Month: August 2023

Netherland to Lourdes: Sat 26 Aug 23

Great visit to my late wife,s home. Saw my extended family in Hoensbroek, which is in the south of the Netherlands. Only niece and nephews still alive. The wife of my brother in law died 6 May at 84 then he died 2 days later 08 May at 86 and then my other brother in law died 1 month later in Amsterdam. Holy cow. Damn. Sorry I am not supposed to swear (read my pilgrim post part one and two)

Ik spent 4 days there then took the train to Lourdes. All my fears came to past as the first train was cancelled. I could not find the swear words to say in dutch so I found some choice English words to say. A cab driver offered to take me to Maastricht for 85 euros but I told him no way Jose (he was spanish I think). I found a bus to take me from Heerlen to Maastricht but the damage had been done. All of my connections were kaput (German not Dutch) but a nice lady from Liege (lauk in Dutch) helped me so I said “danku wel” and she said “your welcome.” Whoa. Do I look like a stupid Canadian I thought. Perhaps my sask roughriders hat gave me away.

I made it through the madness of Paris at Montparness Station with thousands of mes amis de Francais. The French were not protesting today for a one hour work week with a 30 minute lunch break and two 15 minute coffee breaks. Mon dieu I thought. So with one hand covering my wallet, another over my documents and my other two hands holding on for dear sacre blue – don,t worry, i am a pilgrim after all – life I made it to my platform. I boarded the train vitesse, tres vitesse, and rocketed south to Lourdes at 310 kilometers per hour. I kid you not. We in Canada may think we are sooo advanced but we are not. They are so civilized here that they still smoke on the terraces and they actually….talk.

Mon dieu. My french gets better. Pardon, je suis un pellerin after all.

Now in Lourdes. I wäs here 5 years ago after my French walk – the way of Vezelay. Lourdes is a beautiful place in the French side of the Pyrenees. It is the site of the marion apparitions to St Bernadette de Soubirous – non not the auto monsieur. Mary appeared to Bernadette 18 times in 1858. Every day since 1858 they have an evening procession to honour the Blessed Virgin and praise Jesus by honouring his mother – just as we should always honour our own mothers. It is a site to  behold. I will go there tonight. It is the number one pilgrimage site for Catholics after the Vatican. After the apparitions Mary asked that a chapel be built on the site. Here is that chapel.

You may not believe. Some protestants say it is demonic. But what is demonic about love. I dont mean to pontificate. As Saint Thomas Aquinas said: “ if you believe in God no explanation is required. If you don’t believe in God no explanation would suffice.” It is a matter of faith and it is a relationship that is personal. I am just glad and happy that I can come here. There are thousands here living for hope. What is wrong with that in this crazy world we live in.

Here is where I am staying.

Top floor, second from the right. I stayed here 5 years ago. Basic but clean. 35 euros with breakfast although the baguette is like biting into concrete. Mon dieu. Black coffee and orange juice. Prices here are great compared to Victoriá.

But who would have frites in a sandwich?

Tomorrow I leave for Roncesvalles, Navarra Spain and the start of my long walk and Pilgrimage. Did you know that there is a sector in Toronto named  Roncesvalles? Well there is and it is the Ukrainian part of that city.

I apologize in advance for any typos as I am forced to use an Ipad. I use whatever grammar is easiest so you may see me use an apostrophe instead of the possessive. I am a pilgrim so I must say sorry. In advance. I will not swear and I must suffer – but starting Monday. Tonight I party and stay away from gruel.

Have fun at the Lions game.

Read ya later.

 

 

 

 

 

Continue reading “Netherland to Lourdes: Sat 26 Aug 23”

Pilgrim’s Life

The Pilgrim’s Life…Part Tw0

Now the modern Pilgrim has all the right stuff: every electronic gadget known to man – gps, cell phone, adapters, solar chargers, radios, IPad, mini laptops, cords and plugs, aviator sun glasses, Columbia fleece vests, Tilley hats and all of the best. These guys and gals are normally gone by the end of the first week because the one thing they forgot to bring are blister bandages.

