Month: July 2018

Death…Part One!

Darren was about 11 years old when I first met him, a couple of years younger than me. But in that stage of life a couple of years meant a great deal.  He lived just a few doors down from O’Grunts in one of those post war, red brick, long and narrow bungalows, or ranchers.  He was a very fragile lad, sickly in fact, suffering from numerous ailments, the most egregious of which was asthma.  In spite of his frailties he always tried to be a part of our crowd although he could barely keep up with us with his constant wheezing, hacking and bronchial cough.  He tried to play hockey on our outdoor rink and baseball in the summer, football in the fall, and any other activity that we thought about. We always welcomed him but could not really accommodate his physical weaknesses in our game play other than with encouragement and inclusiveness.  Often Darren would just watch, then run, or skate, slowly toward us then stop, cough, wheeze catching his breath as if lost somehow then try again.  He was always part of our football huddles, omnipresent it seemed with that deep, raspy breathing of his, as if in a reverb state, somewhat like an echo chamber, powerful but for its resonance to reflect Darren’s difficulty in every breath he took.

Thinking back now I am truly amazed at his courage and determination to participate in these types of activities. He would have been infinitely more comfortable in the more sedentary, intellectual pursuit but at such a young age the adventure, sense of belonging and sense of being alive, part of the gang, were probably more of an attraction for him than the limitations brought on by his physical liabilities. We should have been more enlightened at that age to welcome him but at the same time steer him away from our everyday activities to ones that would have been more suitable for his condition. Ignorant that we were at such a young age we sort of took him for granted, as he was always there.  Sadly, regrettably, we were ignorant of the warning signs that were staring us all in the face.

Darren died suddenly. This was a huge shock to all of us.  We were very young as well and incidents such as a death tend to hit youngsters like us suddenly and without warning, like a jackhammer to the gut.

He died from an asthma attack, I do believe, though I cannot be entirely sure of this given that Darren died some 50 plus years ago.   O’Grunts told me of this tragic event, when I came to call on him one summer’s day

“Darren died” he said, as if questioning me somehow.

“No way. How? What happened?”

“Yesterday.” Don continued “He had something of an asthma attack and couldn’t breathe properly. His dad got him to the hospital but it was too late and they couldn’t wake him.”

“Holy crap” I couldn’t believe it and just stood there, in shock, shaking my head as if somehow I could exorcise this news and make things real again. “Holy crap.”

Death wasn’t something that was really real to us. We weren’t oblivious to it but it was something that happened to old people: Grandparents, Grand Uncles or Grand Aunts.  Old people. People over 40.  Not to an 11 year old boy! And not to somebody we knew who was only 11! No way. We were immortal at that age.

Playing didn’t seem so important now, or appropriate, or relevant somehow.  I turned to leave O’Grunt’s house and began my walk home, in thought, in shock, my head down in sorrowful disbelief, walking by rote as if in some automaton trance passing Darren’s house on the way.  There it was, on my left.  Nondescript.  Just a structure of brick and mortar.  Inanimate from the outside.  How many times have I passed that house without giving it a second thought or a glance, only knowing that it was Darren’s house.  How could I even look at that house knowing full well the grey pall that was descending upon it like a cold blanket of grief: all encompassing, unrelenting, suffocating grief!  I couldn’t imagine the awfulness that was permeating through it like a deadly virus, throughout every room: in the walls, the floors, every nook and cranny of that house. Crushing memories of a child, of a son, of an innocent youngster who had his whole life ahead of him yet was saddled with the misfortune of not being able to capture the breath of life.  Even today, as I walk past that house it looks exactly as I remembered it, as I walked past it hundreds of times in my youth.  It remains to this day a very modest, post war abode: long and narrow, a red brick structure that was a home and very common for this street before the tear downs and monster home craziness began to destroy the neighborhood.

We all went to the showing.  I must admit how scared I was.  The foreboding atmosphere of the funeral home: the smell of the carpets, the incense filled heaviness and tension, sadness in the air.  Was this how death smelled?

