2025 A Year of Challenge and Patience

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….

September 29: I have a friend who appears once a month like clockwork. It’s entirely predictable and he’s been doing it for years. He shows up for a few days, and then quietly leaves. We’ve been on long walks, driven way too fast on a deserted road and even, a few years back, taken a late-night skinny dip at the cottage. He visited me when I was in Europe during the summer, arriving just when I felt I needed him most, as only a true friend will do.

I’m not really sure when I realized we had become so close; certainly he’s been a part of my life for many years. I’ve spent many happy nights in his company, and some perhaps not so happy too. He’s relaxing and contemplative and he inspires that feeling in me too, although conversations can be a bit one-sided.

My friend brings reflection, tranquility, thoughts of what has passed and hope for what is to come. I trust him with my secrets, my fears and aspirations. We have shared a lot over the years and unburdening myself with him releases me from many of those fears and gives hope to my aspirations. He provides continuity when my life is changing; certainty when I am unsure.

He is spiritual. There is something in his presence that connects me to things larger than I can fully appreciate. He has gravitas. But the thing I think I value most in him, and in my other important friends, is the certainty that he will always be there for me. Every month when he leaves, I  look forward to the day when he reappears and our friendship is renewed.

September 27: Last Sunday morning I went for a run along the Seine. It was not really very beneficial to my health because the cobblestones made for lousy footing so I ran slowly, and the cross-streets meant that I had to stop frequently. But I got in a few kilometers and I have another memory of that wonderful city.

And I do love Paris. The aging, decrepit city planner in me understands what makes it so great: the wide sidewalks with a coherent plan for street trees, benches and bus shelters; an integrated and extensive transit system; block after block of mid-rise buildings packed with people and cafes and shops and offices spilling out onto the street; public spaces with fountains or really great public art and vistas along the main streets tying them together; the intensity and congestion of the streets. Public buildings and heritage that isn’t an after-thought. I have a particular fondness for old churches ….

The last night I was there, I went for a walk and tried to savour some of that for the last time. It was bittersweet for me since I knew I didn’t really want to come home. It’s been a wonderful adventure with new places and experiences virtually every day for two months. I didn’t want it to end, but I knew that there were things waiting for me at home that will be equally wonderful and challenging – like becoming a grandfather to twin girls….

 

 

 

 

 

This morning I went for a run in Mount Pleasant Cemetery. The pavement was smooth and there was no traffic, so I have no excuse for a slow performance. The contrast with Paris could not have been more extreme, and I found myself thinking about the lessons I’ve learned from being away for so long….

September 20: Who knew a tuna sandwich could do 300 km/h ? I sure didn’t until yesterday when I had lunch on the high-speed TGV train between Avignon and Paris. There was really no sensation the sandwich was moving that fast. Things were going by the window pretty quickly but I would have thought we were doing something like 180 km/h. It’s amazing technology, and it allowed us to cover the 700 km distance in just over 3 hours.

So now I’m in Paris. I had dinner last night with my friend Harlene who was also at Le Beaucet. She left this morning for Toronto and I’m forced to wander the streets alone. Such a hardship. The hotel is about 3 blocks from Notre Dame on the Left Bank. After spending 2 months virtually alone and out in the country, coming into the heart of a large city is pretty intense.

This little square is at the end of the street. It’s remarkable that a few trees and a bit of grass can make such a difference to the character of the street. The space feels cooler and more relaxed, and the fountain splashes just enough to drown out some of the traffic noise. I spent some time people-watching at the café over a glass of  Tavel rose. The complimentary dish of spiced olives disappeared a lot more slowly than the 300 km/h tuna sandwich.

September 17: Last Saturday I arrived at Le Beaucet, a pretty little town not far from Avignon. I’m sharing the house with 10 others including the bhoys, their wives or partners, and some new friends. The village is really just a collection of homes, 2 restaurants, and a very old church and chateau. Our home is on the pilgrimage route of St. Gens about 200 metres from the edge of town.

The house itself sits on the edge of a small ravine. There are 4 large bedrooms on the main floor and 2 on the lower level. . Each has a bathroom and the remainder of the main floor is the living / dining area and kitchen. I have a smaller bedroom on the main floor which is unique because it has no window and an “Italian shower” which means I have to squeegee the bathroom floor every morning. There’s a pool in the back which is unheated, and the weather hasn’t been great for swimming, so it hasn’t seen a lot of use. Overall, we’re really impressed with the high quality of the house, the furnishings and the location.

