2024 A Year of Challenge and Patience

January 15: I have avoided writing this piece for some time because, frankly, it’s painful to consider. But I’ve come to understand that I need to reflect on what happened and what it means for me, and possibly, for you.

It was a warm and pleasant day in December, and I had decided to go shopping at St. Clair and Yonge.  That accomplished, I was heading north on Yonge, admiring the store fronts and life on the street.  I was not really paying attention to my surroundings but heard a thump that I soon realized was a man who had fallen on the sidewalk. He was lying a short distance ahead of me next to a tree planter.

As I got closer, I could see that he was moving slightly.  He was dressed in bulky dark clothing that was too warm for the weather. Given his clothing,  his positioning and behaviors, I put two and two together and concluded that this was a street person who was likely drunk and had fallen off his perch on the tree planter. I got closer and determined that he was awake, he was breathing, and he was apparently quite intoxicated.

And then I left him lying there and walked on.

I looked up to see a man standing on the sidewalk talking on his cell phone. He was looking south past me to where the man lay on then sidewalk.  He seemed quite anxious.  Within a couple of minutes, two police cars arrived with full lights and sirens. The officers approached the man with the phone and then headed south to deal with the fallen man. I didn’t wait around to see what transpired.

On thinking about this scene some more, I was shocked at my behaviour. I began thinking about my reaction to the man on the ground. After a very cursory examination, I had determined that he was “a street person”, a drunk, and I left him to fend for himself. For some reason I walked on when I should have stopped and made sure that he got the help he needed. If it was an 80-year-old woman lying on the ground, there would have been no debate about what I would have done. The police would not have been called.

I believe that I have compassion and understanding for those who are less fortunate than me. I spend time as a volunteer at Out of the Cold, and I am comfortable being around most of the street people there. It should have been ingrained in my character to help this person, and yet, I walked on.

The man with the cell phone did deal with it, and yet he clearly felt so concerned about the situation that he called the police. The intoxicated man was so dangerous that he needed to be dealt with by force.

On reflection, perhaps these differing responses represent our societal reaction to the homeless. On the one hand, there’s the feeling that the homeless will somehow look after themselves. Sure, they are injured and sick, but they deserve what they got and should be left to fend for themselves. At the other extreme is the view that they are dangerous and threatening enough that a police response is needed.

I believe that there is an urgent need to deal with those less fortunate than ourselves as they struggle with homelessness, addictions and mental health challenges. These are real people with real lives who have fallen on hard times not of their choosing. There is a real financial cost to society in ignoring their needs, and an impact our collective psyche as we navigate homeless encampments and needles in the gutters of our streets.

Many of us have come to believe that those left behind are of little consequence and somehow deserve their life. Every man for himself and the devil take the hindmost. We have become hardened to the fate of those on the margins: the homeless, the mental health survivors, the addicted. Yet they are among us and deserve compassion and support as they struggle mightily through their day.

We can no longer afford to ignore the problem and simply walk on.

 

November 11:  I went to the RCAF memorial service in Mount Pleasant Cemetery this morning. Eighty years ago today, my Father was a Navigator in a Halifax bomber flying a radar training mission over southern England. He had arrived in England after months of training that began in June 1943. Based at Malton (now Pearson Airport), they flew more than 100 hours of day and night missions before being stationed at Bishop’s Court in Northern Ireland. In May, 1944, he began flying with his permanent crew in Worcestershire, and then later near York. By the end of training in September he had amassed 172 hours of daylight flying, and 125 hours of nighttime missions.

Active duty began October 1, 1944 with various practice drills before the first OP’s to Dortmund on October 5. After the relative safety of practice drills and training, it must have been terrifying for everyone to now be on active duty with someone trying diligently to kill you. He mentioned taking flak a couple of times, but I don’t believe that there was ever a really serious incident for him that one would call “life-threatening”. That is, of course, relative.

Before November 11, he had flown 13 missions over Germany and that later continued with flights to Dusseldorf, Oberhausen and Castrop Rauxal (October 21). On this last mission, the plane lost an engine and the Pilot (F/O Sefton) knew that they were not going to make it back to base. The plane was over England, near Leeming, and crash landed in a farm field. Dad said that he and another crew were in the middle of the plane – between the wings being the strongest part of the frame – when they felt a fairly strong impact. Thinking they were on the ground, they relaxed a bit and waited for the plane to stop, but it continued for some time before there was a much stronger impact and the tail of the plane disappeared. Thinking of the fuel tanks and the possibility of an explosion, Dad and his mate took off out the back of the plane and across the field only to later realize that the first impact had been with two trees that had taken both wings – and the fuel tanks – off the plane. The bomb aimer was killed; (he essentially sat next to the Navigator position in the nose of the aircraft), the remainder of the crew had minor injuries.

