What I'm Writing

Moving On

2005-09-18T19:15:00.000-04:00

There is a season, and a time for every purpose under heaven. Or at least that's how the song goes. This is the notice that this blog is moving to the emerald isle. You can find me in Ireland at “What I'm Blogging”

We're Moving HERE.

Blogger.com has been a terrific home for my blogs and I since September of 2003, however I'm thinking about trying something new. I'm also thinking about consolidating all the various different blogs I run into one, and this will let me do that.

Hope to see you at the new place.

Cheers,
Ric

Red Cross - Donate if you can

2005-09-01T05:59:00.000-04:00

American Red Cross

DONATE if you can

White Trash Christmas

2004-12-27T09:12:00.000-05:00

wordcount 502

Somewhere in my recent history I crossed over the socio economic border from Urban Professional to White Trash. I am so close to a guest appearance on the Jerry Springer show it's not funny. When I die my Tombstone will read "He never did get the truck off the blocks, but he was good people".

Case in point.

I have one vehicle about to die and one vehicle dead in my driveway.
I have three large dogs.
There are parts of the house that desperately need some repair (siding, insulation, etc.)
Each holiday season I pack the family up in the remaining functional vehicle and trek to the gathering of the clan...

This year the great trip began with a child recovery operation from the Ex-wife. My wife and I were on our way to Christmas dinner with her parents. We arrived a little after lunch to pick the kids up. Greetings were exchanged, the kids piled in the van, and away we go. The destination of the trip is Wasaga Beach, which is a great place to go in the summer, but in the winter the snow blows and the squalls run in from Georgian Bay and Lake Huron. This was a blowy snow day.

Now when going to the Grandparents, the expectation is that the kids will look their best. Both of mine did not. The were wearing very very casual play clothes that one wouldn't find in the finer dining rooms of ones In Laws. Fortunately my wife had packed good clothes for them to change into. The only question was where? The answer presented itself by way of hunger.

"Dad I'm hungry."
"Me too!"

"Didn't your mom give you lunch? We picked you up after Lunch!"

"No"
"Nope. Nothing"

"Nothing?? When did you have breakfast?"

"I donno..."
"Long time ago... I'm hungry now."

"OK we'll stop at the next service station. You guys can change, and we'll get something."

"OK"
"COOL"

As we entered the City of Barrie, the huge service center loomed and we entered to accomplish mission quick-bite-quick-change. My daughter went to the ladies room with my wife to change into dressier attire. My son, ever the eating machine pragmatist, decided to eat now and quick change in the van in the parking lot. So there I sat with my family on the afternoon of Christmas, the holiest day in the Christian calendar, at a formica table in a MacDonald's restaurant at a service station. Joy to the world I thought.

After we ate, we made our way to the parking lot, got in the van and my son proceeded to get changed. Wind whistling, snow blowing, van door open and my son in his underwear with his butt hanging out for all the world to see. As I watched the scene unfold I shook my head and said to my wife "We have become white trash haven't we?"

"Just drive... quickly" came the reply.

50KWordNoGo

2004-12-03T07:05:00.000-05:00

OK... 50,000 words in the month of November of 2004... In my month of November 2004 was not a possibility.. Want more details read here.

On the positive side, I still have the work to date from the NaNoWriMo attempt and I can push on with that. Despite what Yoda says, there is nobility in trying.

Lit Idol 2005

2004-11-26T15:05:00.000-05:00

So was your NaNoWriMo a big 50KWordNoGO? Well don't dispair, Shave 40,000 words, polish it up and submitt to become the 2005 Literary Idol

Need To Get Your Writing Career Moving?

Think you're a bestseller in the making, but don't know where to start?

Frustrated because no publisher will look at your work without an agent?

The London Book Fair, the UK's leading publishing event, is again searching for the next UK Bestseller - and it could be you! This year, the search is on to uncover untapped talent in the world of crime/thriller writing.

Check it out.. You don't have to live in the UK to join in. Detail here.

A Poppy For All Seasons

2004-11-08T21:08:00.000-05:00

Word Count=1659

In Flanders Fields
by: Lieutenant Colonel John McCrae, MD (1872-1918)
Canadian Army

In Flanders fields the poppies blow
Between the crosses, row on row,
That mark our place, and in the sky
The larks, still bravely singing, fly
Scarce heard amid the guns below.

We are the Dead. Short days ago
We lived, felt dawn, saw sunset glow,
Loved and were loved, and now we lie
In Flanders fields.

Take up our quarrel with the foe:
To you from failing hands we throw
The torch; be yours to hold it high.
If ye break faith with us who die
We shall not sleep, though poppies grow
In Flanders fields.

Any Canadian who attended school from 1918 up until just recently, will, no doubt, be aware of the poem by John McCrae, which forms the basis for the Canadian tradition of wearing a poppy during the start of November up until Remembrance Day on November 11th. We call it Remembrance Day because we remember, and we remember because it is our duty so to do. To pay homage and tribute to all those brave Canadians who have given their lives in the defence of our way of life. November, however, is not the only time to remember, nor is it the only time that the poppy graces a lapel. For some of us the poppy is for all seasons.

We met in a dorm room at Wilfred Laurier University. Doug was the boyfriend of my girlfriend's roommate. Hardly an auspicious introduction, we shook hands, he smiled in warm and charming way and after the formalities were over we went and drank some beer. We didn't have a lot in common, he was hockey and football, and I was history and literature. We were dating roommates, women who would subsequently become our respective wives, so we had at least some common ground. We talked about all kinds of things in our beer inspired camaraderie. It was the eighties, we were young and invincible, and we were going to live forever.

Doug married his girlfriend I married mine. They had been friends since high school and their friendship insured that Doug and I would continue ours. I distinctly remember singing a particularly silly song at their wedding reception, much to the delight of all assembled, or so I'm told as my intake of alcohol prevents accurate recall of the event. I was even less sober at my own wedding so any recall of reciprocal action by Doug has long since vanished from my memory. We were happy, we were married, and our lives were just beginning.