Off the Pilgrims go en masse: quickly, silently, aggressively with their tick, tick, tick walking sticks. Of course in the minds of all of the Pilgrims is to be the first Pilgrim at the first stop in order to get the best accommodations, and in that best brotherly love Pilgrim spirit….screw you buddy, I am first to go. So in that raptured state of mind and spirit we fly away pumped and focused.

In that best of Pilgrim state of mind we are to begin a spIritual existential (whatever that means) frame of consciousness. To discover one,s self, one,s sense on being, belonging, synchronicity with the universe. Okay, that about takes care of day one but what about the other 44 days. One can only think of one self for so long. I mean things can get boring pretty fast. Well, don,t fret because the “ The Pilgrim,s Life” has thought of everything. In a new book that has just come out called: “ The Pilgrim,s Guide to the Universe” at a special one time offer of 49 euros, you can have it all. Chapter 5 has a list of profound topics that every Pilgrim can use for those profound “ah ha” moments of enlightenment and self discovery. Topics such as:“ So Why Does the Sun Rise in the East and Set in the West? or  “ Is There Really a Man in the Moon?” or  “ Is the Moon Made of Green Cheese or Brie?” and then there is my own personal favourite: “ Why Do Our Eye-Brows Remain the Same Colour When Everything Else Turns Grey?” – topics that are sure to keep you engaged in thoughtful thoughts for your entire pilgrimage. All are very hot topics in today,s complicated unforgiving world.

As the Pilgrim hikes about the French o0r Spanish countryside he or she will face many challenges. How to stay entertained? Well, at one of the Pilgrim training sessions they tell you and show you how to imitate farm animals like cows, roosters, sheep and goats. This will keep you in laughter and those animals confused all of the time during your trek. A real hoot. But the dogs are another matter.  After a few days  Pilgrims begin to smell really, really bad. A slight green hue or aura begins to appear around each Pilgrim. The air around a herd of Pilgrims undulates like the air around hot asphalt. Dogs can sense this and can smell a Pilgrim from miles away. But this is nothing new to the villagers. Going back to the days of the Plague, they know that they must have sufficient warning to hide their children, close their shops and cafes and remain upwind. Their dogs act like pickets such that when a Pilgrim approaches a small town or village the dogs sense a Pilgrim,s prescence and start yelping and barking like dogs in heat. Thus the villagers have enough time to shut down the entire village. And that is why nothing is open when a pilgrim enters a small town, village or hamlet throughout the French countryside. All of the villagers are hiding upwind of the Pilgrim.

Alas, a Pilgrim,s life is a challenging, lonely and frustrating one. Only the chosen few are strong enought to survive the physical and psychological hurdles. But remain strong, positive and purchase the array of Pilgrim self help books and you can be a real life Pilgrim too.

Remember. Pilgrims are only allowed to suffer.

That,s me.. colour my world khaki.

And if you believe in what I have just said then you too are crazy enough to do a 900 km pilgrimage. I can help. Call me!

 

They Said

I am wifi dependant so I am behind a day so there are 2 posts: “Au Revoir Netherlands” and “They Said”

“Come to France”they said

”Come for a walk” they said

”Weather’s great” they said

”Fine  temperature” They said

”Take the train” they said

”In Paris” they said.

“It’s cheap”they said

”It, fast”they said.

 

They said,they said….. or so they said.

 

And what do I said?

”I came to France” I said.

”It’s 115 F in the shade” I said

”Sacre Blue” I said

“Or tabernac” I said

“So I get to Paris” I said

”For a king’s ransom”  I said

“At Le Gare de Nord” I said

”I took the metro train”I said

”Busiest in France” I said

”Packed in like stale fromage dans le croissant” I said

”Had a baguette”I said.

”Like biting into concrete”I said

”Tastes like parched papier” I said.

”Waited for a connection to Lourdes… for 3 hours”I said

” Not fast” I said

”15 hours later I arrived in  Lourdes” I said

”To walk up 700 meters to my hostel”I said

” So ma sewer. What do you say to that?”I said

“SACRE BLUE” was all they said!

“Tabernac” was all I said in my best Quebecois.  Lucky for me that they couldn’t understand me

So I said to my wife:

“Hey honey, guess what?”