We were all escorted into the viewing parlour.  I could sense that Darren was laid out somewhere for all to see but couldn’t see exactly where he was due to the large number of people there.  I think that the funeral home’s concierge sensed this as he made a path for us to come and have a look or pay our respects.  We all followed him somewhat gingerly, with some trepidation, for none of us knew what to expect.  I think I grabbed onto Jimmy mum’s arm at that moment in time for reassurance that all would be okay.  He looked at me and I could see a slight tint of foreboding in his face.  O’Grunts was non plussed about the whole thing but solemn looking nonetheless.  Big Maxx was there as were many of the girls in Darren’s immediate neighborhood.  All were in shock and in an emotional state.  The concierge sensed our fear and told us not to worry as Darren would appear to be asleep. Okay! That helps

Finally we were all there around his open casket. I think I had my eyes closed and then, very carefully, bravely, opened one eye for a short glance.  Darren did indeed appear to be asleep. His eyes were closed and his face seemed to be coloured with blush, just a hint of rose, smooth but pastel-like, with colour on his cheeks and lips.  Laying there straight up with his hands folded, in peaceful remorse, dressed in his pajamas as if he was in an eternal asleep.  Above his coffin they had a landscape form of the heavens, in a kaleidoscope of colours, with the moon and the stars sparkling as if in some magical, ecclesiastical collage. To a young boy like me it was both beautiful and creepy and I can still remember that scene as if I saw it yesterday and not 50 years ago.

We kind of paid our respects as best we could to Darren’s mom and dad and then got the hell out of there.

Pain, or shock, tends to heal and lessen with time. So they say. While at first it seemed somewhat surreal for us to be out playing in the park as if nothing really happened, before too long we were back to our normal ways. Yet there were times when the whole frightening affair came crashing back to me. It was during those times when walking home from O’Grunts place, that I would pass Darren’s house and see his dad sitting there out on the stoop alone.  Lost in thought he appeared to be, or, perhaps he was oblivious to his surroundings, as if in a trance like state of mind.  I would shyly acknowledge him as I passed by the house with a nod of my head, as if I was somehow sharing in his grief knowing full well that nothing I could do could ever come close to easing his sorrow. Sometimes he would see me and nod his head in recognition but most times nothing but his blank stare, a stare that was straight ahead and somewhere out there into space and time.

What was going through his mind one can only imagine? Staring straight ahead into nothingness, seeing nothingness with nothingness of a future. Hopelessly wondering about all of the “what ifs.” The guilt must have been overbearing, unceasing, interminable. To lose one’s son at such a young age. Life is not supposed to be this way. Parents are not supposed to outlive their children. Being a father myself I know of the hopes and dreams that come with parenthood. What will he or she be like at 10, at 18, at 21? What will they become: a doctor, a lawyer, a teacher, a plumber, a proctologist, a what?  What about the grandchildren? What will they be like? Life is so full of promise, of wonderment, of hope, of joyous potential and contentedness. Then, to have it all come crashing down in a flash like some cruel joke.

Seeing Darren’s dad was just that to me. Seeing Darren’s dad!  I knew he was sad but knowing that he was hurting emotionally, physically and spiritually was difficult for someone like me to grasp at such as young age. I would never be able to understand or be able to measure the pain that he was going through. I could only say…hello!

Song of the Day

SJ…………………………..Out

It’s Elementary My Dear.

A short article I read about corporal discipline in Chinese elementary school got me to thinking about my own childhood school years:

See the source image

Smiling faces? Not for long! See how that nun is smiling? She knows!

September 1957. It was now time for school. Grade one. I was a smart young lad back then for I skipped Kindergarten. What kind of name is that anyway, Kindergarten? Jimmy-mum and I would go together: walk to school, and keep each other company all the way and on the way. It was about a mile and a half to walk, normally taking a shortcut through a huge hydro-field. I can still remember that walk. Stay on the left side of the road, face traffic, look both ways, cut across the street, quickly, then walk through the tall long grass of the hydro field. That field’s tall soft early autumn grass seemed to undulate in the light breeze, like an ocean of late summer’s tall grass. Each long and tenuous swell appearing to a young fellow like me as an enormous mountain barrier or a sea swell that had to be climbed or sailed across. Down hill and dale we would go, through valley and trough, then up to the next crest, then to the next and to the next, finally portaging across some wild and raging river until alas, back to the reality of the school yard where I would be confined to for the next seven years.