He also spoke of waiting in line to take off on a night mission. The first aircraft in line would be given a green light, signifying that it was clear to take off. When they had cleared the field, the next in line would be given the green and off you would go.  On this particular night, one of the aircraft ahead of Dad’s plane had attempted takeoff and collided with trees near the end of the runway. There was a massive explosion (being fully fueled and loaded with bombs), and then a brief pause before the next plane was given the green light.

His time in the Halifax ended in March 1945 when he had flown 33 missions and more than 210 hours aloft. He never spoke much about his time overseas. By 1955, ten years later, he had studied to become a Chartered Accountant, had his first child (me), bought their first house and done some renovations, had their second child (my sister Nancy), started his own business and moved up to their second home.

During this time, as far as I know,  there was never any offer of support or therapy for the trauma of the war that these men endured. Welcome home. Be thankful you survived. Get on with it. Therapy, such as it was, turned out to be “playing cards” at the RCAF mess on Avenue Road. In another ten years, Dad would be an alcoholic. It’s impossible to know what role the war played in his disease. While he never pointed to it as a cause,  it’s not hard to imagine that there was some involvement.

Thankfully, he was sober for the last 40 years of his life. He became the man I loved dearly. On days like today, when we remember the lives of those lost, I reflect on that good fortune and think of the thousands who are not so blessed.

August 20:  July 16 was an important date for me. It was, in many ways, the midpoint of the 2024 cottage season. It was also the anniversary of the day I signed the offer to purchase Regatta Island in 2021, and the mid-point of the 5 year term of the mortgage I took I took to buy the island. When I did that, I had a “5-year plan” to work on the cottage and make it over in my own taste: take the old girl and bring her back to a comfortable and enjoyable place to spend the summer.

To that end, worker-mate and good friend Roy and I have added new decks,  and built a new kitchen and bathroom. We have also finished dozens of other smaller projects, and new plumbing, wiring, septic and roof have been completed by contractors. I was thinking of all the progress that had been made on July 16 when I started to consider how the next half of the 5-year plan might unfold. To be clear: my intention is to try to return the cottage to its’ glory days of several decades ago. The restoration and hard work are key reasons that I dream of the island, and two things I enjoy most about being here.

Then I turned to the question of finances and my long-term financial security, and things became troubling. While most of my financial assets are tied up in the cottage. this was never a project intended to make a small fortune* in the real estate market. As the work has progressed, those assets have diminished to the point where I have had to confront the idea that, as my expenses continue to mount, I may not be able to complete all of the work I have in mind, or indeed, be able to continue to own the island for more than another 3 or 4 years. At that point, the money runs out and literally everything would be invested in Regatta Island.

Confronted with the fact that I will have to sell the cottage sooner than I anticipated, it seemed prudent to put a plan in place to finish up some more small jobs and see if the market for cottages has returned. Sales this year are virtually non-existent (except, apparently in the $5+ million range where sales continue), so I am working toward a possible decision next Spring.

Suddenly the cottage no longer feels like mine. As I walk from room to room I still see images of how I would like to finish the place, but I have to realize that I will not be the guy to do it. Someone else will have the joy of bringing Regatta fully back to life

• An old witticism, attributed to various people, posits that the surest way to make a small fortune is to start with a large one.

June 23:  A few days ago, worker mate and good friend Roy and I were working on a new deck at the back of the cottage.  An aluminum boat approached and the driver tossed an envelope on the dock in the manner of a guy delivering a daily newspaper. Sadly, it was not the news of the world which arrived, but rather promotions for local contractors and service providers and, most importantly for some, a magazine with the latest real estate listings in Muskoka.

There were two glossy magazines. The first carried ads for cottages currently for sale, and the second was all advertisements for contractors, home decor experts, and service providers ready to take your dull and boring cottage life to new heights.

There is no doubt about the importance of the cottage construction and maintenance sector to the local economy. Stats Canada tells us that the construction industry is the biggest employer in the municipality of Muskoka, employing 5,310 people in 2021. The retail-trade industry employed 4,615 people, while the accommodation and food services industry employed 2,295 people.  Cottagers spend a lot of money on maintaining and improving their summer residence – believe me, I know. What amazes me is the lengths people will go to “get away from it all” by creating monstrous “McMansions” for summer homes that bear absolutely no relationship to cottaging as I know it.

