Author: mckillop_vfr@yahoo.ca

January 11: Yesterday brought the shocking and sad news that David Bowie had died. I saw the headline “David Bowie has died” at Yahoo.ca and for a nanosecond thought it must be another ridiculous rumour, but then the “oh my God” moment followed as reality took over.

I have to admit that I was not a big fan of his earlier stuff.  The music was not the good ol’ rock ‘n’ roll where I was comfortable. “Space Oddity” was released in 1969, when the Billboard Number 1 song was “Sugar Sugar” by the Archies. “Changes” was big in 1971, when the Number 1 song was “Joy to the World” by Three Dog Night.  In time his music became part of the soundtrack to my life and those of many others.

His appearance, persona and performances were way out there. It was challenging in a strange and slightly disturbing way that forced me to think outside my personal boundaries. But that was the point. “Performance art” was not widely accepted at the time. Pushing the sexuality envelope forced me, and many others I’m sure, to confront my own feelings not just about the music, but other issues like homosexuality and gender identity. And just when I thought I might have come to terms with one iteration of the man, a new and different Bowie would appear. No doubt about his staying power: all told he released something like 27 studio albums, 9 live albums and appeared with others on 49 compilation projects. As one of the pundits on CBC pointed out, half in jest I think: “He survived disco…”.

And I think that’s what makes me sad. Here was a guy who was not afraid. He put his art out there no matter the context of the days and was always open to the next challenge, the next page in the story. He was a master showman, and I mean that to apply to his life as well as to his stage presence. While many celebrities live with a public persona that is more marketing than reality, his presence felt more genuine and legitimately part of his music and artistic expression. That he was an artistic genius seems inescapable, and the world is a sadder and less vibrant place with him gone.

There is nothing more painful than watching someone do something they don’t love because they think it’s a way to get people to love them.   DB

January 2: I started writing this blog almost a year ago because I felt there were some fairly significant changes coming in my life and I thought that writing about them would be an interesting and creative way to explore their significance. A secondary purpose was to create a way to share some information on my trip to Europe during the summer that didn’t involve bulk e-mail and downloading pictures. At first it was quite intimidating; what could I possibly say that had meaning for anyone else ? Gradually I came to understand it as another form of artistic expression – I’ve enjoyed writing this material more than you’ve enjoyed reading it, of that I can be certain.

And really, a lot of it has not been terribly analytical. As the old saying goes: “Way down deep, I’m shallow”. But I hope that I have exposed some of the truth that I feel and that it will have resonated with you from time to time.

The events I foresaw in January (my move and the trip) have passed pretty much as I anticipated. I am very happy in my new home; the convenience, the location in an “urban” environment, and the closeness of my Mum and Sister, have all had a positive effect. I feel that I am growing stronger living here. I’ve posted a lot about the trip elsewhere. Suffice to say that I’m also happy with how it worked out as well. It wasn’t perfect, but no trip ever is.

Past the foreseeable events, there were others – happy and sad – that affected me as well. Marisa and Joel are married and have an “instant family”. What a wonderful and happy adventure for both of them.  Marisa is no longer “my little girl”, but rather a mature woman with bigger responsibilities than I have at the moment. It has been a welcome challenge for me to accept the fact that our roles have substantially and permanently changed.

Sadly, we lost a couple of very good people last year – both shocking and disturbing for their suddenness and prematurity. Ed and Annette were co-workers from Etobicoke days, and Norah was a special friend. They all left us far too soon and with so much yet to accomplish in their lives.  I’m at an age when this will become more common, and facing my own mortality is uncomfortable but necessary. As a friend says: “If this was a football game, we would be deep in the fourth quarter.”

So we have been granted another new year, a blank slate full of optimism and promise. All we can do is go forward a day at a time, and accept the challenges as they arise. I can see some really positive things in my life, but like last year, it’s the unknowns that are troubling. That said, I’m feeling more comfortable with myself than I have for some time. With the right attitude, and support from all of you my friends, I look forward to making 2016 a very good year.

December 29:  I heard a robin a couple of days ago and like many other times, its’ song took me back to a memory I have of my Dad sitting with me in the bedroom of the first family home on Soudan Avenue. It was bedtime. The window was open a bit and someone was mowing a distant lawn with a gas mower. A robin was singing as the sun set. I was 4 years old and I remember to this day the feeling of peace and security of that night. I’ve been thinking a lot about Dad lately because he died 3 years ago today.

