for being a racist, homophobic or just plain stupid. Sometimes you just have to love America!

Oh yeh, the job at the Candy Factory. Back then I never thought much about unions. In fact most of what I knew was about union crooks and the corruption I heard about in the local media. Working at the factory was my introduction to why unions have a place in the world.

It was filthy for one thing. The production line consisted of old women who would weigh out candies and then pour them in plastic bag and then seal a label over the top by inserting the bag and label into a heat press. It stunk, but not only of glue. It stunk of flesh because often the women would burn their fingers. No big deal. It was just the way it was. The women knew if they complained they would be out of a job.

My job was to keep the line full of candy. I dropped a crate of malted milk balls once and they scattered all over the gooey floor. The foreman, a burly man with a permanent snarl, swore at me and told me to sweep it all up and get it back on the line. That same day a rat crawled out of the bin of valentine hearts I was bringing to the line. Everyone saw that and laughed when I screamed. Minutes later, those valentine hearts were being bagged by burnt fingers and boxed for shipment. After all, who would know? Besides throwing away the malted milk balls would have affected the profit margin. And rat hairs and dung in valentine hearts - everyone knew that was just part of things.

I went home wondering how many kids were finding rat hairs in their bags of candy. I almost quit that job, but I needed the money. That was a sad realization. Not just because of my own situation. It hit me then how many people suffer through such abuse for the sake of a wealthy man's continued wealth.

It amazes me how many people believe that the marketplace should be trusted, that by promoting corporate largesse, the rest of us will wallow in the trickle down effect of big business. It's not that I am against big business or don't understand the importance of a healthy economy. I just think that a healthy economy is more than corporate profits and trickle down platitudes.

But maybe I am just crazy or living in some altruistic dream world. To challenge myself, I listen to the talk radio "entertainers." After all to be a person of opinion and balance, I believe in listening to diverse perspectives. I am not saying it is easy to listen to Rush Limbaugh or Sean Hannity. I might appreciate Glenn Beck's humor (he can be quite entertaining), but often my laughter quickly dissipates when I hear the arrogance of his disdain for perspectives other than his own.

What's most disconcerting, however, is not the pernicious diatribes of talk radio heads, it is the wave of callers who treat them like icons. People making 8 bucks an hour at Wal-mart call up to praise America, kiss George Bush's ring, and laud their country for being the best in the world about just about anything. They don't have health care but believe in our health care system. They will be impoverished when they retire, but prefer to rant about how the Democrats will ruin their lives.

They will listen to Limbaugh snort about how the rich deserve to be rich and the poor deserve to be poor and nod their heads like some bobble head on the car dash. They won't think about how poverty is institutionalized in our country; they won't worry about how corporations structure work hours to avoid paying benefits. Why? Because Limbaugh tells them, in his eloquent, manipulative way, not to worry about those things.

Just subscribe to true conservatism and all will be fine for everyone. Rush is not stupid. He knows that capitalism requires the failure of others so that the wealthy will achieve and sustain their wealth. The American Dream is not for everyone, only the deserving, and the deserving are defined always by those in power and those in power are, with very few exceptions, wealthy.

When is the last time you heard someone making minimum wage advocating that the minimum wage should not be raised, or that it should actually be decreased? It is consistently the wealthy who speak out against that, as if an increase in the minimum wage will ruin them. Point in fact, such institutional adjustments may slow the rapid rate of profit they believe they deserve. Gee, must be hard to take.

I am sure, however, that Rush Limbaugh or Glenn Beck could find a way to turn my Candy Factory experience into some wonderful expression of capitalism at its best. After all, the Candy Boss employs people, albeit old women with burnt fingers. And he provides products that people want, right? Besides, if those old woman had not been so lazy working 10 hour shifts for minimum wage, they could have become entrepreneurs themselves and enjoyed the benefits of exploiting others for personal gain.

Being a fair person, I don't want my good friend, Sean Hannity, to feel slighted. He's the one who greets his callers with "Hello, you are a fine American." I always wonder how he knows that. Is one a fine American for just calling into his show? Does he have some special gift for spotting true Americans? Maybe Sean just assumes the best in everyone. Well, at least until he discovers they have a few opinions that Sean disagrees with. Then, the list of fine Americans gets a little shorter.

I'd like to say that all of them - Limbaugh, Beck, Hannity - are liars, but that's too facile. They are, in effect, brilliant men who use their minds to lead others to dark places. I am sure they tell the truth as well as paint it with camouflage colors at times. What's worse for me is that they believe their own bullshit.