Catholic grade school: grades 1 through 8. No middle school, no junior high or whatever they feel inclined to call these things these days. To us kids it made no difference.  And to an imaginative lad school was school. And it sucked. And the Catholic Schools really, really sucked because in addition to all of the scholarly stuff we also had to contend with the wrath of God disguised in long flowing black robes and habits. Sister this and sister that.  Father this and father that.   Adapt quickly and quietly and quickly and quietly we did for it soon became apparent that it was us against them. For that reason alone our time in the Catholic School system was the very best of times as well as the very worst of times.  At its worse? A residential school for white Anglo – Saxon boys and girls. At its best? It was a great deal of fun and a whole lot of laughs for it was us against them for the next seven years. Seven years, as I skipped a grade for being the smart ass that I was back in those days.  Then again the Catholic Separate School System had a mandate and a mission to spit out as many good catholic boys and girls on society as fast as was heavenly possible.

They had lay teachers there as well. Some were great, others not so much.  Ms McFayden, grade seven, a closet chain smoker.   Mr Bowner: a superb, artistically inclined grade six teacher. There was Ms Tupper, grade three; Ms Kellerer, grades four and five; Ms Raddigan, grade eight, Radiator in our vernacular. Sister Theresa, grade one. Grade two – I can’t remember.

Sweet innocent Sister Theresa. We all loved her. Beatific: possessing an angelic soft hewn face with saintly features. She was young and she was beautiful. And a nun at that! Thinking back, what a waste.  But at that time she made a lasting religious impression on our impressionable minds. In today’s world she would have been our elementary school “Ying.”  And with all things “Ying” there had to be a “Yang” and in this case our elementary school “Yang” turned out to be Sister Mary Bernice…”Yang.”  Burly, tough as nails, she wore polished black ankle height sea boots with that black habit of hers.   Her gait was that of a sailor who was not yet accustomed to the stability of dry land. She possessed a jaunt, more like a saunter, not unlike Charlie Chaplin, all the while twirling a baton or strap that we would become very familiar with soon enough.  She was so intimidating that even the parish priests took notice. Her face was non descriptive really as it was framed by that white veil of nunnery.  I think her hair was black, slightly graying at the temples. I know this because her temples seemed to bulge out whenever she was laying out the wrath of our heavenly father across the palms of our earthly hands.

Like her gait she yelled like a sailor: a real Chief Boatswains Mate or Buffer in the naval vernacular. Her wrath came down unexpectantly and unrepentantly with the sure fired will of an archangel, but no St Michaela here!  She had two main weapons in her arsenal to keep us all in line. Her hands, left or right, it didn’t matter, came across one’s face totally and entirely out of the heavenly blue like some religious and corporal stealth attack.  Just like that: whack, whack, and more whack, followed by the incessant burning of the cheeks and ringing in the ears. Not tinnitus mind you for that would come later but a toned deaf ringing with each whack of those unflappable calloused palms or the gnarly backs of her hands. With years of experience under her black habit she learned to cup her hands ever so slightly and in such a way that with each open palmed whacked imprint her fingers would somehow claw their way across one’s face in such a manner that they seemed to draw one’s cheek and face upward toward heaven, as if in a corporal raptured state of mind waiting for and begging for heavenly intervention.  To be fair to her she was an equal opportunity inquisitor. The girls got it too. And their faces? Wow. Pink and as pink as pure virginity could be but stained with the tracks of their tears. Such tears they were: welling up and falling down and across those pearly, pretty and innocent faces.

Us lads, we chuckled.

Song of the day:

Don’t become indoctrinated. Maintain your ability to think critically. Stay away from University.