“What dear.”

“I am going to Spain.”

“That’s nice dear.”

“And I’m going to walk 750 kilometers…”

“That’s nice dear.”

“….in 100 degree F heat. So w2hat do you think of that?”

“That’s nice dear…now take out the trash.”

Red Jewel: An Existential Event

Here is an excerpt from my book “Red Jewel.” Read more about this story through the link above:

“There was one incident that occurred to me about a month before we
left . It had a profound effect on me. It happened just before the New
Year — that week between the holidays — when nothing of importance
is really going on. Red Jewel was berthed on the breakwater, bow in
and facing the shore, the stern secured to some hard point on the stone
breakwater. On one side of me was Skip. On the other was some dude
named Peter of whom I barely knew. He seemed to be out of his depth,
nerdy looking, about thirty I would expect. We never really hit it off as
friends or neighbors. He kept to himself most of the time other than the
odd hello, good morning and small chit chat like that. But one evening
he asked if I would accompany him to a meeting in Waikiki. This I did.
He took me down to a small building located on a short side street
that bore north off of Kalakaua Avenue down in the Waikiki district of
Oahu. There in an upstairs room we met up with about twelve people
all of whom appeared to be close associates of Peter. It turned out that
Peter was a born again Christian and part of the Jesus movement here
in the Hawaiian Islands. This was not surprising to me as the Jesus
movement was huge in the early 1970s. I witnessed it first hand in my
home town of Toronto where many of the young people I knew, many
of whom were juvenile gangsters, petty criminals, drug dealers and users,
converted to the movement and became fanatical in their beliefs and
their personal convictions. They wanted to share their enlightenment
with a non-suspecting audience of their own personal road to Damascus.
There were many a Saturday night in the parking lot of the local pool hall
where I was caught up in their rhetoric and preaching with no escape
route in sight. That is not to say I was not a Christian or a believer. No,
I was just more subtle with my faith. I was not an in-your- face kind of
guy when it came to spirituality and the supernatural. My relationship
with God was a personal one.

Nevertheless, I spent the evening with Peter and his friends singing
Psalms and praising the Lord. I was more of an observer than an active
participant but I did admire their commitment and tried to be seen as
among them as an active colleague of the Lord. I was impressed with
their devotion, especially those young men and women, who were not yet
worldly or experienced in life. Living on blind faith alone brought them
all a sense of peace and wonderment, fulfilment, purpose, happiness.
My only hope for them was that the burden of life, of living, of making
a living would not undermine their contentment and positivity with the
aura of cynicism and despair that life’s burdens can deliver.

Peter and I left the meeting with a renewed sense of self, at least for
him as I had always been a believer. It seemed to me that these people had
to justify their spiritual beliefs, their existential existence in the world
and their faith overtly. The revival meetings became their lifeline from
the real danger of backsliding into a world of pleasure and deception.
It was that world that many of them knew too well and were keenly
frightened of.

We got back to our boats and said goodnight. Nothing more was said.
I fell asleep mindful of the evening events. A sense of peace enveloped
me. I was content. I was out for the count. The next morning Peter stopped me before I could leave for my morning routine of coffee, smokes, and “S” square times two.

“Jim…Jim, I hope you enjoyed the meeting last night. I hope we weren’t
too presumptuous in our faithful exuberance with you.”

“I did Peter…and no you weren’t. Th ank you very much for inviting
me.”

“Just one thing Jim” Peter went on, “I had a hard time falling asleep
last night so I came back topside for a short spell to clear my mind,
rationalize my thoughts.”

I nodded to him

“The strangest thing occurred to me Jim. And I hope you don’t feel
ill with me for telling you this as I know how this sounds. But it is the
truth, so help me God.”

He had my undivided interest now.

“Yeah, go on”

“While I was sitting there in reflection of the night’s events, a vision
enveloped my senses. It came over me, smothered me with warmth but
more importantly it came over Red Jewel. There in the pulpit of your
sailboat sat an angel. It, or she, or he was resplendent in white: a brilliance
of righteousness with an aura of holiness. It was a guardian angel Jim. I
know how this sounds but I swear it to be the truth. I had to tell you.”