Sadly, when he died he was not the kind, generous, funny man I knew and loved. Alzheimer’s had turned him into a stranger. But this was not the first time he was a stranger to me. Dad was an alcoholic who drank heavily during the first two decades of my life. As a child, I had no understanding of alcohol and its effects, so it was confusing and upsetting that my Dad would disappear with a couple of drinks and a foolish, stumbling stranger would emerge. His behaviours during that period affected the person that I have become, and it’s convenient to blame him for some of my many faults and failures.

Lately though, I’ve come to understand him from a different perspective. As he tucked me in bed that night, he was less than 10 years removed from the navigator’s seat on a Halifax bomber. He had flown 33 missions and survived flack and a ditching in England. Once home, he went back to school, became a CA, got married, had 2 kids and bought that house on Soudan for $12,000. And he turned to booze for reasons we will never know. His disease affected his judgement, and he interacted with me in some ways that are still painful to recall. But he wasn’t acting maliciously or malevolently – he was always doing his best as he understood it in the moment.

Somewhere in my early 20’s he got sober. He went to AA meetings and quit cold turkey. I’m ashamed to say that I don’t know the exact date, because I was too self-absorbed to realize that a small miracle had happened, so every year in more than 30 years of sobriety, his (re)birthday would pass unnoticed.

What emerged was a warm, gregarious and supportive man. He was fundamentally a people person. He enjoyed his life. He loved golf and hacking around golf courses with him ultimately brought us closer. In October, I visited the Toronto Hunt Club where he had been a member. I sat in the parking lot for a while watching some groups straggle in off the course in the late afternoon sun. He would have been right at home with them, laughing and trading bullshit about the shots made or missed.  That’s the guy I remember as my Dad – the same one who was tucking me in more than 60 years ago.

PS: Two days after I wrote this post, I went out the back door to discover at least 50 Robins perched in the trees over the garage and singing their hearts out. While I know that it’s fairly common for some Robins to overwinter here, I’ve never seen more than a handful at one time. It’s almost as if someone knew…..

 

December 15: For as long as I can remember, Christmas has been among the most stressful days of the year. I’ve always been uncomfortable being the centre of attention, and Christmas seems to me to be all about being the centre of attention. Opening gifts means having to display the right mix of excitement, surprise, and gratitude for something you probably don’t need, while giving gifts means having to find “the perfect gift” for someone you may not really know that well.

The fact that the season has become the most important period in the year for retailers speaks volumes about our attitude to Christmas. Even charities put on an extra push during the holidays trying to capture some residual generosity. How many more weeks of that idiotic talking goat do I have to endure ? It feels like we’ve lost what Christmas should really be about.

And here is where I struggle: what should Christmas be about ? I’m not religious so celebrating the birthday of someone who may or may not have existed is unimportant to me. I have no issue if others wish to do so, although I wonder whether those who follow other religions are comfortable with the Christian focus of the holiday.

Ultimately I feel that the season should be about gratitude; a celebration of the fact that the year is drawing to a close, we are nearing the shortest day of the year, and we have many things to be happy about. Most of us have supportive families and friends, our health, and a reasonably comfortable life. Lets take a moment to reflect on the good fortune that brought us here and the truly wonderful things we have at our disposal. In the genetic lottery of life, millions are not so fortunate. We won the big one…..

Much has already been written about the horrific and tragic attacks in Paris. Unfortunately, my feeling is that this is “the new normal”; attacks of various forms will happen for years to come. The possibility of actually being involved has to be vanishingly small, yet the possibility of an attack, and the fear it engenders, is corrosive. Antoine Leiris, whose wife Helene Muyal-Leiris was among the 89 killed in the Bataclan concert hall attack on Friday evening, posted this message on Facebook:

“Friday night, you took an exceptional life – the love of my life, the mother of my son – but you will not have my hatred. I don’t know who you are and I don’t want to know, you are dead souls. If this God, for whom you kill blindly, made us in his image, every bullet in the body of my wife would have been one more wound in his heart.

So, no, I will not grant you the gift of my hatred. You’re asking for it, but responding to hatred with anger is falling victim to the same ignorance that has made you what you are. You want me to be scared, to view my countrymen with mistrust, to sacrifice my liberty for my security. You lost.