Give me a liar any day. But a person who believes their own bullshit, and can do so with skill and ardor. That's truly frightening.

Sunday

2008-02-29T23:27:00.001-05:00

It's Sunday and the day is bright sun, hot humid air dappled by a lone bird’s cry, and the dog's strategic barking. I have ignored the dog’s rants at passing bicyclists and delivery trucks. Usually I scream at him, achieving nothing for the neighbors but a barking dog and screaming owner. No one should be sleeping at 1:30 in the afternoon anyway. Let the dog shout and run.

There is work to do, but I am not doing it. There are web sites to build, advertisements to create, printing to arrange, plans to develop, a front porch to paint, laundry to do, and the second floor of our home requires attention, especially now that I cleaned the first floor yesterday. There might even be some jealously involved.

I should phone my children – both adults now – just to say hello, to hear about their latest adventures, but I won’t. Not today. I should talk to our youngest son about yesterday’s behaviour – his and mine – and work through it, but all I have done so far is revoke the punishment of no computer. My small reconciliation.

The list of discussions my wife and I should have is a long one now. Between my job and her launch of two businesses, we seem too tired for dialog. Understandable, but I wonder if the list will eventually end up folded in some drawer to become a piece of history we wonder about in the future.

Today, I take my recreation in the pen, driven by a voice deep from the interior — so far away from here. I feel like I am writing aimlessly, but I know better. Perhaps the movement of the pen will shake me free, allow the voice to emerge from its cavernous hideout to mark the page with eloquent, powerful meaning.

Is it birth I seek? Am I that ordinary? I think not; the metaphor is too simple, the image too predictable, and — now don't take this the wrong way — somehow too feminine. In the midst of this quiet confusion, I do find some things to be clear. For example, the distant voice has a duality to it. It is simultaneously my voice (pure albeit muffled) and not my voice at all (foreign and obnoxious). Of course, this observation — or is it a realization? — could be little more than the ploy of my imagination or perhaps a sublimation.

Is there something I am avoiding? Of course, that's the wrong question, a scheme to move me sideways instead of forward. Such are questions: tools to unearth discovery and change, yet devices we use to cover up what is essential for true inquiry. What I am is but one more artist no one will know in the way artists crave to be known. Not fame; please, don't insult me. Fame is distortion, pleasant at times no doubt, but it offers nothing but image and ultimately failure.

Ah, yes, the voice. Back to the voice. I'm sure you can hear it, too. And it is likely the very same voice, the difference being in what we hear, how we respond, how it vibrates our bellies, how it never wanes to silence in the same way.

Yesterday I cleaned the house for three years (ok, I mean “hours”), with blues and rock and roll on the stereo. I took my time. I turned away feelings that would lead me to do something else. I worked at a steady pace, not too fast, not too slow. I swept, I vacuumed, did dishes, started laundry, put things away, took out trash, cleaned the bathroom, washed all the floors, and when I was done, I savoured those few moments of accomplishment before resigning myself to the inevitable return of the chores. Life is dirty and messy. We can’t really clean it up. We can just deploy stop-gap measures – the best we can do.

I wonder if I am doing the best I can do. I figure it depends on the question. Sometimes I am the best I can be. Often, not.

Sometimes, I watch my wife. I watch her walk across a room or take in her face as she sleeps on the couch during a television show. I am always aware of loving her, though often I am uneasy because I am sure I don’t really know her as well as I would like to or should. Does she really tell me what she thinks about things? Sometimes does she think back to her past lover, her time with him, and miss certain days, certain times when life was good and the future was bright? Does she really think I am the loner that I pretend to be?

Is it good to ask questions? I suppose in the long run it is, but sometimes I wish I were a much simpler man, without a voice within. Life would be easier, maybe better. I don’t know really.

But if I am to be who I am, I am glad I can write, put thoughts to paper, even rambles like this one. I am grateful for that.

The dog is curled up in the shade now. I wonder if the incessant chirp of the bird bothers him. I wonder if his thirst is ever bigger than wanting water. I wonder if he ever shakes his head at me as he wonders what on earth I was thinking when I thought I would make a great dog owner. And when he brings me the ball to throw, does he do that because he wants me to know he loves me and wants to spend time with me? I have to think he does.