SJ…………………………..Out

Barrel Jumping

From an earlier post: Getting ready for the Voie de Vezelay

Barrel Jumping:

“Barrel Jumping” used to be an accredited winter sport, both amateur and professional.  It was never a winter Olympic event but it should have been.  I remember watching it on the Wide World of Sport TV program: that late Saturday afternoon stalwart of sports, “the thrill of victory and the agony of defeat,” which I believe is no longer a fan favourite being replaced by the mundane and hyped Monday Night Football.  Barrel Jumping was a real man’s sport, sort of like winter’s version of the “High Jump and Long Jump” combined and all rolled into one event except that on completing the leap the competitor either landed squarely on his blades on the ice in triumphant jubilation or crash mercilessly, convulsively, into the barrels themselves. With hope upon hope, he tripped himself up after his leap into space falling on to his backside then sliding into the boards of the rink or snow bank.  Unlike the “High Jump” there were no padded landing zones to break the skaters fall just the hard cold ice zone to break ones legs, one’s knees, ankles or pride.  Concussions seemed to top the list as well.  Probably a good thing as the more one became concussed the braver one became in this sport.  It was like their badge of honour. It was not the Sport of Kings but rather the sport of Dentists, Orthodontists, Chiropractors and Idiots.

The premise being that, in spite of idiocy and insanity, it was all about jumping over plastic barrels on skates, but on ice. The more barrels that were cleared the more adventurous and dangerous it became. It was very popular in the Northern States, particularly New York State around the Lake Placid area; Vermont, New Hampshire, Maine plus the backwoods of Quebec and parts of northern Ontario, Manitoba and Saskatchewan Canada. It was a hugely popular and well followed event. We all had our own barrel jumping heroes.

The competitor, or idiot on skates, would circle the barrels like some sort of displaced matador insanely focused on the barrels themselves that were racked side by side on the ice.  Starting with one barrel the excitement and suspense of the fans grew exponentially as the number of barrels increased: two, three, five, eight, ten and on and on it went until there was only one man left standing, or sliding into the boards. The crowds would cheer as each participant cleared the barrels in flight and cheered even louder if one came crashing down into one of the barrels. The cacophony of oooos, aaaahs and groans were the real metric of approval.  Scoring was dependant upon the competitor’s misstep and choreographed mishap, which was the real essence that made this event so compelling from a spectator’s perspective.  With each subsequent jump the competitors would try and outdo one another for the admiration and adulation of the crowds. Some would twirl, some would spin and some would jump like a drunken figure skater before building up the speed over distance that was necessary to clear the barrels. 10, 20, sometimes 30 miles per hour they could muster, their leg muscles bulging with every stride, their arms flinging in a sideways motion as if giving flight like an airplane or like the birdbrains that they were. The jumper must leap about 6 or seven feet in the air with a forward projection if he has any hope of clearing the barrels.

The competitor must have agility, speed and guts and be intellectually challenged if he is to be successful in this sport. Some would just leap and fall without the grace or agility of a showman. Others would appear to be running in thin air. Their legs, arms and skates pumping like the madmen that they were while others had the audacity and fool’s courage to project themselves horizontally over the barrels once in the air, like a human cannonball or like superman in flight with their arms outstretched dead ahead only to come crashing down to earth headlong into the barrelled mass. These guys were a crowd favourite. In essence the sport of barrel jumping was never really about clearing the barrels but about the chaotic showmanship of the competitors and their relationship with the barrels themselves as they went flying in all directions.

Unfortunately Barrel Jumping never became an Olympic sport. Instead we have Rhythmic Gymnastics!

“It was too brutal of a sport” a commentator was heard to say. “No one ever made it as all the competitors seemed to fall on their backsides.

Yessss, exactly

 

Amazing, Those Priests!

Image result for funny pics of catholic high schools

Ah, school memories:

Classes at St Basil’s ended at 1500. At about 1455 every day, like clockwork, the Public Address system would come on. The Vice Principal, Father Rourque, would make an announcement in his usual matter of fact way. It would start:

“Attention all students. The following students have been kindheartedly awarded the detention of the day: so and so, so and so and so and so, and so on and on so”

Followed by:

“Would the following students be so kind as to grace us with their presence at the Vice Principal’s Office: so and so, and, so and so, and so and so, and on so and on so.”

Grace my ass, for this was code for major pain.