Case in point: this place featured on the cover of the real estate magazine. Four bedrooms and five baths, it features a lower-level recreation room complete with a home theatre, sauna, and gym, alongside an attached one-car garage. “The spacious kitchen is ideally set up for entertaining. The Muskoka room, a highlight with its wood-burning fireplace, opens onto a walkout barbecue deck. A golf cart pathway winds down to an impressive three-slip boathouse, which houses 2 bedrooms, an upper and lower bath, a kitchenette, and an inviting living area which leads out to a magnificent sundeck, offering a private space to enjoy the serene water views.” All yours for $10.5 million. And if you want more, there’s a neighbouring place for sale at $15.5 million.

I’m familiar with this property because it once housed a smaller cottage sitting alone at the top of the cliff right at the entrance to the Indian River leading into Port Carling. We saw it every time we went “to Port” and as a kid I often thought it to be a strange place for a cottage so high above the lake and with obvious problems accessing the dock for a swim. Apparently, these things are easily overcome with enough effort and money.

The property has been cleared of most of its mature trees, and the clifftop rock has been covered with acres of outdoor decking and the massive cottage. Where once there was a small cottage fitting in to the landscape, there is now a gigantic mansion visible for miles down the lake. What is being lost in that trade-off is what I believe to be the essence of cottaging itself.

Muskoka has been a place where the well-off come to spend the summer since the days when they arrived by steamboat with family and servants in tow. Perhaps the cottages of that era were every bit as ostentatious in their time as the modern cottages are in ours, but to me, a major difference seems to be that previous generations built large cottages to be comfortable for their vacation, whereas the current generation are building cottages to display their wealth and and make a statement about status. The proliferation of these monster homes diminishes the character of the lakes and destroys the very things people will claim they come here to enjoy: peace, tranquility and being in nature. It’s hard to see the sunset from the basement movie theatre….

The battle for the soul of Muskoka – Macleans.ca

For sale: 1086 PENNWOOD Road, Muskoka Lakes, Ontario P0B1J0 – 40587127 | REALTOR.ca

June 2:  I’m sure that many of us have had “close encounters” with bicycle couriers and delivery people who seem to believe that they have carte blanche to ride wherever they please on their way to drop off tonight’s dinner.  The following article by Shawn Micallef appeared in the Toronto Star. I think it nicely captures the issues around this relatively new phenomenon and expresses them much better than I could. I offer it for your consideration.

It reminded me of my first part-time job as a bicycle delivery guy for Tamblyn Drugs at the corner of Yonge and St. Clair. I started work in March at the age of 12. They provided a bicycle with an enormous carrier over the front wheel which I would fill with a cut-down paper towel box large enough to carry whatever needed to be delivered. This ranged from small packages of prescriptions to cases of pop which in those days were in glass bottles and weighed a ton. They were sufficiently heavy that in snow, they could unweight the back wheel leaving me with little or no traction.

We were given a cash float of $20 and ran a tab of what we delivered each night. It was not unusual to have $70 or $80 by the end of the night and it amazes me – looking back on that time – that I was  a 12 year old kid delivering narcotics alone on a bicycle (without lights or a lock) and carrying what was pretty close to a week’s working wages in cash. Different times for sure …..

Here’s Shawn:

Everyone’s talking about delivery people zooming around on e-bikes, riding and parking on sidewalks, blocking paths and overloading GO trains. If you listen to all the complaints, they’re a dangerous scourge. Maybe the worst.

May 25: I have concluded that I am dealing with a borderline addiction to alcohol. My drinking has progressed to the point where I drink 3 or 4 glasses of wine each night, and that habit is having an effect on my health and psychological well-being.

I have had alcoholics (active and recovered) throughout my life and I have always been aware that an addiction was not something to be taken lightly. I have seen the devastation it causes to those addicted and those who surround them. I am alert to the potential of going down that road in my own life.