Revelation at Denny's

2008-02-15T10:03:00.000-05:00

I have reached that pinnacle of life that sadly is not reached by everyone. I can’t say I did anything special to get here; in fact, it appears I have come this far not really paying much attention to doing so. Nevertheless, I can’t truly convey how it felt when I found out that for the rest of my life, between the hours of 4:00 and 10:00 p.m. I will receive a 20% discount at Denny’s. My reward for becoming, in their eyes, a senior citizen at the age of 55.

My daughter and her finance were with me when I discovered my eligibility for this wonderful perk. For some reason they found it amusing or, to clarify, they found the ghastly look on my face amusing. My daughter was quick to point out, however, that it was only one o’clock and that I would still have to pay full price on this outing. She surprised me later by picking up the tab, a mercy gift I think.

I ordered eggbeaters in my omelet, somehow hoping that by doing that and putting no sugar in my coffee, there would be sufficient counterpoint to the sausage links and pancakes that came along for the ride. We all know how that works. We try to trick ourselves into believing that by doing something that is not as bad for us as doing something else that what we are doing is actually better for us. Case in point: baked potato chips. People say, these baked potato chips are better for you than fried potato chips. In truth, neither is good for us. And some would say the baked ones are worse because we end up eating more of them. Why? Because they are better for us, of course.

The guilt I felt with each bite of sausage and pancake was considerable, but my resolve to have one last hurrah overcame that emotion. After all I would be paying penance for my sins for the rest of my life. One last sin would not matter, at least that is what I preferred to believe.

Five days after my 55th birthday and two days before my revelation at Denny’s I sat quietly as my doctor reviewed my latest blood tests. I figure he is about 35 and married. My guess is he’s Muslim, though I do know he was born in Florida. I mentioned him to a friend a while back who asked me how it felt to have a Muslim for a doctor. I gave him an odd look, I guess, because he went on to say something about the War in Iraq and terrorists and never really knowing who to trust.

“You need to stop listening to Glenn Beck,” I said.

“I’m just saying,” he said, though he wouldn’t look me in the eye.

“Do you think my doctor is engaging in some sort of medical jihad in Plant City, Florida?” I smiled.

“We just need to be careful,” my soon to be ex-friend said. “You never know.”

My doctor cleared his throat and gave me a quick glance. He rubbed his chin and returned to his computer screen for one last look.

“Your sugar is at 6.9 and your cholesterol is 200,” he said. “I’ve been monitoring this for six months now, you know.”

I didn’t know I was being monitored, which made me feel a little like my doctor was engaged in some sort of clandestine operation, but I just smiled and said,” I see.”

There was that silence everyone fears. That lull in a conversation that makes people worry, fret, and sweat, no matter what the context. Two lovers are talking and then the lull sneaks in and before it’s over both parties have concluded the relationship is a big mistake. Three seconds of silence and everything changes. We never learn either. Nearly always, the lull dissipates and everything is just fine. The lovers still love each other. The world is still spinning on its axis as it should.

“So,” I said. “What does that all mean?”

“You have diabetes,” the doctor said. He said this plainly. His voice was not cold but it was tempered. After all one does not want to sound enthusiastic about such pronouncements. I marveled at how easy and simple it was to hear his words. No judgment. No alarm bells ringing.

“And…” He glanced one last time at the monitor. “You need to go on meds for the cholesterol and lose 100 pounds.”

If the doctor made any mistake, it was sitting back in his chair after saying that last part, as if he had accomplished something remarkable and deserved to lean back to enjoy his success. I know he wasn’t thinking that, but it looked like that. It made me wonder what his body language might convey after telling someone they had three months to live, but I didn’t dwell on that. After all, my appointment wasn’t over yet.

The conversation continued, and he let me know that it was quite possible to bring my sugars to normal levels if I changed my diet and lost weight. My cholesterol would go down as well if I did that. Oh, yeh, he also told me to quit smoking. Tagged that on like an after thought. Actually, that was his first after thought. He followed that one up with: “Make sure you exercise every day.”

So I left the Doctor’s office with prescriptions and the realization I had to quit smoking, change my diet, exercise, and lose 100 pounds. Two days later, at Denny’s, I wanted my last small rebellion before surrendering to a life devoid of fried foods, sugar loaded lattes, and the relaxing pleasure of smoking toxins each day.

My doctor’s diagnosis and my newly discovered status of senior citizen (according to Denny’s) seemed oddly juxtaposed. I freaked a little about the diabetes, but thankfully my future health is still in my hands if I make the right changes, but the age thing. I can’t stop that.