We never knew what the infractions were or the degree of which warranted a detention or a visit to the Vice Principal’s office. Initially we did, but after awhile, like Pavlov’s dogs, we became accustomed to this daily rant. Listening but not really listening unless the familiar tone of one’s name was announced. We just didn’t care. We sucked it up, whatever punishment it may be. These priests had a way about them and each of them reacted in their own unique way.

Father McMullen – Math class. Chewing gum? No problem. Spit it out onto his hand then watch and feel his hands rubbing said gum into our curly, or wavy locks. Brush or crew cuts presented their own unique problems when this type of discipline was meted out, but given this new age of Beatle-mania and longish, stylish hair, very few of us sported the short cropped hair design. Sports card bubble gum, Bazooka Joe’s, was the worst, extremely difficult to get out of one’s hair. Chicklets? Wrigleys? They were much milder. It must have been the sugar content that dictated the air and degree of difficulty in trying to get the gummy gum out. Invariably this normally equated to a trip to the barber with the causal effect of sporting the now defunct fashion faux pas of a crew cut or a brush cut. The John Glenn look. The very right stuff indeed.

Mr. Aslin – “Priest in Waiting.” Perhaps, but he was more like civilian laity doing the work of a Catholic apostolate. A pretend priest. An ecclesiastical groupie per se. His modus operendi was in the form and shape of a thin metal ruler, 18 inches long, very flexible in and bendable in its delivery of pain via an effective slap across the palms of one’s hands. Talking, not paying attention usually rendered a slap from this innocent looking yet nefarious piece of torturous machination. Even a smirk on ones face could warrant such a physical reprimand if Mr. Aslin thought, in his smallish mind, that it was a smirk of defiance.

“Hold out your hands” he would bark “Palms up,” then whack.

One day Mr. Aslin met his match in one tall, gangly looking student named Art O’Neill. This O’Neill boy was definitely making a name for himself?

Mr. Aslin walked down one of the aisles, pulled out the ruler and stood by Art’s desk. Standing there, patting his left hand with the ruler itself.

“Hold out your hands Mr. O’Neill,” Aslin barked “Palms up.”

Nothing.

“Did you hear me Mr. O’Neill? Get those hands out” He yelled.

Nothing

“I said, get those hands out…Now!” Aslin was screaming.

Nothing. Art would not look at Aslin but just sat there staring straight ahead with his arms crossed across his chest.

Suddenly, a whack cam down hard across Art’s wooden desk top.

“Now get those hands out” Aslin demanded.

We all flinched. Aslin’s face was beginning to turn red. He sensed, and we all sensed, that he really had no clue as to how to handle this token of disobedience. Fortunately for him, unfortunately for Art, the situation was resolved for him.

Art suddenly stood up, defiant, facing Mr. Aslin. In his black, Cuban healed “Beatle Boots” he was about half a head taller than Mr. Aslin. Then without fanfare, without notice, and without any indication of intent, Art stepped back, and then with all of the forward momentum that he could muster, he kicked his right leg up making direct contact with the pointed toes of his “Beatle Boots” with the balls of Mr. Aslin. Ouch! Emasculated, Mr. Aslin went down on all fours groaning, cursing and wreathing in pain, gasping for breath and gesticulating at someone, at no one, that he needed divine intervention. Art calmly stepped over Mr Aslin’s frame and walked out of the classroom. We were all in jubilant shock. We never saw Art again at St Basil’s Catholic private high school for boys.

Father Fitzpatrick – History and English. His weapon of choice was one of those two side blackboard erasers. One side was covered in a red, white and black coloured striped tightly packed bristle with the other side a thick and soft spongy sponge. The eraser measured about 10 inches in length, just the right length, weight and balance and in the right hands, oozed lethality in his classroom.