“Really?” was about all I could say.

“I know…I know…I know Jim. I know this sounds crazy but it
happened. As God is my witness. He paused for a brief moment to collect
his thoughts and then continued. “Then the angel looked directly at me
Jim, and smiled, and then looked over your boat. It spread its wings out
and then in as if to signal to all of the world…to me…protection. Don’t
you see Jim? You and Nigel have nothing to worry about, Red Jewel has
the protection of the Lord. You will be safe.”

I didn’t know what to say to Peter. All I could do was offer a grin of
questionable understanding. It was an uncomfortable moment: for Peter
to tell me this and for me to acknowledge his supernatural experience.

“Thanks for that Peter. It is reassuring for sure.”

I looked forward to the pulpit. Th ere was nothing there but the
stainless-steel guardrails and the boats beyond the bow. Nevertheless, I
smiled, and nodded my head to whoever may be there, unseen, except in
the spiritual domain.

A sense of security came over me and I felt extremely happy.

We need another one…for sure.

I mentioned Al Stewart in my last post’s music segment. Here is his perfect song. Perfect in that the lyrics are poetic and lyrical and it has piano, strings, acoustic and electric guitar and a haunting sax. Enjoy:

“She comes out of the sun in a silk dress running like a water color in the rain…”

Pray for Maui and Lahaina.

 

…Died…And Gone To Heaven….

Your Home Our City: Wartime Housing - City of Toronto

“It was a modest but cozy house, across the road
from a small park or parkette. We were not rich by any stretch or
even well off, yet we were the first house on the block to have a
TV. Why? Because my dad was an avid baseball fan and he
desperately wanted one, as all of the major league baseball
games of the day were beginning to be televised. He could watch
a game every Saturday afternoon while my mom was outside
cutting the grass with our state-of-the-art, hand-powered push
mower. He got a TV and serendipitously I got a nickname that
would haunt me for the rest of my life. Gilly, as in Junior
Gilliam, a baseball star of the day whom my dad had great
respect for.

Given that my dad’s name was John and I was named
John, I was John Junior of course; and since my dad loved Junior
Gilliam and I was also a junior, I got the Gilliam moniker. I
could have handled Gilliam but Gilly? And parents being
parents, or grownup adults, think that other kids are really stupid,
but they’re not. They picked up on the Junior Gilliam moniker
immediately and faster than you could say “take me out to the
ball game” I was called Gilly—for ever and ever, for eternity, or
for as long as I lived. A parent’s logic never fails to amaze me
and the unintended consequences associated with their dumb-ass
decisions in name calling. You have no idea how many black
eyes can be attributed to that one lapse of judgment on my
parents’ part. Sooo cute, eh Gilly? Gilly, Gilly, Gilly! Yeah, right.
Wham, Wallop!

One day, and I’m not too sure what day actually, I found
myself riding in the back of a large truck. It was huge and dark
and noisy and full of furniture. I was with an older cousin, I
think. This was so cool. Jerking and bouncing round the chairs,
cushions, and tables in the back of that truck as we plundered
along the pockmarked, pot-holed roads of the west end of the
city. I do believe it was February, a Saturday, 1956, a mild winter
—part of the other hottest year on record. Where were we going?
I wasn’t really sure at the time, but I do believe that my parents
hit their Shangri-La: a house in the ’burbs. We were moving out
and away from the downtown core with all of its excitement,
excrement, and hot, humid, heavy, smelly summer air to the
fresh, healthy, and quiet wide-open expanses of suburbia. Houses
galore! All looking about the same. Design features of a post–
World War II housing boom: two story houses with a large
dormer in the back only accentuated on the street by those
narrow and long, single story, brick bungalows. Street upon
street, row upon boring row, with the requisite single maple or
elm tree in the front yard. Wow! We had arrived.