Receiving a discount from Denny’s for the rest of my life for no other reason than getting old. That freaked me out even more. I didn’t want that stupid discount. I even told my daughter I had no intention of ever taking such a discount, but I knew inside that eventually I would. I would rationalize it of course. Like we all do. Like we all do about just about everything.

Before leaving Denny’s I did glance through the menu to see what fare they offered a man with diabetes and high cholesterol who needed to lose 100 pounds. That’s when I realized the discount was the restaurant chain’s attempt at cynical humor.

I chuckled at that but didn’t bother to explain why when asked so by my daughter. Some discoveries are best made in secret.

Fruit from the Question Tree

2008-01-28T11:59:00.000-05:00

All of my life I have wondered if other people think about the things I do. No, that’s not really it. It’s more like I am embarrassed about the questions I mull over in my head. It’s as if my questions are wrong or provide unsavory insight into a warped mind, my mind.

What did Ghandi fantasize about? Was it only altruistic stuff? Did he have a dark side? Did he balance his devotion to non violence with a predilection for car chases on American television? Did he even watch television? Sometimes I read about a serial killer and ask myself if he opens doors for old women out of courtesy or I wonder if gay-bashing bible thumpers secretly envy anyone who has the courage to go against the grain of convention.

I tell myself these questions surface because of my interest in the human condition, my interest in what makes people tick, especially those considered deviant and evil. But it’s more than that. I wonder about seemingly pointless stuff. Does George Bush order soldiers to war and then retire to his bedroom where he stands naked before the wardrobe mirror weeping because of a disagreement he had earlier with his wife? Of course, the question I ask most of all is what difference to my questions make? The President’s teary regrets don’t really change anything, do they? What went on in Gandhi’s mind is of little consequence because no one really knows. A murderer, I am sure, has engaged in acts of kindness on some level, but he is still a murderer. Evil acts always outweigh kind ones, right?

Still, I do seem to care about these things. Maybe it’s because I can begin the day kissing my wife on her cheek and marveling at how much I love her only to snipe at her 20 minutes later for reminding me how much she hates it when I leave my beard hairs in the bathroom sink. How can I love her so much one moment and then combat her over something so trivial? It’s not that I stop loving her during our spat. Rather, I am perplexed that I choose to react to an understandable frustration with a tirade of my own about something equally as small.

My interest in such inquiries often causes my wife to shake her head. I admit wholeheartedly that my inquisitive nature manifests itself on a spectrum ranging from the innocuous to the heights of profundity. Likely I am more frequently on the banal side of the continuum, but the truth is, at least for me, that questions are more like fruit we pick rather than something we conjure up all on our own. They hang there waiting to picked and relished or, if too sour, spit out. If we leave them be, eventually they ripen, fall to the ground, and rot away.

I can live with unanswered questions, but to never ask them in the first place is irresponsible. How can one engage life without questions? Further, how can one be intimate with knowledge if one attempts to pre-filter each question with criteria that allows only deep and meaningful inquiry? Who among us is capable of crafting such criteria?

Strange Days

2007-10-23T21:59:00.001-05:00

Some short reports from Florida
A friend's son was playing with a friend of his. Playing with a CO2 cartridge. His friend shot his eye out. Two young teenagers fooling around. A young man's eye gone. Many options in life no longer his because he has only one eye.

Another acquaintance who knows of what happened above lets her young lad (he is very hyper with ADD) play with a BB gun, lets him drive around (illegally) on an ATV. When asked about the gun, she says...It is just a BB gun.

A guy I met carries a hand gun around in his truck. He tells everyone this and apparently forgets to keep his doors locked. I asked why he needed the handgun (he has a permit to carry)... "No particular reason," he said. "You know, just in case." Just in case what?

A woman was telling my wife she knew a family that let their boy shoot his gun in to the lake. A bullet hit a rock and ricocheted back at him and severed his spine. I guess now he shoots from his wheel chair.

Strange Days.

I'm Confused (Well, not really)

2007-07-17T10:55:00.002-05:00

[from my Florida daze...err...days]

I must be a glutton for punishment. I listen to Rush Limbaugh for entertainment even though I end up most often shaking my head at the puff headed, manipulative banter he spits out. Even so, he is funny in the most twisted of ways. Ok, that says something about my own twisted mind!

Anyway...two things.