Doug was from an old Army family and he signed up right out of school. He was going to be an officer and he joked that his dad, the sergeant, would finally have to call him "sir". I had thought briefly about joining the Army but there didn't seem to be any call for the historical literary types on the field of battle so I thought more realistically about research and other pursuits. Doug was risk and adventure, while I was quiet and safety.

We didn't see each other very much, although our lives, through our wives were intertwined. Our families visited each other on a semi frequent basis, and we caught up on each others lives. He was doing basic training; I was researching dead Canadians for a biographical dictionary, or more accurately I was filling out three by five index cards with information that would never be published. Doug's tales of officers and drill sergeants were exciting and in a small quiet way, I envied him.

Doug finished basic and went on several assignments. He was posted to Germany, the Golan Heights and during the aftermath of the first Gulf War, he was stationed in Turkey helping to organise supplies to the Kurds in northern Iraq. During his tour in Germany my wife and I visited and our families took a whirlwind rally from Lahr to Vienna in a Chevy station wagon, four adults and two children. Doug and I joked often over two large beers that the trip could be the basis for a National Lampoon movie. In the city of Munich we stayed the General George Patton Hotel, which was rather unremarkable except that for servicemen it cost a mere ten dollars a night for a room, and that in the main dining room was a huge mural of the general leading a host of Sherman tanks across France. Doug and I both spit our coffee through our noses when one of the wives innocently asked "Why would they have a picture of George C. Scott on the wall?"

It was in Germany, trapped in the confines of that Chevy wagon where Doug and I became friends in our own right. Both being insomniacs, we spent long hours talking in the front seat of the car as we raced through the Swiss Alps while our families slept in peace behind us. Near death experiences always bring people closer. We were travelling in a thick fog near the city of Zerl. We were looking for a place to stay for the evening and we exited the highway. The off ramp ended abruptly with signs pointed left and right that both spelled out in light reflecting paint Zerl. Immediately past that was a rather solid mountain side that would not be forgiving if we met it at the speed Doug was driving. Bedlam ensued. We screamed as one, the wheel turned, tires skidded, and screeched as we traversed the impossible corner. When we came to a stop. We discovered that we hadn't died, and that we were still on the road. Doug and I started laughing in that nervous just cheated death sort of way, and from the back of the car we heard a groggy "Will you guys keep it down! we're sleeping back here." Doug and I laughed harder. When we got to the bar latter that day we toasted the "Whirl from Zerl" and our apparent good luck. It was the nineties, we were young and invincible and we were going to live forever.

In Germany we formed a friendship that was beyond our wives being friends. I talked about wanting to be a writer, he talked about wanting to go into radio after he finished his tour in the Army. Oh We knew that we'd never just call each other up to go to a game, or hang out. But when our families got together, Doug and I had more than two guys being awkward and trying to force out a conversation.

Our families grew. Children were born. Doug came back Canada and was stationed in Ontario and finally in British Columbia. A country stood between us but still we had the time to trade pleasantries and jokes over the phone or through email. Doug and his family seemed to be prospering, my family was going through troubles that eventually led to turmoil and divorce. The thing I remember most plainly about that time was the great disruption in my life and friends who ran hot or cold about whether I should leave my wife or stick it out it what had become a hard marriage. I won't go into the details, that's private. It is a tale for another time. What I do remember however, is Doug calling me up on the phone to tell me that he know that I was going through a tough time. He knew I was hurting, and while he didn't understand all the reasons, he told me that I would always be welcome in his house as a friend. Doug didn't tell me what I should be doing, he just offered an ear to listen should I choose to make use of it. It was a heart felt gesture that I cherished and was grateful for.

I never got the chance make use of it. Late in the day, in the last twilight of March, I received a phone call, from a mutual friend of mine and Doug's. Doug had been on exercise with his regiment just outside of Victoria. They had marched all weekend and Doug came home tired. On the Monday morning he complained to his wife of a sight pain in his chest, but thought nothing of it. The Army doctor had recently given him a physical and Doug had passed it with flying colours. He was a robust man, a healthy man, in the prime of his life with two wonderful children and a fabulous wife who loved him dearly. Doug had everything. Doug also had a heart condition that the Army doctors had completely overlooked. By mid afternoon the pain from the morning had developed into a full blown heart attack. Doug collapsed in his office, and by the time he was rushed to the hospital, he was dead. I stared dumb founded holding the phone as the story was related to me.

The next time I saw Doug he was in his uniform laying in a casket. All of his hopes and dreams extinguished in a spit second. His loss devastated, a family, a community, a people. The funeral was a celebration of his life. A statement about the relentlessly pursuit of the things he loved most; Family, country, honour, and a life of purpose. I was asked to read the prayers of the faithful, asked to recite pleas of understanding from a distant god to hear our prayers and grant us some kind of reasoning for why Doug was no longer with us. When I came to the part where I had to actually say his name, I broke down and sobbed openly. I don't think I ever have really recovered.

When Doug died, something in me died. Doug was action and adventure and the essence of life, now he was rest eternal. I was quiet and safety, but Doug's death made me see that quiet and safety could end at any time without warning. We were no longer young, we were not invincible, and forever was an illusion. Doug's death was senseless, but it gave me the sense to begin living a life and not be content to be an observer. In some ways Doug's life gave new meaning to mine.

So while we remember the soldiers who died to defend our freedoms on Remembrance Day each November 11th, at the eleventh hour, at the end of March I wear a poppy to remember one soldier whose life gave new meaning and new life to me. Remembrance is a small price to pay.

NaNoWriMo - Entry 1

2004-11-01T15:17:00.000-05:00

Entropy and the Fall
Word count = 333

I woke up to the sound of the loon’s call. It was low an haunting and it echoed across the lake in search of it’s mate. Loons mate for life and perhaps that is the reason for their mournful call. A lifetime can be tender, sad, joyous, and mournful, just like the call of a loon.