I believe that I have had a “typical” relationship with alcohol: I started drinking at 18 and went through periods when I drank more than I should. Ultimately, caution took hold and I retreated from those situations; my life changed and I moved on. Still, there has never been a time during those years when I did not drink to some degree. There was always a bottle of wine on the counter to accompany dinner, and weekends were a time to “celebrate” with something more. When I travelled in Europe, a glass of wine (or more often two or three) was a reward at the end of the day, a good way to relax and coincidentally, try a different kind of wine from a different region most days. Research, if you will…

When I bought the cottage, several cottage owners pointed me to boxed wine as the “daily go-to” refreshment. It has the great benefit of being relatively less expensive than bottled wine  – important if 6 or 8 people show up –  and it’s far easier to transport and recycle than cases of glass bottles. The downside is that there’s always another glass waiting. A box is virtually bottomless and I have found it increasingly easy to rationalize a third or fourth glass because “I have nothing to do tomorrow, it will do no harm to have another now, so…”

Drinking to that degree is beginning to have an effect on my health and psychological well-being. I am not sleeping as well as I should, and recent studies show the potential health risks of drinking any amount of alcohol, never mind three or four glasses each night. It is easier for me to postpone work and I am becoming less committed to seeing jobs through to the end. I hear the little voice in my head saying “just a bit more and then the day is done and we can have a glass of wine”.

The thing is: I don’t want to be in a place where I can’t have a glass of wine. I enjoy the feeling it brings. I want to be able to share that feeling with others, and while I know that life can be enjoyable with or without alcohol, for now I am not prepared to stop drinking completely. I am trying to break a habit before it becomes an addiction (perhaps angels dancing on the head of a pin). For now, I will borrow a phrase from my friends in AA: “One day at a a time” as I try to come to terms with this latest phase of my drinking life.

April 24:  Attentive reader(s) will recall that I have a tradition of acknowledging the start of Spring by gauging the blossoming of a huge Saucer Magnolia at the end of the street. As you can see, the blossoming is well underway about two weeks earlier than in previous years. This seems to be consistent with the warmer-than-usual Winter season, and the very moderate weather over the last few weeks.  There was very little snow and, until recently, minimal rain. I was very hopeful that I could be cottaging a few weeks ahead of the usual opening date during the first week of May.

However, we have endured several  very wet days over the last few weeks and the anticipated trip north has been postponed several times. Last week, the docks at Allport Marina (where I store my boat) were underwater and flood conditions had been declared along the Muskoka River.

That said, the water level has dropped somewhat from that date, and the weather looks promising after another period of rainy days. Spring may be a bit early this year, but cottaging looks to be right on schedule, or perhaps even a bit delayed (with more rain forecast this coming week). So break out the shorts, the rosé, and celebrate the season. But maybe keep the rubber boots handy.

April 10:  Barb says: “it’s going to be an interesting night. All sorts of people in the line. And feathers too.”  Barb is a volunteer with me at the Out of the Cold program, and when I go out to open the door for dinner service I see one of the regulars – a tall, handsome first-nations guy – with his upper cheeks and eyes painted green and black, his lower face covered with some sort of jaw bone (perhaps off a deer), and feathers in a large head-dress. We nod and fist-bump as he goes in, apparently dealing with some sort of alcohol or mental health delusion.

A week later he shows up minus the make-up and paraphernalia, and we spend 10 minutes or so talking about his aspirations. He says he was a gang banger and that, when things go wrong, he reverts to being the big strong guy and that gets him into trouble. He wants to change but he is not sure how to go about it. After a while, he’s ready to go and asks for a hug. As we awkwardly grip shoulders, it occurs to me that this guy has probably not had a meaningful hug – an expression of understanding or affection – for a very long time. I’m amused by the slightly horrified looks of the folks passing by on the street…..

I’ve gotten to know a number of the “guests” like him during the 20 weeks that we are open, and have established a good rapport with some of the other volunteers and agency folk. I find it all really rewarding and uplifting. Sad sometimes too.

We close the Out of the Cold program this week and I will not see the familiar faces until October. I lose touch with those I have seen every week, and the hopeful – sometime hopeless – stories that I have been privileged to hear in the last few months. Some time ago, I wrote about David (who has terminal cancer) and his friend James who is caring for him during his last days. James has been able to have David admitted to Kensington Health where he has been visited by his sisters from out of town. This is a long and touching story and it’s unlikely that I will hear the final chapter until October.

To be sure, there are small success stories: people who get off the street; people who get clean and sober, maybe have a line on a job. The simple desire to change their life.  These moments are tremendously rewarding, and I look forward to contributing to those moments in some small way next year. Perhaps simply opening the door to a new chapter.

                *   *   *   *

When I was a boy, my Father was drinking heavily. In my naivety, I imagined that he might end up as one of those older men stumbling around on Jarvis Street clutching a paper bag. Perhaps for that reason, this song has always resonated with me and – if the mood and moment are right – it can still bring a tear to my eye.

