Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

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.

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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….

January 24: When I was in late public school, I went tobogganing with my friends in a neighbours back yard that went downhill to the Yellow Creek ravine. It was not a long hill but if you got going fast enough, you went over the edge of the yard itself, and then rapidly downhill through bushes and the occasional tree into the ravine itself. It was here that I fell walking back up the icy hill and put my top teeth through my bottom lip, creating a scar I bear to this day.

Some years later and admittedly with the assistance of recreational narcotics, some friends and I decided that we should try to toboggan down the access road from David Balfour Park into the opposite side of the ravine. The fact that it was entirely covered in ice only added to the potential for excitement. Of course, about half-way down the hill, we left the road at a high rate of speed and careened into the trees, fortunately without significant injury.

The same ravine was crossed by the St. Clair viaduct. The bridge was built on arched beams that spanned from one side of the river to the other. Vertical box beams that resembled ladders reached up 25 or 30 meters to the bottom of the deck where there was a catwalk. We spent many happy hours climbing over the top of the arches and up the outside of the box beams to the catwalk. You might be fooled into thinking that the catwalk was a safe refuge, but of course it was as old as the bridge itself (say 60 years), and suspended from the bottom of the bridge deck by rusted rods that swayed with the added weight of a couple of 12 year-olds. And the boards that made up the walkway were rotting out. No worries

A recent Toronto Star article tells us that the City is considering closing as many as 45 hills to tobogganing  citing the potential danger of collision with fixed objects such as fences, trees and light standards on the hills. I understand this decision from the very narrow perspective of a taxpayer not wanting the City to be sued after a toboggan collision. But the same article quotes Mariana Brussoni, a developmental psychologist  and professor at UBC’s Faculty of Medicine, who states that taking risks breeds confidence in children, as well as an improved ability to manage stress, uncertainty and anxiety. “We’re robbing kids of opportunities to get those positive effects. So what we’re seeing is a huge increase in children’s depression and anxiety.

Trying to reduce the risk to children by closing hills is part of a trend that has been unfolding for decades. You need only go by a school during the morning or afternoon rush to see fleets of gigantic SUV’s dropping off kids who are no longer permitted to walk the few blocks to school, never mind taking an apparently death-defying run down an icy hill on a toboggan. I think we are doing kids a great disservice by not letting them explore danger. Yes they may put their teeth through their lip, or break a bone, but in the process, they learn valuable lessons about themselves and the world in which they live.

Toronto’s tobogganing bans: The unintended consequences (thestar.com)

position-statement-on-active-outdoor-play-en.pdf (outdoorplaycanada.ca)

December 25: Two men appeared at my door: James somewhat larger and stronger, David smaller and introverted. James took charge, finding a place to sit, got some food and made sure his friend was looked after. They are regulars at the Wednesday evening Out of the Cold program where I am the greeter on the front door.  I learned later from James that they have been friends for many years. David had recently been diagnosed with a form of cancer and, on that night, he was suffering from the after-effects of a chemotherapy treatment that afternoon. James told me that although David would be staying indoors with us that night, he usually slept on the outdoor GO station platform at York Mills. James would ride the TTC bus for the night, often stopping in at the station during the night to check on David.

Along with several friends, I have had reason to be involved with the investigation and treatment of cancer. I’ve routinely heard of the issues around treatment, care, and follow-up appointments. How would accessing the system and getting appropriate treatment be remotely possible if you were living without a permanent address, without healthy food and supportive care, without a consistent way to access the system itself ? Given these impossible impediments to his treatment, it didn’t surprise me to hear James say that David “just wants it all to end…”

And for many this year it will end.  Several years ago, I passed a young man asleep on the sidewalk a few days before Christmas. It’s impossible to know how this guy found himself passed out on the sidewalk at 8AM, but I couldn’t help wondering where his family was, and how they would react if they knew of his circumstances. It broke my heart to think that he would spend Christmas without them, alone and trying just to survive.