I saw her this morning. Finally, after nights and days of waiting. She was just as beautiful as when she left on Friday night, just as beautiful as when I fell hopelessly in love over 12 years ago. Of course I am devastated by this pain, I give you this little victory, but the pain will be short-lived. I know that she will be with us every day and that we will find ourselves again in this paradise of free love to which you have no access.

We are just two, my son and me, but we are stronger than all the armies in the world. I don’t have any more time to devote to you, I have to join Melvil who is waking up from his nap. He is barely 17-months-old. He will eat his meals as usual, and then we are going to play as usual, and for his whole life this little boy will threaten you by being happy and free. Because no, you will not have his hatred either.”

Would that we all carry this attitude forward in the months and years to come.

November 13: On November 4, Marisa delivered 2 beautiful twin girls; Naomi Maya and Jaia Camille were each about 6 and a half pounds. With their arrival, I crossed another chronological watershed- like turning 50 – that tends to define our stage in life: I became a grandfather. That this is a life-changing event for her is without doubt, but this is my site and so for now, it’s all about me.

Part of my discomfort with my new label is that my own grandfathers seemed to be ancient. On my Father’s side, Grandpa was the epitome of the dour Scotsman; aloof and reserved, he sat in a chair and said little when we visited him and Grandma in their apartment on Sherbourne Street. If you got close enough he would mutter something and slip you a handful of Scotch Mints from his vest pocket. They remind me of him to this day. He had been a machinist for CN and I remember being fascinated by the fact that he had lost part of an index finger, presumably to an industrial accident. Since my own Father was the youngest in the family, Grandpa seemed to me to be very old. He died aged 78 when I was still in elementary school; Grandma lived to 86.

My Mother’s Father was relatively young. More active and fit than Grandpa, he played a bigger role in my life. I was fortunate enough to spend time at the cottage with him and Nana, when they were alive and after they passed. He let me use his workshop and taught me how to properly use a few tools. He taught me how to run an outboard boat, although I often suspected this was a way of getting me to run to town so that he could stay at the cottage. He set a foundation and an example for our family that endures to this day. Still, he seemed incredibly old, even though he died only three years older than I am today.

And of course there is my own Father who was Poppa to my Sister’s children. Dad played soccer in high school and golf throughout most of his adult life so he was relatively spry. He was in good health until his last few years and he participated with his grandchildren more actively than either of my grandfathers. I was able to travel with him and Mum and some of the grandchildren several times, including a couple of weeks in the southern US playing golf. These were wonderful memories and he has left large shoes to fill as a Grandfather.

So now I find myself crossing that invisible barrier into geezer-dom understanding that I too will be seen as that incredibly old guy who sits in the corner and surreptitiously hands out treats – monetary or otherwise – all the while muttering about things that are largely irrelevant to the kids. The strange thing is: I’m kind of looking forward to it…….

October 30: I had the privilege of working with Rob Ford when he was City Councillor for Ward 2. He told me one afternoon that “politics is a blood sport” and that was certainly how he played the game. He was not afraid of being unpopular, and he won my respect for being direct, diligent and committed to what he believed.

When he became Mayor, I had retired so I had no involvement with him. But the whole City was treated to the soap opera of his behaviour as he descended into his various addictions. Unfortunately, I’ve seen this play before and know what happens in the final act. But then, something amazing happened: He got clean and sober. Most people are unable to gain sobriety on their first attempt and he apparently accomplished that and returned to City Council. I felt a quiet admiration for his strength and courage in dealing with his addictions, even while I held my breath expecting the “inevitable” relapse.

Then a kick in the gut: a cancer diagnosis. And not just any cancer but one that is aggressive and usually deadly. And again, something amazing happened. After treatment he was declared cancer free. He returned to City Hall, began working out, and declared that he felt better than at any other time in his life.

Last week we heard that there had been “a bump in the road”, and yesterday we learned that the cancer had returned. We discovered this because Rob Ford told us so on live TV as he left the hospital having just undergone a bladder biopsy and a meeting with his Doctors.  I don’t know whether he agreed to the interviews, but it certainly appeared that the press had “cornered him”. Here he was, clearly in physical and emotional agony, having to deal with a gang of reporters intent on a headline for the evening news.

OK I get it; he’s a public figure and lives, to an extent, in the public eye. But nobody should be forced to stand on the sidewalk and recount their medical history to the media in detail. That he is “99.9% certain” that it is malignant is heartbreaking, but it is also something that we have no right or need to know. When he was battling addictions and running the City, the press had a right to ask pointed questions. Yesterday they went over the line and descended to the level of driving slowly by a car crash. Love him or hate him, Rob Ford is entitled to his privacy and our respect.