The morning was brisk and the cool air filled the bedroom. Under the blankets it was warm and cozy. I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to stay there in that warmth. That safety. Nothing bad can happen while you’re in bed. It’s just uncivilized. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes and focused the dim greyness of dawn. The sun was not yet fully over the horizon and the room was still in shadow. The dogs were sleeping peacefully on the bed where ever they could find a spot between my wife and I. Evenings did not usually start with a bed full of dogs, but throughout the night they would climb up to the warmth and comfort of blankets and pillows. I got out of bed quietly. I did not want to wake the pack or my wife. Better to let them sleep as none of them were creatures of the morning.

I made my way to the kitchen to put the kettle on to boil. The match left a familiar smell of sulfur as it ignited the propane from the stove burner. I’m going to have to go to town this afternoon and get the tank filled. The gauge was reading one quarter full. The likelihood of me going to town in the afternoon was remote, but if I start reminding myself early enough, I’ll actually get the tank filled sometime before the needle buries itself in the large “E” symbol on the bottom of the gauge. Empirical testing over time has taught me that the one quarter full mark is the right time to start playing mind games with myself about todo lists.

House Guests

2004-10-28T10:49:00.000-04:00

Word Count = 587

I am at war. I am at war with nature.

My wife has discovered that we have mice. Originally it was just a suspicion that we had visitors from the Cricetidae family, based partly on small scurrying sounds emanating from within the walls. I, as is my male perogitive, was completely oblivious to anything at all.

“Did you hear that?”

“Did I hear what?”

[sounds of scurrying rodent feet]

“That! Do you think it’s mice?”

“That’s not mice. Mice don’t sound like that. It’s nothing. Just a noise.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.” The “there there dear” was silent but implied.

So we continued our merry evening unaware that the forces of the RLLA (Rodent Leftover Liberation Army) were quietly working towards their goal. Total domination of the kitchen, with advanced listening posts in the dining room and beyond.

The next day my wife confronted me, “We have mice.”

“No we don’t.”

“Then what is This?!?!?!” She produced the silverware tray which is usually kept in the kitchen drawer. The knives, forks and spoons were gleaming, and in the middle tray was a small brownish black pellet of unmistakable rodent excrement. I stood staring at it.

“Looks like your ‘just a noise’ took a crap.”

“hmmmmmm we have mice.”

“No kidding!”

What to do? I immediately started thinking strategically about the types of traps and poisons that would need to be deployed. I was in the middle of drafting my anti RLLA Force Depletion Analysis for the upcoming war with the rodents when my wife dropped the “policy” bomb.

“We can’t kill them,” she said matter of factly.

[me standing there blinking with a distinct “what the hell” expression on my face]

“We can’t kill them. We have to capture them and release them.”

“Release them where?!”

“You drive past lots of fields in the morning on your way to work. I Just can’t bear to think of killing them... I just can’t.”

I was going to respond, but she had one of those looks that could turn into “you’re a monster!” or “Thanks for understanding, I love you” based on the next words out of my mouth. Discretion is the better part of valour, or as Dad used to say, “You can be right or happy son, pick one.”

“Ok, we'll trap and release them.”

“Thanks for understanding, I love you” [see I told you].

We purchased the humane traps, I read the instructions, set the bait of cheese, and placed them on the Ho Chi Minh trail that the vermin cong used under the kitchen sink. I went to bed with the notion that I was conducting a “just war” against my whiskered opponents. A bloodless battle where everyone wins, and domestic bliss is maintained.

I checked the traps this morning. One had gone off where I left it. The other had been triggered but had been dragged through the hole in the cupboard where the drain pipe descended to the basement. How the heck had it got down there? When I opened them, I discovered the cheese was gone, and they were completely empty of any enemy combatants. They mice must have been carrying off the trap as some form of trophy of their victory. Later that morning over coffee.

“Are you sure we can’t just poison them?”

“No. That would be awful. We’ll try again tonight.”

“Yes, dear.”

I had my marching orders. I am at war. I am at war with nature. I fear, however, that it will be my own personal Vietnam.

Internal Monologue

2004-10-09T22:23:00.000-04:00

Word count; 197

“I dislike endings entirely”

“That’s not a very inspiring way to begin a piece is it?”

“No, but then again, I’m not looking for inspiration.”

“Poor attitude. You should start with something that’ll attract other people’s attention. It’s the only way to be successful in this business.”

“I’m not here to attract other people’s attention. I’m here to state a deeply held view and you’re interrupting me!”

“Oh, excuse me please continue.”

“I dislike endings entirely.”

“You said that already.”

“I know I said it already! I was merely restating my position for the benefit of the other people.”

“So you are worried about attracting other people’s attention.”

“I was restating myself merely to start my position within a logical framework. Now please let me continue.”

“Oh very well.”

“I dislike endings entirely.”

“That’s not continuing, that’s starting over.”

“Ahem!”

“Sorry.”

“I dislike endings entirely. They are usually long, tedious and pedantic. They just seem to go on and on forever, with no purpose except to listen to the boring sound of their own voice, rambling ever on and on.....”

“Excuse me, but this seems to be the end.”

“Good, I didn’t like it very much anyway.”

Friendly Advice

2004-10-05T21:24:00.000-04:00

I thank thee all ye readers mine,
If ye gaze down upon my lines,
For over them I pondered hard,
But that's the life I lead - the bard.

Now if you like them, do be pleased,
For this, my friend, will give me ease.
Yet if offense they give to thee,
Consider what that does to me.

I do not write to cause a tear,
Nay, rather just to thee endear.
Life may be cruel, yet in this while,
I mean to shower it with smiles.

So If you do not like them friend,
I beg of thee to read again,
And if you cannot find a line,
That ye can take and make it thine,
Then in my lines I must have failed,
So throw them in the garbage pail.

Starry Night

2004-10-05T01:55:00.000-04:00

Word Count: 131

I don't know about you, but my favourite time to write is in the dead of night. The pitch-darkness is broken only by the glow of the computer screen, the lucid silence broken only be the taping on the keyboard and the low hum of the disk drive. In the tranquility of this velvet solemn silent darkness I am alone with only my words and inner vision to guide me as chracters form, reform, and arrange themselves in a trail behind the blinking line of the cursor. Perhaps tonight's dance of font and fancy will give birth to some new star of night. Shining briefly bright on a sea of electronic prose, and then to pass, hardly thought of again, from the minds and thoughts of those that read it now.