I do not know how Father Fitzpatrick accomplished his amazing feats with that eraser in his classroom. It must have taken years of practice or perhaps he spent years in the Australian outback mastering the ins and outs of throwing a boomerang with deadly accuracy. Maybe it was Hy-Lai. Whatever it was he was deadly accurate with that eraser and could wipe the smile or smirk off of any one of our faces at any point or distance in that classroom. Usually it came without warning. Talking to one of your mates, appearing indolent, daydreaming, falling asleep or just plain idleness on the part of one of the students was cause enough for Father Fitzpatrick to unleash this “Kraken” of classroom discipline. It would come at you unannounced, its flight, its trajectory well thought out and executed with skill. The impact was normally just above eye level at the forehead or scalp level. Never directly in the face mind you. End over end that eraser would fly imparting itself sponge side up against the target so as to not cause any real damage such as a bleeding or a broken nose. How he could accomplish that I don’t really know. It was amazing for when that eraser found its mark and hit unabashedly, sponge side up, a puff-like cloud of chalk dust would explode on impact. It was a sight to behold. The student’s surprise was wickedly funny with white pan cake-like dust all over his face, up into his nostrils, into his mouth, over his eyes, all over his hair and down the front face of his blue blazer. We didn’t dare laugh.

“Pay attention” was all that Father Fitzpatrick would proffer to the class in general. To increase the shock value of this unique form of class management, it could be many days, even weeks before Father Fitzpatrick would release his “Kraken” again. We never knew when it was coming or who the poor bastard would be at the receiving end. Amazing these priests.

Song of the day. Had this before but worth repeating.

https://youtu.be/8aZsF7v0pNw

Man, Those Carefree Days!

I once knew a guy, a very close friend of mine at the time, who ate 15 “Big Macs” at one sitting.  It occurred very late at night after an evening of drinking and debauchery.  It was a small bet to start with to see how far he could go as he loved “Big Macs” but the challenge progressed nonsensically as we kept egging him on. Great fun! He did it although a wee bit pail at the end of it all.

Those were carefree days, as all days are carefree when you are young. And those burgs only cost 49 cents each back then.  Not too sure if he ever touched another one after that though.  I do think that he is a vegan today.

I can still see in my mind’s feeble eye this same guy being dragged down a set of stairs by his shirt collar by a tall buxom blonde Norwegian gal who truly was an Amazon Olympian at 6 feet and some.  Very athletic and as my friend tells it later the next day – very ambidextrous, triple jointed.

This blatant kidnapping occurred at a Country and Western club that we called the “Hug and Slug”- a colloquial term for “The Army, Navy and Air Force Club, so called by all the WESTPAC Widows that frequented this abode.  An appropriate name I can tell you. WESTPAC Widows were those women married to sailors who were deployed from home in the Western Pacific operating areas for very long periods of time.  To normalize, these widows would frequent this Country and Western Bar every Friday and Saturday night for a bit of dancing fun and then some.  And we, being the young and restless lads that we were, naive thank God and wet behind the ears, were navy recruits who were alone from home for the very first time and were delighted to provide the required entertainment for we yearned for motherly comfort.  This was also a time when very long hair was the fashionable norm so we, with our newbie brushed and navy white-walled haircuts, were social outcasts as the saying goes especially at the bars, the discos and the dance halls of this parochial port town.  Yes we would tempt our fate from time to time and test our sense of belonging and manhood at these discotheques but after striking out early we would all head down to the ole “Hug and Slug” to test the waters. It never disappointed.

Country and Western clubs are extremely down to earth, value oriented, and patriotic old fashioned but all welcoming fun. We would end up having a great time there to the wee hours dancing with these widows to such memorable tunes such as “All My Exes Live in Texas.”[1] Or the equally memorable and nostalgic “Ten Tall Beers with a Shooter of Whiskey is all it Took.”  Great stuff!  A good time was had by all for these women could not have cared less about our appearance. As long as we had some hair on the top of our heads, was all that mattered. And my friend?  Battered and bruised by the pounding he took on those stairs and, helpless as he was, had a very big smile on his face for he knew his fate.  She, a determined and predatory look if I ever saw one and, as I recall, entirely attuned to her prey and purring ” You’re coming home with me sonny boy.”

“Oooooookay!  He whimpered. To us. “See ya!”

Good fun. Too bad with all the rot these days that people forget just how much fun there is in this world.

SJ…………………………..Out.

 

[1] George Strait