October 22: There will be a murder on my street and I fear that I will be responsible.

This all started in February. My early-morning read of the newspaper was  interrupted by a grating, droning whine that went on and on and on. I soon realized that it was a leaf-blower. This seemed a bit strange since it had snowed overnight – enough to leave about a centimeter on the ground. The mystery was solved when I saw a neighbour from across the street using a leaf-blower to clear the snow from a driveway. He had started at the back and was blowing the snow down the driveway toward the street, so it was getting deeper and harder to move as he went along. I’ll bet it took 40 minutes before he was done, the droning and whining continuing for the whole time.

I felt the urge to go over and explain to him that he could have had the job done in 10 minutes with a shovel, or perhaps 15 minutes with a broom, and he would have had some exercise as well. But, live and let live… Unfortunately, it became an on-going problem. He uses the damn thing at every opportunity: clearing the driveway of dust; blowing grass clippings off the lawn; drying lawn furniture that he had washed to put out at the curb for garbage. I kid you not.

With Autumn now in full swing there are actual leaves for him to blow about. His tree has not yet fully turned so we have many weeks of this torment yet to come. This morning there were perhaps 36 leaves on his lawn and sure enough, he was there for a half-hour moving them onto the road. I was tempted to walk over and pick them up with my bare hands and throw them into the street….

Anyway, if you hear of a murder on Bernie Crescent you will know who did it. I shall beat him to death with a leaf rake. A nice touch of irony, and there’s not a court in the land that would convict me.

October 6: So what’s it all about ? What does 2 months in Europe teach you ? Actually, quite a lot. Certainly more than I can adequately convey in a short-ish post. But here are a few initial thoughts:

Life can be better when you relax. When I have travelled in the past, even for relatively short periods of time, I have always had a plan. I always felt that I had to account for every minute and every day because “we might not ever be here again”. This trip was long enough that, as a friend said: I could have a journey rather than a trip. I left a lot of the time unplanned and tried to be open to new experiences along the way. Some of the most enjoyable and rewarding moments came from that strategy.

People do not generally have your best interests in mind. Conversely, some unhappy experiences arose because I let people convince me that they were trying to help me when they were not. A taxi driver sat with the meter running while I was in the pharmacy because he said it would be hard to find another taxi on Sunday. That cost me 25 Euro. Call me a Pollyanna but I have tended to think that people are basically good and honest, and that may not always be the case. Others usually have their own interests in mind.

Drinking wine and eating baguettes every day causes weight gain. Duh. I gained 2 kilos in spite of making the effort to go for a run every few days.

I think I could live in Europe. I understand that travelling on a vacation is not really “living” in a country. But this trip was long enough that I felt I gained some perspective on what living overseas would mean. I enjoy the lifestyle: the emphasis on being active and involved; the “café culture” and living outside your home; the food and drink (although there are now far too many pizza parlours and far too few real bistros in France). But mostly I love the environment: the busy towns and cities and the hills and mountains that surround them.

I am a work in progress. As I said many months ago, this year is only one part of an on-going effort to become stronger. I think I have made some really good progress in that direction, and many things convince me that is the case. While travelling I made good decisions and did things that made me happy – easy to do when you are alone. But when others came into the mix, and even a few times when I was alone, I would sometimes revert to past habits and ways of thinking even though I consciously told myself that I would not do so. I have a ways to go…

Toronto is really pretty mundane: We’ve all heard the trope about Toronto becoming a “world city”, and certainly there’s merit in aspiring toward that goal. But having been in an actual world city – one with an extensive transit system, beautiful streets and public spaces, an active and well-financed cultural life – it’s discouraging to see how far we have yet to go . We pride ourselves on our multi-national culture and that is an important asset worth protecting. Yet we are plagued by “congestion” primarily because there are so few alternatives to moving about by car. Our streets are abysmal and our public spaces are not much better. The architecture of most new buildings is derivative and repetitive. Public housing is a disaster.

The truly sad part is that City Councillors – the people we elect to show leadership – are virtually all acting only in their own self-interest. Their focus is their ward so their thinking is short-term and parochial. Nobody speaks for the big picture, long-term vision of where we need to go, and the hard (financial) decisions that need to be made to get us there. Without that type of leadership it’s hard to imagine we will ever become anything more than a second-rank, provincial city with aspirations….