HMS Corporation

2004-09-17T11:10:00.000-04:00

word count: 181

Act 1 Scene i

Manager: Staff, good morning.

Staff: Sir, good morning.

Manager: I hope you are quite well.

Staff: Quit well, and you Sir?

Manager: I am in reasonable health and happy to manage you once more.

Staff: You do us proud Sir!

[musical interlude]

Manager: I am your first line manager,

Staff: and a really nifty manager too.

Manager: You’re very, very kind, but of course I have no spine, so I can’t do things for you.

Staff: We are very, very kind, and because he has no spine he can’t do things for us.

Manager: Like get you new PC’s, or a salary increase, or flexible work days, and because I have no spine, they make me draw the line, so you won’t get any bonus pay.

Staff: What never?

Manager: No never.

Staff: What Never?

Manager: Hardly ever...

Staff: Hardly ever give us bonus pay! So give three cheers and one cheer more for the spineless first line manager. Give three cheers and one cheer more for the first line manager!

[more music here]

(to be continued....)

Spectacles, Testicles, Wallet, and Watch

2004-03-04T15:10:00.000-05:00

Word Count: 3532

The room was shrouded in an institutional lime green. Scant light shone through the small window, highlighting the cracks between the cinder blocks. It was just before dawn and time seemed frozen in an odd gray half-light. On the wall a multitude of tubes and cables protruded, snaking their way down the headboard. In this space, time was not measured by the tick of the clock. That would have been too regular, too exact, too sure. Here, time was measured by the torturous flow of dripping saline and the uneven skip of a heartbeat and each moment was an epoch of unrelenting agony.

* * *

I met Columban in the summer of my novitiate rather abruptly. I was practicing final blessings at the alter for Sunday’s mass, my first solo. I had planned everything to the smallest detail. Each phrase, each canticle, each movement was strenuously practiced and repeated. I could tolerate no element of error, as my Confessor, if he were able to, would substantiate. In the early stages of my preparation I would curse my mistakes and add several pater nostrum to my daily penance. Pronunciation was particularly important to me, so many just casually mumbled through the Latin as if it wasn’t an integral part of the Holy Mass. I was determined not to be one of them. I would be pure. I was just finishing the benediction and as I spoke the nominee pater a voice from the vestry broke my concentration.

“Who are you saying the mass for lad?” he asked, “Yer feet?”

He stood in the vestry doorway, a wisp of a man in an oversized habit. His cord hung loosely around his waste with only two knots tied haphazardly in the end of it. I wondered which of his three vows he wasn’t practicing today. He was a Friar, so that meant poor by definition. His age indicated that I might safely assume that it wasn’t chastity. That left only obedience. Father Superior had told me last week that a new priest was being sent to St. Leonard’s, and he indicated that our new brother was somewhat of a problem. Father Superior did not elaborate further. It must be obedience. The priest’s face was old and weathered, framed by dark glasses with lenses as thick as a Coke bottle bottom. The whole effect was of two large omniscient eyes peering at me.

“Excuse me Father?” I replied.

“Yer benediction’s all wrong lad, nobody other than the front pew is ever going to see what yer doing. Yer too bent over.”

“I was bowing at the Holy Name of our Lord.” I hoped that my liturgically correct answer would persuade this old timer to leave me in peace. This uncharitable thought activated the guilt center in my… well wherever they are, and I added two salve maria to my list for the evening’s penance. He must have sensed my discomfort as he smiled widely and approached across the sanctuary to the alter.

“That’s fine for yer private mass or a small chapel affair, but look at the size of the room yer playing to.”

“Playing to?” I inquired.

“Yeah, playing to.” He grabbed my shoulders and twisted my body until it pointed towards the pews, “Look lad, centre row’s almost thirty-two pews a side, front to back. Side aisles are another two sets of thirty pews for a total of one hundred and twenty four pews, seating eight people a toss. Now that’s a good near thousand people sitting and God knows how many last minute souls standing in the back, that won’t be able to see what yer up to. It’s a big room and it needs big gestures. Now show me your nominee pater again.”

I did so, bringing my right hand molded in priestly benediction to my forehead, then traced the line of my nose to just in front on my chin and finished the oft repeated movement with a sweep, left to right, of the hand and a bow at the spititus sanctus. Each movement was precisely measured and in cadence with the words from my mouth.

“Too small,” he said. “You need to make it more visual for the parishioners in the back, and cut the bow. It’s all right for saying mass for the Holy Father, but to the rest of the congregation, you look like yer mumbling to the floor. A simple nod will do lad.”

“But…” I never finished my protestation.

“Look lad. Watch and repeat after me.”

I nodded that I would comply. I has always been taught to respect my elders, especially if they were priests.

“Spectacles.” He raised his hand to his forehead. I repeated his words and actions.

“Testicles.” He lowered his hand to his mid region. I followed his motion, but could not repeat the word in the sanctuary.

“Wallet.” He swung his arm as far left as it would go. My arm reflected his.

“And Watch.” He swept his hand across his chest to his far right side and in a dumbfounded haze I mimicked his movement. I let my arm drop to my side as I stood observing the old priest.

“My name’s Columban,” he said with a wry smile and extended his right hand.

“Francis Xavier.” I replied shaking his hand, and slowly returning his smile. I considered for a brief moment the theological impact of uttering the word testicles within earshot of the alter, but something in this old priest’s eyes told me life at St. Leonard’s would never be the same again.