A day or two ago, Puffy was poking fun at Jim Edwards "Poverty Tour." I will admit the notion of a poverty tour in and of itself seems bizarre, but I will let that go. Puffy's criticism of Edwards was that the photos of the tour were of Edwards and fat people (fat women to be precise). That confused Puffy (or so he said), but it wasnt confusion really. His political point was that fat people can't be poor. If you are poor you must be starving or something. He never really said. Puffy is no dummy. He knows that poor people tend not to eat the best of diets. Debating Puffy will do no good. He really doesn't debate. He just looks for ways to promote his conservative agenda which ultimately does not care about poor people. It would be interesting to know what Puffy thinks a poor person ought to look like. And I also wonder if what Puffy is really saying is that only rich people like him are justified in being fat.

Even worse was some guy, a 71year old professor (I can't remember his name) who was sitting in for Puffy. The professor was going on about how there is nothing in the constitution that allows for charity and that the goverment should not be doing anything that is charitable. No social programs. No medicare. No welfare. And he also said (though I don't believe him) no government handouts to corporations. He said that one's tax money should not be used on anyone else.

I am confused. I guess I thought the American Way of Life was about making life better for all of us. People living in communities, helping one another, helping to grow strong, caring communities. I did not ever fathom that one's patriotism, one's belief in community, our traditional values of helping one's neighbor and so forth really was only about each person getting thiers, the rest of the country be damned. Sad.

The professor got a call from another professor who asked what advice he had for people struggling to get by on $6.00 per hour and no health benefits (Only 45% of American businesses offer health care by the way -- it used to be much higher). The professor -- let's call him Professor Puffy Junior -- came up with a stellar answer. He said it is easier to get by on $6.00 per hour than zero dollars per hour and then he hung up on his professor colleague.

When will the majority of Americans -- those who barely get by while the Mister Puffys of the world live like Kings -- understand that conservatives like Russ and his cohorts ultimately only care about themselves but are quite content to have their supports believe they care about them.

A Colleague Moves On

2007-05-13T11:44:00.000-05:00

I got word the other day from a friend in Canada that an old collegue of mine died. Sheila was the Executive Director of an inner city social services agency. I preceded her in that posting and because of that we shared many similar interests and aspirations about how to strengthen the urban core and help people who, for whatever reason, were homeless, alcoholic, mentally-ill, and on. When I heard the news I realized I hadn't known Sheila as well as I would have liked. I am sure I had my reasons: family, work, other interests, etc. And no doubt she had her reasons too (assuming of course she might have liked to know me better, too).

I was pleased that I was asked to write something for her funeral, which I did. It felt good to still be included in that family of helpers I have left behind for my life here in Florida.

The name of the agency we both led is Operation Friendship, a social services and housing organization in the heart of Edmonton's Boyle-McCauley area. Thinking about Sheila and my own time with the organization, it hit me that it has been 20 years since I worked there and yet I can remember my days there as if they ended just a short time ago.

Time moves quickly. We all know that. But sometimes we really feel it. Especially when colleagues and friends have reached the end of their's.

Full Circle

2007-05-01T09:03:00.000-05:00

Clouds darken the sunroom. Head in her hands, tears sneak out, the dog sitting underneath.

He does dishes, unsure. His voice fails him,but mostly her, them.

The boy whimpers on the stairs, afraid to play in his room, wanting things he can’t explain

The house quiets. A dish clunks, he sighs. If there were a clock, it would not be ticking. She smoothes the table cloth, says the dog’s name, who sits up, yawns – such pretense.

She mentions dinner as he wipes the last pot clean. The stairs creak. She pushes her chair back. The boy peeks around the corner. His mother opens a cupboard.The man wipes the counter.

Outside, cars rush by and soon the quiet inside gives way: boiling water, the microwave’s bell, the Wok’s sizzle.

Later they eat in the sunroom. Words come, the dog rolls over. The boy’s small laugh is the final adjustment. Eyes meet and hold. He says something to his wife. She smiles and nods. Soon their son will scrunch his face and cite reasons he should not eat peas.

They look at one another clearly, each knowing the right answer once again

Then and Now

2007-04-24T07:57:00.001-05:00

My son is 21. I am old as dirt.

We are sitting on the back deck, two propeller heads on their lap tops. I'm building a web site for and he's socializing with one of his three billion friends on FaceBook. It hits me how different our generations are and how the difference is primarily about technology.