We know the circumstances of many people like him in this city. The shelters are full, there’s no money for more beds. Without basic shelter, more than 90 people have died on the streets this year alone. Food banks are stretched to the limit. Mental health issues are on the rise and people lacking adequate treatment are left wandering the streets. Rates of addiction and violence are rising.

Ultimately, the system – our society – works adequately for “the average person”. If you have an address, an identity, and a modest income, you have access to the things you need to survive, if only at a modest level. That system is operated by people like me, for people like me. We come from privilege and comfortable surroundings. We have family and friends; we have more than enough money; and, we can make choices about how we choose to live our lives.

But it seems that far too many of us have become complacent with a system that forces more and more of our fellow citizens into untenable conditions. If a society will be judged by how it treats its’ least fortunate members, I fear that we are demonstrably failing.  In a land where so few have so much, and so many have so little, this is no longer acceptable or understandable.  Yet I see little indication from our politicians, our bureaucrats, or our trained professionals, that any of this will change any time soon. When you are in a comfortable and privileged place, there is no impetus to change.

I didn’t see David or James this week, so I have no idea how they are making out as we pass the holidays. I hope they will return next week, but in the meantime I will be thinking of them, and the many others, who will not be enjoying the same holiday as me.

December 18: Friends will know that Christmas is not my favourite time of year. I use that term deliberately since Christmas is no longer a day – if it ever was – but rather an orgy of spending and “celebrating” that extends from Halloween to mid-January. With the actual date now a week away, I believe that I have passed the low-point of my annual funk, and progressed to acceptance that it will soon pass.

It has been difficult to be optimistic this year for many reasons: Thousands continue to be killed in on-going wars in Ukraine and Gaza. The mindless brutality of those conflicts, and the human toll they take, is breathtaking and I am left to wonder how, or if, they will ever be resolved. To our south, the  Presidential election is underway with Trump apparently a front-runner for re-election. Americans, and to a certain extent Canadians, are increasingly divided between the extreme “left” and “right” ends of the political spectrum and those views are so strongly held that I wonder how the country will ever re-unite. That both Biden and Trump are front-runners points to the fact that the political establishment continues to be run by and for the old white guy network of the wealthy and privileged.

Closer to home, it feels to me like Canada is diminishing as a country with meaning and importance for the global community. We have lost the ability to defend ourselves, or even to be taken seriously as an ally. We are no longer even asked to participate.  As the world order copes with the ascendancy of China and India, our diplomatic position is still a work in progress. The political climate at the federal level seems to be ready to swing hard right, and I worry what that means as “common sense politics” comes to the fore. (Been there, done that, thanks.)

Meanwhile, our moronic Premier continues to promote boondoggle projects that favour and enrich his political friends while the rest of us deal with a collapsing health care system and growing rates of homelessness and addictions. His latest gambit is the famous “buck a beer” promise made during the last election which will come to fruition – surprise, surprise – just before the next Provincial election.

In the midst of all this, I received an email from the daughter of a fellow resident at Garden Court advising that her Mother Joan was in palliative care with fractured vertebrae “that are not expected to heal”.  Joan began the process of securing medical assistance in dying (MAID) and died December 4.

Joan was in her early nineties. She was from Wales and embodied the “stiff upper lip” determination that often characterizes that generation. She was intelligent, thoughtful, outspoken and wickedly funny. I would look forward to meeting her in the garden where we would spend a while chatting about current events or life in general. She was a unique and charming character.

In the days before her death, I sent her an e-mail and she responded that: “… living alone at Garden Court as I grew old and the years of Covid compounded my physical disability . Don’t want to spend the rest of time languishing in a hospital bed and relying on nurses to look after me hand and foot! I’m going on a different journey. Michael and Margaret are supporting me all the way, even though it’s tough on them. I hope you find a sense of freedom. Still lots of time to revel in life. Such wonder everywhere, even now. ”

And so as my seasonal funk begins to lift, I am left to consider the advice of a woman facing the end of her life.  Even in those most dire of circumstances she was able to see the possibilities for a happier and more enjoyable future for those around her. That alone spoke volumes about her character, and reminded me that, no matter how funky things get at this time (or any other time) of the year, I should not lose sight of the hope for a brighter future ahead.