* * *

The respirator wheezed and hummed as it pushed oxygen through the clear plastic tube. The flowers that had been so fresh the day before were now withering and dying on the windowsill. One of the nurses should have removed them yesterday, but I suppose even their dull faded colour is an improvement over the lime green walls. Why do they paint everything lime green? There are so many more refreshing colours. There are so many more pleasant shades of green, aquamarine, for example. Okay, so it’s a mesh between blue and green, but it reminds me of the sea, when it’s calm and the sun is low. There’s forest green too, dark, silent and thoughtful. How can you be calm and thoughtful when the color of the walls makes you want to puke your guts out? There’s already been enough of that. It is my firm belief that purgatory is the same sick colour of lime green and if it were up to me, hospital administrators who approve of lime green paint would spend considerable time there.

* * *

I had never seen Father Superior’s face turn such a shade of red. It was a hot red, full of unvented rage and anger. I imagined that Spanish bulls were well acquainted with this variety of red as they faced down the toreadors, who distracted and the matador who held the final sword. He stood in the rectory doorway snorting, puffing, and stomping his foot. Father Superior was a formidable bull indeed.

“While I live and breathe and a Holy Father sits in Rome, I will not have women in the sanctuary” he bellowed.

“They’re not women Father,” I replied, “they’re girls.”

“Don’t quibble with me Francis. You’re still just a young pup and I won’t have you trying out every new fad that comes along,” he snapped.

“Father, be reasonable. They only want to be altar servers. Even Martha and Mary waited on our Lord.”

“Yes Father,” added Sister Frieda, always eager to join the fray. “Other than St. John, there were only women awaiting the resurrection of Christ. Surely their younger sisters could serve Him in some small ways?” Sister Frieda was young and newly consecrated to her order. She carried the zeal and commitment of our generation, bolstered by the new wind billowing the sails of Mother Church in the wake of Vatican II. Her idealism was matched only by her lack of worldliness, which Father Superior always exploited to advantage.

“No they can’t sister,” he said.

“Why not?” she was almost on the verge of demanding as she dropped his formal title of address.

“Because, they don’t have a penis Sister. If the Lord God Almighty had given them penises, I would have no objection what so ever, but they don’t and so they are out of luck. Period. End of discussion, final.”

The retort was well placed and devastating. It was not something Frieda was prepared for nor could she likely respond to it. She stood still in a perfectly shocked indignancy, but she was out of the fight now and only I remained. The bull often gored one of the toreadors in the course of the conflict, that was a given. It was worse when the bull trapped toreador and horse against the wall and sunk his horns deeply into their flesh.

“But Father you’re being unreasonable,” I interjected. Maybe the bull would turn his attention my way for a while. Father Superior shot a gaze at me that made me wish I had confessed earlier that day. The image of meeting my maker unshriven was somewhat disquieting.

“And as for you Francis…”

The image was becoming very clear and distinct now.

“Oh Gregory, stop yer blustering,” Columban said as he entered the room accompanied by two small girls. Angela and Theresa Carnelli, twin sisters who were nine years old, and prime candidates for the altar server program. Father Superior turned towards Columban and I gave silent thanks that my flesh was to be spared for the present time. The two men looked each other over warily, each attempting to size the amount of fight left in the other.

“My two friends here want to know why they can’t play ‘set the table’ with you on Sunday.” Columban always did have the most colourful metaphors for the liturgy. “I told them that you’d have an answer, and mind yer language what you tell `em.”

“Columban, we’ve been over this before,” Father Superior replied, although he seemed to have lost a little of his bluster in front of the children.

“I know you told me, and Francis and Sister Frieda, but I thought you’d like a chance to explain it to these two seraphic youth here why they’re not welcome at God’s table.”

Father Superior looked sternly at Columban and then at the two girls. He was imposing and towered over top of them, yet the showed no sign of fear. They were blissfully unafraid as only children and fools can be, returning Father Superior’s stare with an innocent questing look. How I envied them. The silence was unbearably long and Father Superior periodically switched his gaze from the girls to Columban, to me and then to Frieda. Each glance reflected his inner turmoil and growing confusion, as he tried to grapple with his isolated position. He was in a staring contest with two opponents that he could not bully into blinking, and he didn’t have the stomach for making children cry. Capitulation was inevitable.

“Oh, al right” he said. “Saints and Powers preserve us all, but only for the early service. Understood?”
I nodded my complete understanding.

“This is just a trial,” he added trying to preserve some dignity from his earlier position.

“Of course it is Gregory. We wouldn’t want it any other way,” offered Columban.

Father Superior left the rectory and retreated to his office down the hall. Columban ushered the two girls to chairs at the table and sat between them.

“Now, if Sister Frieda and Father Francis don’t mind, perhaps they could fetch the three of us some ice cream from the kitchen.” Columban said to the girls, who eagerly nodded agreement. Frieda and I started for the kitchen, but before I left the room I turned to take a last admiring look at the elderly gray matador who was now performing parlor tricks for his twin swords.

* * *

It’s seven o’clock now; the sun has started its eastern ritual, cresting over the horizon, bathing the world in it’s warm orange glow. The dim room light grows steadily brighter, making it easier to see, making the awful colour of the walls more accentuated. The nurse comes into the room. She’s round and pleasant with a perpetual cheery face. Her disposition strikes me as odd. In a place where death and suffering are constants, she has the strength of will to be cheerful. She is my sun. Each morning at this time she crosses the horizon of my lime coloured world and pumps the contents of a syringe into one of the tubes in my arm. The rush is slow but sustained and I am bathed in the warm orange glow of morphine. I don’t care what colour the walls are now.

The pain in my side has subsided somewhat. The morphine is still working. In one of my more lucid states the doctor informed me that a time would come when even the morphine would be ineffective. I disliked the doctor. He was cold, clinical and professional and he used words like ineffective to tell me that I might sometime soon be in unimaginable gut-wrenching pain. I felt like a car in a mechanic’s shop every time he came into the room. I rationalized, when I was rational, that this was his emotional defense to me. Too much involvement might impair his ability to conduct diagnosis and treatment. But the diagnosis was already made and the treatment was irrelevant at this point. Comfort, but do not resuscitate, was the phrase I believed the doctor used.