In 1988, three years after my son was born, I bought my company's first personal computer, an XT. Anyone remember those? I can't recall how much RAM it had, but the hard drive was a whopping 40 meg. That was huge. I remember telling a colleague to imagine 40 foot ball fields and that each file was a blade of grass. "We will never run out of hard drive memory," I declared. Funny how quickly we think we understand new technology. Today I make Adobe Illustrator files larger than 40 meg.

We thought the XT was fast. I guess compared to an IBM Selectric it was, but the really cool thing was being able to save files and then transport them around on those wonderful, bendable, and inherently unreliable 5.25 inch floppy disks.

Back then -- and keep in mind this is less than 20 years ago, we did not use email at work. Cell phones were an inkling of an idea, hardly an industry. Fax machines were the incredible thing and for a time - a short time -- fax machines were the cutting edge and changed the way we did business. Everybody carried their day timers around. There were no Outlook Calendars to share.

Of course there were a computers before 1988. In 1980 I worked for a company that had a computer room the size of the main floor of my house and all it did was manage a mailing list. Huge reels of tape whirred in a dust free, airconditioned room that only a select few were allowed to enter. I stood on the outside watching the magic, amazed at the ingenuity of man.

The Internet started to take shape in 1985, if I recall. There were early adoptors, but I think it wasn't until the 1990s that the Internet began its rapid permeation of our lives, our culture, and the market place.

Fewer than 15 years ago, economic tigers like Yahoo, E-Bay, Amazon, and the like didn't exist. Now they are old hat Internet companies while Google, Facebook, My Space, Digg, and dozens and dozens of other Internet companies dapple the tech-space. Imagine no Internet now and watch the economy tank. Symantec disappears. Google disintegrates into nothing more than a cool name. Yada Yada.

The impact on our culture is undeniably revolutionary. Web sites, blogs, email, online software applications, PDAs, cell phones, i-Tunes -- have changed the way we see the world, do business, and interact. The world is smaller now and at the same time so much bigger. The Internet has created such a paradox.

Friendships and even love affairs are no longer limited to physical space. Millions of people have millions of virtual friends -- people they will never meet physically, but are connected to through the Net. Some say it is easier to get to know some one on MSN chat than in person. People are freer with the truth in cyberspace, but of course more willing to stretch the truth as well. Who will know anyway if you never meet. Bald, rotund, middle aged men morph into blond, tall, entrepreneurs with a six pack. The Internet ultimately is amoral ground.

So was it better when I was my son's age? Was life before the Internet a preferred life? I think every generation carries a fondness for its past. But to wish for the past is ultimately a frustrating wish. Life is about change and ultimately change is about life changing faster and faster and faster. And as always it is up to people to make the changes into good things or not.

Remembering my Grandmother

2007-04-03T15:23:00.001-05:00

I remember how my grandmother used to wrap her huge arms around me and squeeze so hard I could barely breathe. She always let me go, though, just in time. Then she would laugh and rub my head and have me help her bake bread. We would pound it together, knead it, roll it – the process covering us in flour. The final step was placing it in her wood burning stove stoked with logs I had fetched from behind the shed.

While it baked she would turn to her chores and I would wander the garden, through the rows of corn, meandering between the sunflowers amazed at how tall they reached into the heavens. She would call me when the bread was ready and have me sit with her while we ate the first slices.

That was the time for questions. Did monsters exist? Why are sunflowers so tall? What would it be like to be a bug? How come this and how come that? Today, I don’t recall the answers, but it was being able to ask her anything that I remember most of all. How rare that is.

I do remember one answer actually. The fire has burned to coals and a small chill was licking my ankles. I asked her: “Grandma, where does the cold come from?”

Without hesitation she said, “From the dining room.”

I ran into the dining room, anxious to see for myself. My grandfather was there, sitting by an open window, peering over silver wire rim glasses, writing mathematics in an old black book. He lifted an eye in my direction, his lips pressed together into a thin line.

I imagine he knew not to ask me why I was there. And I knew better to tell him.

ADVENTURE

2007-03-27T16:45:00.000-05:00

For my father

In my early teens, my parents and I would summer at our cabin on Leech Lake (Minnesota). The first boat we owned was a 12 foot fiberglass vessel with a 20 horse power West Bend motor. It flew on still water with only one person in it, which was usually me. At least it felt like it flew.

One day my father and I took the boat to town, a 30 minute boat ride on the best of days. As we turned the corner into Walker Bay, we were faced with high winds and waves that, as we made our way, had to be 5 or 6 feet high.