What a house that was. A big, two story, red brick monster, as
all houses are big to a five-year-old. It sat on a fairly large
suburban lot. The front yard had the requisite decorative tree in
place with a back yard that was really huge. I had to curtail my
excitement because under all of the dirty, brown-grey melting
snow of February was grass. And grass grew, and I could not
pretend to believe that while my dad watched his ball games
Saturday afternoons in the late spring and summer months that
my mom would be content to be out cutting the grass. Delusional
thinking for sure that was. That bit of suburbia, an urban Rockwellian
scene of nostalgia, of Dad watching sports on TV every
Saturday afternoon with mom out in the yard working with the
suburban plow would not continue forever, for I was getting
bigger. I was getting stronger, and sooner or later it would be me
out pushing that World War I–era push mower. And like those
ugly, scary, out-worldly war machines, our push mower cut grass
about as well as those first tanks careened and mowed across
no-man’s-land.

Retro mower | Best memories, Memories, Great memories

The backyard was fantastic. Great for a kid. It had two
distinct areas. The upper yard, close to the backdoor, came
equipped with a state-of-the-art sandbox complete with coarse
sand and four wooden sides with triangular corner seats, for
heaven’s sake. Seats! It was bordered on one side by the paved
single wide driveway and a very large and separate two car
garage. In 1956 this was unheard of for a working class home.
Why was this important? A paved driveway? Snow of course!
Snow had to be shoveled. I couldn’t depend on my mom forever
here. Sooner or later I would be obliged to take up the shovel
and, well, shovel.

The other side of the yard was fenced to separate our abode
from that of the neighbour. The double car garage was so wide
that the upper part of the backyard was about twenty yards
narrower than the lower portion, with less grass to cut. The lower
part of the yard, the back forty, dipped down about three feet and
was separated from the upper yard by a tiered terrace. The back
forty had large garden beds laid out in a square pattern with raspberry
bush accents around the perimeter. Yet all I could think
about then was the potential for a backyard rink, for when snow
melts during a winter thaw, water runs down the path of least
resistance and pools—in this case, from the upper reaches of our
yard to the lower back forty. When water freezes, as it invariably
would, we had a ready-made skating rink. Dad would never have
to leave his TV and construct a backyard rink for us kids. I was
so excited and so was he!

My sister had other issues. Not my oldest teeter-totter sister,
but my second oldest sister, the penultimate one. In the wintertime
she saw the snow covered upper portion of the backyard as
her blank and open canvas… a blank canvas in urban snow-
house design. She wanted the whole of the back forty as well to
lay out a “planned city” of urban snow, but I had to put my
galoshes down and stop her in her tracks. As a compromise I
agreed to help her in the layout of her snow walls, her snow
rooms, and the snow halls of her snow designs.

Nature sky night stars landscape snow winter wallpaper | 2048x1365 | 636025 | WallpaperUP

We always did this at night. I don’t know why, but always at
night, when it was really, really cold and frosty out—so cold that
each breath took your breath away, and the snow glistened like it
was embedded with a thousand specks of diamonds, especially
under a clear, moonlit star-embedded sky. And if we were really
lucky, the green fluid hues of the dark winter’s northern sky
shimmered and danced and wove a pattern that was frighteningly
beautiful and soothingly fresh, paradoxically frigid yet illuminated
by such a warm glow. And oh so quiet. For two little kids,
we felt sure that we were all alone in the whole wide world. This
was pure magic. To a five-year-old kid, life was indeed magical
and good.

Life was good!”

Taken from “I Thought I’d Died And Gone To Heaven.” See the link at the top of the page for more information.

Did ya know: We have now entered the era of Global Boiling – so says the head of the UN. Don’t know about you but this summer has been fantastic. Blue skies and warm temps every single day.

Did ya know that scientists say the Gulf Stream will collapse in 2025. These same experts are out to lunch. All of their predictions – every single dire one of them since the 1960s – have never materialized.

Did ya know that only God controls the weather.

Climate anxiety is going through the roof and the cats are not happy about it.

Enjoy yourselves. Get outside and enjoy the day.

“Old Admirals” by Al Stewart. Tells the story of the Royal Navy’s Lord of the Admiralty Jackie Fisher and his rise up the ranks in the later half of the 1800s and years up to World War 1. In my opinion Al Stewart is a highly under appreciated musician and story teller. I particularly love the brass aspects of this song. Next? Al’s perfect song.

Have a great day. The Camino beckons.