We have been off exploring Provence. There was a convoy to Chateauneuf du Pape and a second to the Ardeche gorges.  Although it threatened rain and was unbelievably windy, we went to St. Remy and Les Baux de Provence yesterday. There are plans for the Cotes du  Rhone wineries and Mt. Ventoux if the weather co-operates.

I have often daydreamed about living in France. Having been here for an extended time I feel that I’ve adapted in some measure to the lifestyle. But there’s an obvious and real difference between “holidaying” and “living” in a place. As my Sister pointed out yesterday, the first couple of days going to town for a baguette can be fun, but when you have to do it everyday it can become tedious.

My trip has been a success because I have had the time to do as I please. Staying in a new home for a longer time would take that to the next level, and it’s something that really appeals to me. Worth considering…

https://www.airbnb.ca/rooms/2188271

September 9: No, not a typo. Many years ago, I learned from my friends David and Ed that “the bhoys” is a nickname given to followers of the Glasgow Celtic Football Club. They co-founded the Etobicoke Bhoys Club for Planning Department staff. Membership required a good deal of beer drinking and male bonding – although many women ultimately joined as well, something I attribute to the kindness, charm and good humour of both those fine men.

I’ve been thinking a good deal about male bonding for the last few days since my cousin James, brother-in-law Joe, and long-time friend Chris have joined me for a week of motorcycling. To say that expectations were high might be an understatement; I’ve been imagining what this part of the trip could be like for many months, and of course, it has been completely different from the outset. It’s been difficult for me to let go of the preconceptions I had of what I thought could happen, and allow the trip to unfold in it’s own way. I wanted everyone to have a great time, and saw it as my responsibility to make it happen.

We are now 5 days into the adventure and it hasn’t been perfect but it sure has been fun. Today we climbed Col du Lautaret, Col du Galibier, Col de Telegraphe and the Lacets de Pontamafrey, all in about 100 km. Other days haven’t been as vertically challenging, but they have all been an adventure in one form or another. Discussion over dinner is inevitably scatological and hilarious, since Chris is an expert story-teller and all-round kibitzer. Joe has overcome his fear of hairpins and continues to try and convince us that Our Glorious Leader deserves another term in office, while James has been busy organizing routes, expensive wine and hotel rooms for us all. We have all contributed something special and essential as the days unfold. With good food, good wine and good friends in equal measure; how could I go wrong ?

I am sure that my friends David and Ed could offer many insights to male bonding. They were experts. Leaving aside for a moment the many wonderful women I am privileged to have as friends, this part of my little adventure has reminded me that I am indeed fortunate to have so many fine bhoys in my life; men of humour and strength and character and insight. Men that help me to be a better man. Thanks bhoys.

 

September 2: And by “the French” I really mean “Europeans” because of course, these are things you see pretty much everywhere.

I was riding in the Pyrenees when I found a tiny col that connected to a road I wanted to follow. A short distance up the road I found this little village – really just a few houses and a church. The house in front of the church was tended by a man and wife – perhaps a retired farming couple – and they had a beautiful garden along the little river’s edge. The French plant gardens everywhere. The church bells were just chiming noon as I arrived. A lovely little vignette.

It seems that the French – and Europeans generally – live more of their life in public spaces. There are markets and shops, and of course the cafes. I stayed for a couple of days in Castellane. There are 4 or 5 cafes along the north edge of the main square and they are busy from noon until well into the evening. If you look closely, you can see Notre Dame du Roc keeping an eye on things from 600 metres up. It makes me wonder why it’s such a struggle for us to create really high-quality public spaces of our own when Europeans do it so consistently.

Similarly, the French are known for their food. Street vendors are part of the scene in every market and every town. You can eat pretty well with a bit of hunting around. In Toronto we just about killed off the street food sector with unworkable and expensive standards. Having just suffered through a bout of traveller’s malaise, I’m totally supportive of good public health standards., but somehow we manage to come down on the side of bland and mediocre. Imagine cooking several kilos of escargots at Bloor and Yonge like this guy in Puy en Velay…..

In Germany I was totally impressed with the network of local trains and busses. It seemed that every town had a train station and a little 2-car shuttle that departed 3 or 4 times a day. Picture Bracebridge connected to Orillia and Huntsville, Barrie and Toronto…Wouldn’t it be wonderful to have the population and the money to make it work for us?

And finally, one thing they do that drives me wild: smoking. It seems that smoking is still fairly popular in France, and it is allowed on patios, in cafes and other public spaces. Having gotten used to being without cigarette smoke in Toronto, it is surprising -shocking, even – to find it so widely accepted here.