I was driving, and I thought my father would take my place once we hit those rough waters. When he didn’t, I figured he would tell me to turn back. He didn’t do that either. I slowed the motor to a crawl, leaving just enough speed to climb each wave and then go crashing down into the crest of the next.

Water flew every which direction and before long we were soaking wet.Up until that journey, boating had been nothing more than fun for me. I loved the speed of it and how I could turn on a dime and head in the opposite direction on a whim. But in those waters, I felt two emotions simultaneously: fear and joy.

The fear was understandable. The boat would capsize if I steered it incorrectly. Lifesavers would not have kept us from crashing onto the rocky shore.

The joy is harder to explain.

I think I felt the joy of my father’s trust, but that was only part of it. I felt like I was the captain of my first risky adventure and, as much as I was afraid, it was a joyful experience.

Today, as a father myself, I can understand how he must have felt, just sitting there, while his son led the way for both of us.

I used to wonder why he let me do that. But now that I have children of my own, I don’t any more.

EPISTIMOLOGY

2007-03-27T16:40:00.000-05:00

First, there is Not Knowing, affectionately christened, Bliss.

Then, there is the question: Is Bliss all one can know?

This leads to question after question, which is as far as Knowing goes.

Story: Spare Change

2007-03-21T12:14:00.000-05:00

I saw a man slouched over in a door way, his hands wrapped around his knees, smoking a crooked cigarette I figured he found somewhere on the sidewalk or plucked from one of those bus stop ashtrays.

I was going to walk around him, but there were lots of people on the street that day, and for a moment I got stuck, unable to move, right in front of him. He looked up at me and smiled.

“Hello, son,” he said.

His gray hair shot up from his head like thin wires, but his eyes were deep blue and wide open – like a child’s.

“Hello,” I said. “I am sorry but I don’t have any spare change.”

The man coughed out a puff of smoke and chuckled. He held out his hand.

“I’ve got a bum hip,” he said. “I was hoping you might help me up.”

I felt my cheeks redden. “Oh,” was all I could muster. I reached down and grabbed him hand and pulled him to his feet.

The man brushed some dirt and pebbles from his back side. “I’ll tell you, young man. I’ll get through the homeless bit I imagine, but this getting old business – It’s hard to fight that.” He smiled and I swore he winked at me as well, but I couldn’t be sure.

“Anyways,” he said. “Thanks.”

“Sure,” I said.

I was a couple of steps away when the man called out to me. “Son!”

I turned and watched him as he placed two quarters in the palm of my hand. He pointed down the street. “See that old guy at the bus stop, the one with the grocery cart?”

I nodded. “Yes.”

“He’ll be asking you for spare change and I want to make sure you got some for him.”

I am not sure what expression I had on my face by now, but it had to be something strange.

He didn’t seem to care. “Look, son,” he said. “I used to wear a suit and carry a leather case like you do. I remember not having any spare change too, you know, when the bums asked me.”
He put his hand on my shoulder. “It took me too long to learn that it never hurts to give, but almost always hurts not to.”

Then we parted – each in our own direction. I gave Frank the quarters and a fiver. I never did see the other man again. His doorway became another man’s refuge, and Frank disappeared one day a few weeks later.

And me?

I always carry spare change.

What are the odds?

2006-11-24T17:09:00.000-05:00

Ever notice that things that are supposed to present 50-50 odds never do? For example, you approach a door. There are two choices: push or pull. The majority of the time, we pick the wrong choice. For me, that happens 75% of the time. Flip a coin 10 times and I doubt you will end up with 5 heads and 5 tails. When I go to plug in my USB mouse, I nearly always try to push it in wrong side up. Only two choices but I nearly always choose the wrong one.

Sometimes just at the last moment, I change my mind. I push the door when I was going to pull it or I flip the USB connector at the last second, but you know what? I still get it wrong.

Not sure what any of this means except may be I shouldn't gamble. Is there some universal law here or is it my karma? Someone tell me... do you experience this kind of thing too?

"Hate is Good" and Other Diddies from the Relgious Right

2006-11-24T10:46:00.000-05:00

"The woman who is truly Spirit-filled will want to be totally submissive to her husband...This is a truly liberated woman. Submission is God's design for women." Beverly LaHaye, The Spirit-Controlled Woman. I wanted to show this quote to my wife, you know, to set her straight, but after having to do the dishes, vacuum the rugs, buy groceries, iron my clothes, and rub her feet, I decided it might not go over that well.