November 26: It is just slightly more than a month since I closed the cottage for the last time this season. As it turned out, Roy and I were at the cottage to do the closing on the same day that 2 guys showed up to install the kitchen countertop. It’s a small place and things were a bit chaotic, so it felt somewhat unsatisfying to me to turn the key and leave at the end of the day.  Almost as soon as I arrived home, I discovered that I had left a bag of frozen food sitting on the (new) counter when we left. I had also neglected to gather up a couple of other things that I wanted to bring home for the winter.

So, roughly a week later, I returned and collected the (now empty and cleaned out) freezer bag from my good friend McCart, and spent a short time having lunch and “saying goodbye” to the cottage once again. It was harder to do so than last year for a bunch of reasons.

The weather was really wonderful right through the beginning of October. With virtually no rain and lots of warm days, it felt more like mid-September.  It was warm enough that I was swimming every day during the first week of October, and it felt like there was still a few weeks of cottage time left to enjoy; the closing date snuck up on me.

We made really good progress this summer and the place felt more like a cottage and less like the “work camp” we had endured last year. With the kitchen now pretty much operational, and the main rooms becoming more comfortable, I was able to have folks up for a visit and that made it feel more “cottagey”. It also meant that I was personally happier at the cottage this year as my vision for the place started to appear more clearly. I became quite reluctant to leave.

But all good things come to an end, and this year in cottaging is no exception.  As I start the long, slow slide into the slumbers of winter, I have many months to imagine what we might be able to do to make the place better. There’s a ton of work still to do and it will all be waiting for me in May when we open for next year. At least with opening up, you only have to do it once….

 

 

August 30: I took this picture about a week ago and it shows two things of significance at this time of year: the flower and the butterfly.

The flower is a Purple Coneflower (Echinacea Purpurea) which I planted earlier this year in the hope that I could have a small perennial garden down on the point. Many of the older estates in Muskoka have extensive gardens (and usually a gardener to care for them) and I have hopes that these few plants will become the beginnings of a larger and more robust garden. The fact that there is in fact a few plants growing there, gives me optimism and hope for next year.

The butterfly is obviously a Monarch. It appeared as I had a sandwich on the point and it stayed for quite a while sipping nectar and apparently enjoying a quiet lunch before it fluttered off toward the south. This is the first – and so far only – Monarch I have seen this year, fully 10 days earlier than last year. It also seems that virtually all of the summer-resident Hummingbirds have departed, about a week ahead of last year, along with many of the Sparrows that hunted insects all summer on the island. The temperature of the lake has begun its inexorable decline and many of the ducks and waterfowl are also disappearing. Fortunately, the Loons don’t really head south until October so they will still be around for a while, offering the occasional call across the lake on a calm and quiet night.

That tranquility disguises the fact that we have reached that time of year when our hopes and aspirations for the summer are quickly reaching an end. This is a time to reflect on our accomplishments for this year – and there have been many here at Regatta – while preparing for the transition to autumn, and the end of the year for “cottaging”. Much has to be done to prepare the cottage for the winter, and it usually seems to get done at the last minute in a huge rush as the cold weather closes in. Perhaps the best I can hope for is a few moments of quiet tranquility with other seasonal residents as they pass through on their way to their winter home.

August 22:  I’ve decided to take up a new hobby: wake-surfing. I have to say that, at first, it didn’t appeal to me at all. I couldn’t understand the fascination of standing on a board 3 feet behind a boat going as slowly as possible while trying to pretend that I was on a huge wave in southern California. It seemed idiotic. But I am coming around to the attractions of the hobby.

Of course, I’ll have to buy a boat. New models of these boats range up to $350,000 presumably because of all the technology required to go slowly and make a huge wake. It must be amazing to see.  If I’m careful, I can likely find an older used boat for less than $150,000. And of course, there’s the board itself which might run as much as $700 without the boots and lifejacket and tow rope which are necessary. While that’s a lot of money, I see it as an investment in my future happiness and enjoyment of the sport.