Columban sat in the chair in the corner of the room. He read from his breviary, silently saying Holy Office. Whenever I was awake he was in that chair, and if my memory is correct, and I don’t know that it is, he’s been here for the last ten days. He must have found it cool in this room as he had pulled his cowl over his head for warmth. All he needed was a large scythe and he would have been a dead ringer for the Angel of Death. All I needed was for his namesake to visit.

“Morning Father,” I mumbled slowly and softly.

“Ah, yer up lad,” he replied flashing a warm smile my way. He got up and came over to the bed and took a wash cloth from the side table and wiped the sweat from my forehead. The sensation was cool and refreshing and very comforting. The doctor was right, comfort was what I needed as I lay in bed while my body slowly crucified me.

* * *

The pain had developed over a period of six months. At first it had been a dull ache in my lower back. I thought that I had just pulled a muscle while trying to convince the altar servers and myself that I was still a young priest. I lunged a little too exuberantly after the tennis ball during our regular Saturday road hockey game in the church parking lot, and landed, after sufficient tumbling, flat on my back. The pain has been my constant companion and crucifix ever since. The weeks dragged on and the pain progressed from annoying to unbearable. At the insistence of Columban and the command of Father Superior, I checked into a hospital for some tests.

For a week they could not determine what was wrong. Tests, scans, pokes, and prods revealed nothing that would account for any trauma to my spinal column. This was perfectly natural, as the doctors and I later discovered the fault was not in bone, it was in the blood. The results of my blood work tests indicated, in the words of doctor ‘Auto-Mechanic’, that I had cancer in my lower intestine and kidneys, and that it was quite advanced. Advanced? What the hell did that mean? I had prepared myself mentally for being crippled, or bed ridden. Contemplation of death had never entered my mind.

My rage and fear were indescribable. I felt abandoned and alone. Despair and pain competed for mastery of my soul.

Father Superior dropped by for a visit after he heard the news. He tried to console me that Our Lord has a purpose in my suffering. I knew that he was trying to be kind and that he was quoting me the book and verse on death and dying, but I really wanted him to go away. No, I wanted him to be in my bed dying in my place. Let God choose him. In my morphine controlled condition I was able to hold my emotions from him, nod politely and feign sleep until he left. The rage did not leave with him, and neither did the pain.

Columban entered the room and came to my bedside. I was not in the mood to see anyone. I doubted that I would ever be in the mood again. I continued to pretend I was sleeping.

“Wake up, lazy bones,” he said.

I could not believe my ears. I was dying and he was making jokes. No amount of morphine induces passivity could restrain me this time.

“Fuck off,” I snapped. “Just fuck off and die old man.”

“Francis,” he said softly, “If I could, I surely would. No one wants you well more than I do.”

“Don’t give me platitudes Columban, I’m sick of them. I’m sick of being hooked up to tubes and pumps. I’m sick of people telling me it’s God’s will, I’m sick of this room. I’m sick of the never ending pain, and I’m sick of you.”

“And I’m sick of yer fucking whining.” His words slammed into my brain like a fist. “Oh it’s my pain, God is so unfair. Why Me? Really Francis, you’re a priest for God’s sake. I should have thought that you’d at least have the guts of yer convictions. Or has that been a fucking sham?”

“You don’t understand old man.”

“Oh, I understand. I understand more than you know. When I first saw you, I thought that you were one of those peacock priests. The ones that like to dress up in the robes, pontificate over everybody, and when it comes to the real issues of faith, couldn’t give a flying fuck. You bowed at the proper places, wore the proper attire and called yerself Father. I really wondered if the habit you wore ever went deeper than yer fucking skin.”

I looked up into his aged eyes and saw tears forming.

“I decided to give you a change to prove me wrong and by God you did. You turned into a true son of the Church. Yer compassion and care were real, the people knew, I knew, God knew it. You stood up to Gregory when he was being a narrow-minded fool. I was proud of you lad. But now you’ve sunk into despair and self-pity. It’s disgusting.”

Columban’s face streamed with tears the ancient riverbeds of lines worn deep with age channeled the moisture across his cheeks.

“I’ve said enough,” he was trying not to sob. “I’ll go now and if you have a mind you can call me when you want to see me again.”

He started toward the door. I watched him through my own watery eyes. I did not realize how much my pain had prevented me from seeing the pain my illness caused in others. I thought that I had dedicated my life to the service of others, but when confronted with the finality of my existence I was as self-centred as anyone else. Where were the guts of my convictions? I did not fully know and I was too emotional to attempt an analysis but I knew if I let Columban go I would never have the will to find out.

“Father,” I said, “please don’t go.”

* * *

“Is it bad this morning?” he asked

“Yes Father.” I replied, “it’s bad.”

Columban picked up a small black bag from beside his chair and placed it on the side table. He opened it and took out a purple stole, kissed it and placed it around his neck. He set out a chalice and a palette and opened the bottle containing the chrism for the rite of Unction, the last rite, the rite of healing.

“It’s not St. Peter’s, but it’ll do.” Columban said. “Are you sure you want to do this today?”
Unction was the spiritual finale. The omega to the alpha of baptism. It was a popular superstition among lay people that a priest doing the last rites was a harbinger of death and many postponed it as long as possible. I preferred to take part in mine. I felt it necessary.

“Yes Father, I’d like to do it today”

“All right then,” he said. “In the name of the Father…”

“No Father. It’s spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch,” I chided gently through the pain.

“It’s a small room lad,” Columban replied with a smile and continued.

The Road to San Miguel

2004-02-24T21:06:00.000-05:00

Word Count: 911

The mid morning sun raditated blistering heat on the dirt road from La Paz to San Miguel. The kerchief hung around my neck "Gringo" style, soaked in a river of sweat. I wiped my mouth dry and took a long draught from my canteen. The water was stale and warm but any refreshment in this heat was a blessing. I capped the canteen and leaned out the side of the jeep. The wind rushed by, evaporating the moisture on my face and gave some small cooling comfort. I had always thought that dogs were stupid creatures for doing this same act, but now I had more appreciation for their apparent wisdom.