"I want you to just let a wave of intolerance wash over you...Yes, hate is good...Our goal is a Christian nation. We have a biblical duty, we are called to God, to conquer this country. We don't want equal time. We don't want pluralism." -Randall Terry, founder of Operation Rescue. Hate is good in a Christian nation. Makes me want to hug old Randall to death!

"The feminist agenda is not about equal rights for women. It is about a socialist, anti-family political movement that encourages women to leave their husbands, kill their children, practice witchcraft, destroy capitalism and become lesbians." - Pat Robertson.
Gee Pat, you forgot to mention that feminists want to get rid of Monday night football too! That's what really ticks me off.

"Indeed it may well be that men of goodwill like Woodrow Wilson, Jimmy Carter, and George Bush...are in reality unknowingly and unwittingly carrying out the mission and mouthing the phrases of a tightly knit cabal whose goal is nothing less than a new order for the human race under the domination of Lucifer and his followers." -Pat Robertson, The New World Order. Or Pat, it may well be you are an idiot.

"The woman in the Garden of Eden freely decided to tamper with God's order and ignore His rules. She sought her own self-fulfillment...Sin thus entered the world."

-Phyllis Schlafly, Eagle Forum. So did bad hair and double chins.

About God and Religion

2006-11-14T18:50:00.001-05:00

Sometimes, I stay up late by myself. I sit out on the front porch in the humid Florida air. Sometimes, the breeze is successful in cooling off the day. Other times, it serves little purpose other than to move around the thick air. The traffic on Baker Street is quieter at night, almost enjoyable. It is then I wonder about things like religion, politics, the devastating effects of WalMart on small communities, and what it will be like when I retire 12 years from now. Will I have enough money to live on or will I end up in some rooming house -- like the ones I have helped create during my years of community services. Wouldn't that be ironic?

I wonder about saying grace at the beginning of the Chamber of Commerce meeting, as if everyone there is a willing child of a Christian God. I wonder how many Jews, Hindus, Buddhists, and Muslims (not to mention atheists) suck it up and bow their heads, not out of reverence, but to avoid others noticing them being justifiably themselves.

Of course Christianity is the predmoninant culture I guess. It wouldn't be so bad if the prayers were more inclusive of other faiths, but typically they are not. Personally, experiencing grace at a Chamber meeting is not something I am going to rise up and rebel against. My background is Christian. I understand the importance of prayer to Christians, though I have to add I understand the importance of any faith paying homage to God. I don't think the answer is no prayer anywhere either. In fact, it wouldn't be so bothersome to me if in general there was an openness in our society to other religious viewpoints.

Not just Christians are close minded and intolerant of course. It is the nature of religion or at least how people practice it, to spawn judgement about other religions. It's kind of like politics, isn't it, but maybe worse because one would think the worship of God would result in loving engagement of people from all walks of life.

It is my fierce belief in the freedom of religion that has kept me from being religious. Too many constraints for me. I don’t mean things like the ten commandments. They make imminent sense. But the nature of religion, or at least the practice of it, is more about divisions among people than unity of spirit. Somehow it just doesn’t seem to be worth the effort to claim one religion over the other.

Hindus believe people should follow their own paths to Gods. In fact, the Hindu faith is reluctant to take on converts. Not because of arrogance, but because Hindus don’t believe others should turn away from their own traditions and culture of meaning. Don’t you think that makes some sense? And Buddhists, bless their rotund bellies, can be Buddhists and Christian at the same time. I find that interesting. I mean, you can't be Jewish and Christian at the same time.

So, where is the question? For me, when it comes to religion, the fundamental question is what would God or Yahweh or Muhammad or Shiva do? This question is different than asking what the Bible says or what the Koran reveals. Such writings, even if inspired by God, are not God.

I do not believe that God has a plan for anything or anyone. If there were one, its very existence would indicate how badly God plans. Who wants to believe in a holy bad planner? No, if there is a God – and I am quite prepared to believe there is one – I imagine we are him (or her), much like Buddhists believe everyone is a Buddha. I get close to being religious when I think of God that way. Why? Because it means God’s power and meaning have their potential in our imperfections, which is far more realistic, if not an accurate, portrayal of how things really work in the universe -- at least for me.

Now you might ask, if that be true, who made the universe, the planets, the oceans, and the perfect pouty lips of Marilyn Monroe. It’s a great question. But does the answer really matter? Or maybe this is it: is being among a select few who claim to know the correct answer really helpful?

Is one's faith somehow in need of being exclusionary to be meaningful?