One of the great things about wake-surfing is that, while you are standing behind the boat being dragged along by the wake, eight or ten of your friends can be mere feet away in the boat critiquing your style. If they get bored of watching you standing there, they can crank some tunes on the on-board stereo and  entertain themselves and any neighbours within earshot. I’m looking forward to surfing past my neighbours docks so they can enjoy the spectacle. There is the small matter of the wake washing ashore, but it’s a big lake here in Muskoka and I’m sure there are waves all the time, so what’s the problem ?

I’ve observed many wake-surfers at relatively close range and it appears to me that the only skill involved is the ability to stand still on a board while being washed along by the wake. “Falling” basically means that you have lost momentum, and you sink slowly into the water.  In my past, I was an avid slalom water-skier which  involved moderately more skill and balance than my new sport, and when you fell off the ski, you certainly did more than quietly sink into the lake. I’m pretty sure my new sport is better suited to a guy “of my age” where injury is a concern.

So there you have it: my new sport of wake-surfing. Standing on a board behind a boat carrying 10 or 12 of my friends listening to high-volume music while I  entertain my neighbours.  I’m sure the entertainment value alone will offset the damage to their shoreline and the boats tied to the dock.

What’s not to love ?

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Afterword:  We spent a huge part of our Summer vacations being dragged around behind various boats learning to water-ski. We were fortunate to have our dear Uncle Bill Norton who would spend literally hours, and hundreds of dollars, taking any kid that wanted, out for a ski. At some point in the mid-60’s we felt sufficiently skilled to try something different and this photo records the outcome. That’s me on the bottom right, cousin James (Norton) bottom left, and my Sister Nancy on top. It wasn’t easy for her as James is fully 6″ taller than I. Fortunately, she was a good climber. And a fly-weight.

August 10:    In May 2021, I wrote about “retiring from motorcycling” and selling my 2000 Honda VFR.  That was an emotional experience for me because of the change in my life, and the fact that I had owned and ridden that bike for so long; it was like losing an old friend. Given the then on-going pandemic lockdown, it was clear that I would also not be riding in Europe any time soon, so my second bike, a 2014 VFR parked in Heidelberg, became – almost literally –  a “stranded asset”.

I knew I had to get her sold in Europe, or brought home for sale here. In 2021 I became infatuated with Regatta Island and, although I knew I had to do something to deal with the bike, that problem was put aside in favour of more pressing issues – like rain pouring through the cottage roof. Having tried the fools errand of selling the bike in Europe, I resolved to get her home and, on June 3, she finally returned.

I will spare you the gory details of trying to sell her, and simply say that last week, a charming guy from Windsor arrived, looked the bike over, paid full asking price in cash, and took the bike home in his pickup truck. Unlike the emotional side of selling the 2000 VFR, this was a transaction, and I was pleasantly surprised and happy to finally see the bike sold and the cash in my bank account, ready for use at the cottage.

I have a tendency to become emotionally attached to objects, things and possessions. Many have a deeper meaning for me, and I often hang on to useless things that other people would throw away, simply because they represent something special to me. Given that the bike and I had shared many exciting adventures in Europe over 3 riding seasons, it was out of character for me to sell her without a lot of emotion, and treat her merely as an asset to be redeployed.

The cottage has imposed huge constraints on my financial situation. I am very aware of the costs involved, and the potential risks to me going forward. Yet the cottage resonates with me in a way that is difficult to describe. She’s an old girl struggling a bit with various maladies and I hope that I can help return her to her past, strong and healthy self. There is continuity with the past (110 years and counting) and an abiding hope that I will be around to enjoy her many years into the future.

That said, I am very aware that the financial implications of owning her may prove to be too much and that I may have to step back from my emotions and treat her as an asset that can be “redeployed”. I know that, should I have to make that decision, it will be incredibly difficult. Yet I now find myself thinking of her as an asset that may need to be considered  as part of a plan to secure my future well-being, or redeploy  to a different dream, rather than a sentimental project that gobbles time and money. Time is passing more quickly than I would like, but I hope that day is many, many years in the future.

May 2021 – 2023 A Year of Challenge and Patience (david-mckillop.com)