"She's a some hot eh?" the driver said nudging me with his elbow.

"Si Juan. She's a hot." I replied "If it ain't the heat it's the humidity."

"Que?" Jaun's face was blank.

I made a mental note to add silly heat clichés to the list of useless English phrases I was teaching Juan.

"She's a mucho hot," I corrected. Juan grinned in comprehension.

I asked Juan in my mangled Spanish how long it would take to get to San Miguel. At least I think that's what I asked him. For all I know I could have said something like "How long is San Miguel?" or "Is San Miguel short?" From the expression of mirth on his face, however, I believe it was closer to "Juan, when we get to San Miguel I'd like to eat my shoe wrapped in a tortilla with lots of salsa." Other than communicating the fact that I "no hablez Español", I am at a complete loss when it comes to speaking Spanish.

"Two hour we there," he smiled.

Juan's English was no better than my Spanish. Communication between us has been mostly through use of clichés, in either language, or shared cultural phenomena. Juan is a great lover of American films and if I want to indicate that I like something a lot, for example, the phrase "Siskel and Ebert say two thumbs up," with proper inflection and accompanied by the required hand gestures, produces exuberant laughter and understanding in Juan. The words themselves are meaningless but, between two linguistically challenged individuals, a communion of thought was formed.

The jeep drove on, kicking up a trail of dust as it went. Overhead the sky was a sea of bright blue cloudlessness. Back home such a day would be appreciated, desired, even sought after. On the road to San Miguel, in the heart of the equatorial pressure cooker, I found myself offering novenas for just a few clouds to filter the heat of the relentless sun.

The road crested over a small hill and flattened out again on a plateau clearing. The dirt road gave way to pavement for about a thousand yards. The pavement was black and hot and unusually wide for the middle of nowhere. It was four lanes across and the centre divide marker was at least as thick as our jeep. I had seen this before when I arrived at La Paz. The government had built air strips on top of jungle roads making it convenient to land troop transports at strategic sites. Up until now, the drive had been pleasant, if you could ignore the heat, and I had almost forgotten about the war.

At the end of the runway a squad of government troops was marching. Their officer positioned himself out and to the side of the formation, calling cadence. As we passed by he brought his arm up quickley in a salute. Juan looked frightened and he kept his gaze forward along the road. I nodded back as it seemed the most polite thing to do, and I wished to avoid anything that might anger the officer. My common sense told me that angry military types and flashy automatic weapons did not equal longevity for the subject of that anger. We passed by the troops none too quickly for my tastes.

With a clunk of the jeep's suspension, the runway ended and the calm sanity of the dirt road returned. I looked at Juan with a questioning expression, and for good measure pointed my thumb, discretely, in the direction of the officer.

"You look John Wayne!" he said with a nervous grin.

I looked at him with some puzzlement but then examined the clothing I was wearing. Khaki shirt, with epaulets, khaki pants with lots of pockets, black hiking boots, dark aviator sunglasses, and a New York Mets baseball cap. Upon quick reflection I concurred with Juan. I did look like John Wayne and most definately like many of the unofficial American advisors 'in country'. I took my cap and glasses off and tossed them in the back of the jeep and put on a straw hat I had picked up in La Paz. For good measure I rubbed some dust from the floor of the jeep on my shirt.

"Now I look Juan," I said, indicating hat and dust with hand movements.

"Siskel and Ebert say two thumbs up," came Juan's reply with a wry smile.

I made another mental note to not wear so much 'Tilley Endurable' safari gear in the future. I didn't want to be mistaken again, by either side. Juan and I laughed heartily as our jeep sped down the road to San Miguel.

A Private Conversation

2004-02-10T09:49:00.000-05:00

Word Count: 325

"We've been through this before," she said to him in a loud whisper. Her eyes flared, betraying an anger which was not expressed in her controlled voice. He, oblivious to her mood, or purposely thick, sat calmly reading a newspaper and taking a long drink from his steaming coffie mug. After a pause he folded his paper and placed it off to one side of the cafe table.

"Perhaps we should go over it again," he said " for my benefit," he added in an equally loud whisper.

She took a deep breath, maitained her composure and politely offered, " I'm not going to discuss it with you here, can't it wait til we're alone?"

"We're never alone," he pounced almost befire she was finished. "We had to come here for some privacy, and this is as private as it gets." He made a sweeping motion with his hand indicating the rest of the cafe. Other than myself, and a disinterested teenager behind the couter, the couple was alone.

"You know what Mom and Dad's was like before we moved in," she said. Her face was becoming distressed and she was clenching her hands on the table.

"I thought we were going to have our own space," he retorted. "Don't get me wrong, I appreciate your folks putting us up, but I didn't thing that we'd still be dating three months after our wedding!"

The woman looked agast. Her eyes, moistened with that blow, looked around the cafe and she realized that the teenager's inattention had evaporated and my pretense of polite eavesdropping had become a stare.

"You shithead!" she hissed at him as she gathered her indignation and her purse and left the cafe. He slowly took another drink from his mug and picked up his paper, turning the pages until he came to the classified section.

The End

Pathetic Fallacy

2004-02-06T15:54:00.000-05:00

Word Count: 1612

Pathetic Fallacy. Incorrectly projecting (attributing) human emotions, feeling, intentions, thoughts, and traits upon events or objects, which do not possess the capacity for such qualities. A term coined by John Ruskin (1819-1900). In literature, you often find it when nature mimics the emotions of a main character by changing the weather patterns. King Lear is a prime example, Shakespeare being particularly fallacious in the pathetic vein, and is reflected in the scene where a great storm rages around the mad King and his fool. We see his insanity in the insanity of the tempest. [Of course I'm being needlessly pedantic here, probably more information than you need to know, but I'm trying to set a tone here and if I've bored you with too many details, I'm sorry. If, however, you're impressed by my erudite intellectualism - well OK then!] Pathetic fallacy works very well in literature but rarely in "real" life, and seemingly never in mine. The universe travels its course. I travel mine.