Bing Videos

February 28: In my mind, I’m ten years younger than my chronological age. I can run five to ten kilometers three or four times a week. I have a workout routine that mimics CrossFit, and I honestly feel that I am in better shape than most of my contemporaries. It’s difficult for me to acknowledge that I am fully a decade older than those days.

Vulnerable: susceptible to physical or emotional attack or harm: (of a person) in need of special care, support, or protection because of age, disability, or risk of abuse or neglect.

The past few weeks have brought sad and disturbing news about those close to me. A sibling has died; another is “getting his life in order”, while another is facing a debilitating loss of cognition. Two others have had strokes and thankfully survived. Closer to home, my friends and I are told that we should have work done on our teeth, our eyesight is failing and we should get hearing aids. The morning brings new aches and pains and we walk like Tim Conway doing the old man sketch on Carol Burnett’s program. So, I hear you say, you are in your eighth decade and getting older every day. What do you expect?

I still think I should feel as good as I did ten years ago. Returning to those days is simply a matter of working harder. But no matter how hard I want to do the work, no matter how much I want to return to those days, I also know that I will not likely do so. Without making that commitment, my future will likely follow the path of the majority of my contemporaries: increasing infirmity and progressively worse health.

Should: used to indicate obligation, duty, or correctness, typically when criticizing someone’s actions. 

My friend Kate occasionally takes me to task for using the word “should” in reference to things I feel I want to do. “I should be running more. I should work out…” She correctly points out that “should” is a judgmental word in that context; and when I use it in reference to my own actions, I am reinforcing the idea that somehow I am not measuring up. When I say that I should go for a run and then don’t do it, I feel that I am a failure; I’m not succeeding at those things that are important to me.

Could: past of can; used to indicate possibility. 

Lately, I have begun to try using the word “could” in reference to my plans. I could go for a run. But if I decide not to, I could still go for a walk and achieve something of benefit to my health. As it says in the definition, there is still the possibility of a positive outcome and some reinforcement of the idea that my best is still good enough.

Nearing the middle of my eighth decade there is certainly a forceful sense of vulnerability as I see the challenges that me and my friends will face sooner than we may wish. These are not surprising; they are pretty much inevitable. What may not be inevitable is the attitude with which we approach our future, and with that in mind, I’m working toward a more positive and hopefully beneficial outlook to the days that remain. The best days could still be ahead.

February 7:  I recall watching an evening news report in early 2020 saying that five cases of “the Asian virus” had been found in Washington state and thinking “Here we go…” At that time, the thought that a virus could shut down the world seemed like science fiction, even though scientists had been warning us of that possibility for decades. Now that it has happened, and as we continue to deal with the effects of the pandemic, I suppose I should have known this was coming. It’s not like there haven’t been warnings and lists of precautions that I should have taken, especially since I am frequently exposed. But no. Wasn’t going to happen. Not to me anyway.

Well, guess what ?  Last Friday I began to feel a very mild sore throat and a slight stuffiness that is usually the precursor to a cold. No worries. Been there, done that. But on Saturday I was aching, feeling a bit feverish, and really starting to become congested. Out of an abundance of caution, and knowing that everyone would ask whether I had done so, I decided to take a COVID test.

Bingo.

Over the weekend, things got more interesting.  I didn’t really have an appetite, and trying to sleep was a torture of congestion and coughing at all hours.  I went through snot rags at a huge rate, and my digestive system seemed to partially shut down for a day or two.

None of this is news. I’ve heard from virtually everyone I know of their experience with COVID and, with few exceptions, the script is fairly similar.  I’ve been immunized 6 times so I suppose I can take comfort in the view that it might have been quite a bit worse had I opted against protecting myself.

The worrying part for me is the potential for some form of “long COVID” where health issues seem to continue for an indefinite period. The virus seems to be quite variable in its effect on those infected and the outcome never seems to be entirely certain. It’s now Wednesday – 5 days after the initial symptoms – and I’m anticipating another 2 or 3 days of mopping up before I know for sure whether or not this will turn into something more significant. For now, the only lasting effect I have is tinnitus triggered by the 3rd immunization and now made more forceful by the virus itself.

So, after almost four years, I join the not-very-exclusive club of COVID survivors. Instead of siting smugly quiet at the side, I can expound on my experience with the virus, hopefully soon to be fully behind me.  Fingers crossed….