I know this to be true, for the considerable amount of empirical evidence I've collected over the years attests to the fact and shows me categorically, that pathetic fallacy in nature works only in books. Two cases in point will illustrate what I mean. Firstly, the day my dog was hit by a car and died the sun was shining brightly, warmly and did not have the decency to go completely black at the moment of my most terrible shock and horror. I was four at the time and the dog pushed me out of the way of an oncoming truck but didn't manage to get clear himself. The dog and I were inseparable companions and suddenly we were no longer. I cried and was incredulous that all of creation was not crying too.

Now I realize that this first example is not the most pleasant one to contemplate and the fact that I've come right out and hit you over the head with it might probably make you reconsider reading on. You're probably thinking, "OK dead dog, little kid crying - that's just great! What next? Famine? War? Pestilence? And whatever they call that other apocalyptic horse guy?" I simply needed to illustrate my point strongly. I'll refrain from pushing any more emotional downer buttons, but the essential fact remains, the universe went along its merry way.

The second example I will present as evidence is less intense and more mundane, yet valid proof nonetheless. The day I received my first real kiss, yes I know what you're thinking, I said less intense and more mundane - bear with me. The day I received my first real kiss was on the steps of the Church one Sunday morning. I had loved this particular woman all my life and we were both just sitting on the steps talking. I was wearing a dark suit and a bow tie, she was wearing a blue dress that highlighted her wonderfully sky blue eyes and long flowing blonde hair. It was a magical moment for me, but it was raining like cats and dogs. It was dark, gloomy, and cold - good thing for that too as it gave me an excuse to put my arm around her. We looked in each other’s eyes for a while and then I leaned in and kissed her. I thought that nature should at least of allowed a tiny ray of sun to shine at that moment but the universe provided nothing in the way of mood lighting or music. I sort of fault the universe for not helping my romantic endeavor as the relationship lasted a brief passionate week and then this woman whom I had worshipped forever, left me for another man, and as I recall the day I saw them together the sun was also shining very brightly and warmly. I was five and so was she and the other man had a bike without training wheels and he was six.

I learned at an early age that I could expect no assistance from the universe to provide backup to my emotional states, whatever they were. This was an unfortunate discovery for me as I had been raised in a society and culture where everything has a soundtrack. Every movie or TV show has a soundtrack (and a lot of pathetic fallacy too! Especially the horror flicks I liked as a teenager, with angry lightning flashes et al.), every shopping experience is associated with planned happy Muzak sounds to encourage us to feel good and consume. I eschewed these obvious ploys of man-made environment to influence or reflect my moods. Manufactured pathetic fallacy is just pathetic. I wanted the "real McCoy", wanted the universe to wake up and notice me, to reflect, and thereby reinforce, the make up of my mood.

Take this morning for an example. This morning I was in a miserable mood. I've not seen my love for an eternally endless epoch. For those of you who require more details than provided by literary alliteration I can be more precise to say approximately 18 hours. For sure the more jaded types will scoff at my plight, but they are not walking in my shoes and one man's sixty-four thousand eight hundred seconds is another man's epoch. I woke up with the expectation of meeting her for breakfast at a little café we frequent. I then remembered that no such meeting was going to take place. Schedule's being what they are on this particular day a rendezvous was unable to be penciled in. I was aghast at the thought of it! I knew she would not be there because we talked about it at our last meeting and I was paying attention. I was. Look, stop rolling your eyes and saying "Ya right". Who’s telling this story anyway? I simply had fallen into a pattern of seeing this woman for breakfast frequently and in the daze and haze of morning I didn't remember that it just wasn't going to happen today. If there were ever a time for the universe to kick in with some unadulterated pathetic fallacy today would have been it. It would have been a great day for a drizzly rain, complete with a cold north breeze, dark gray clouds, and I could sit in my bay window, listen to some sad music, sip my morning cup of coffee alone, and wallow in my own melancholia. The universe, as usual, didn't play ball. I opened the curtains and was assailed by a glorious summer day. The sky was a bright blue with no cloud in sight.

I got dressed, made it to my car, cursed the universe silently to my self and drove off to our café to wallow in self-pity and loneliness over a cup of hot java. The drive was uneventful and morose. I was feeling the pains of a love lost with no hope of seeing her again for maybe another eight hours or so. The utter inhumanity of it all - my sorry state reflected back at me by bright, warm, pathetically cheery sunshine. I don't quite think that things could have gotten any worse. I was, however, as I often am, wrong. When I got to the café, another couple was sitting in our booth, and injury of injuries to my heart and soul, they were holding hands and laughing and smiling and.. it's too much to bear and I can describe it no more. I had hoped to at least be able to drink a cup in my solitude and sit in our seat and search with faint hope for some imprint of her there, a whisper of her voice perhaps still echoed there for my ears to hear. Instead, lovers unfamiliar to me enjoying what I desired most, and what I was deprived of, confront me. The gray drizzle of my mood became a cloudburst of despair. I purchased a coffee "to go", retreated to the fortress of solitude that was my car and drove to my office. I thought that I could hear faint otherworldly laughter as I put my sunglasses on to shield me from a cheerful day.

By the time I arrived at my office I was in a foul mood. I wasted no time and I threw myself into my work determined that I was going to milk as much productivity from this frustration as possible. I turned on my computer and started to read through the day’s notices and electronic mail. I was startled for a moment when a single note arrived. It was from her. I felt my heart beat a little faster as I opened it, and as I read the words, my gloomy rain soaked existence, brightened immediately. The few short lines read:

I missed you too but it'll just make seeing you tomorrow and Friday that much better. I'll call you later on.
Love
(*)

I was a fiery sun beaming on a sandy beach and a sparkling ocean. My heart soared. The phone rang and the call display boldly announced her name and number and the joy I was experiencing at that moment was multiplied a hundred fold! I picked up the phone and said hello and as I leaned back in my chair to savor the sweet sound of her voice and loose myself in her words I glanced out the window. A light rain had started to fall, and the sunny sky had become overcast. I chuckled a little to myself. Typical. The Universe goes its way I go mine.

The End