Snippets and Around Town
Today I was over at the 'shopping centre' drugstore loading up on Lipitor, contemplating the price/performance differences between Gillette Mach III, Turbo and the Fusion ( I know-exciting life!) when I bumped into our old friend Jacquie Ross. She, as always, looks great.
Do you remember Jacquie in high-school?
I do.
I used to enjoy her rushing about on a waves of humour and smiles. She had this long thick hair, short skirt or tight jeans and personality plus.
I smile when I think of Jacquie.
Today she had people in from Saskatoon -husbands at the Grey Cup and wives out shopping, with all to meet up at the Montreal Casino.
You never know who you're going to meet when over at the old shopping centre -now referred to as 'Mall".
If I am not mistaken, I breezed by Carol Mates a few weeks ago. I was focussed on some unimportant errand that I was running and it only clicked a few minutes later. I went back but she was gone. I guess she (if it was her) had come in for the HSB 40th Anniversary.
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Two weeks ago, Cathy Gulkin came to meet me at the Saint-James Club to chat about markets and life. Now there is someone who has talent. Did you know that Cathy is an ACTRA award winning film editor for movies and TV? Her daughter is very talented too. Her brother Jimmy, has done well. After leaving Montreal for the oil fields out west many years ago, he saved his money and went to Thailand and started a food exporting company -exporting to Canada and the USA. He stayed in Thailand, married -has a son now. Very successful!
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I understand Roddy McManus is working on the Montreal Canadians celebration with George Strompobolous of The Hour. They were with Justin Trudeau three weeks ago and Celine Dionne shortly thereafter. The show will be televised in January.
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As we all know, the stock market has presented a wonderful opportunity for those who have not saved up for retirement. Prices for banks, rail and basic good solid value (Cash flow producing systems) Canadian infrastructure, is at a 5 year discount. Thursday I put in another $100,000 for one of my clients and then Friday the market went up 400 points or more. I hope it tanks again and stays down for the next three months or so. But I think the prices are already factoring in Canada's 'Recession' which if not here now, will be here in a week or so.
Conversely, I expect weaker businesses will have to cut employment to keep their heads above water and therefore, it could be a rough Cristmas for some of our friends.
My business is tied to the value of people's portfolios rather than commissions. This allows commissions to stay with clients and grow for them rather than me. While I am not at severe risk, the income side is taking a hit as values decline ...so I will have to cut back some.
Hmmmm Barry Jones called to see if we want to go skiing up North the week before Christmas...well, I guess that's a "NO".
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My sister Gaye McConnell had a very successful vernisage/Art show last weekend where her water-colour paintings were on display. Wow! Talk about talent. Jane and I bought two new pieces (it was either that or the skiing...choices). I believe my cousin Greg Holden bought one too. There was quite a turn out. I wonder if she has a web site where her work is shown? Have to check.
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Anyway, here we are in Chateauguay. It's getting cold again. The ground is crunchy but we haven't been hugged by snow yet. Soon. Have to get Don Reid out of his house once again. He's got a great business in the Winter season, zipping around our old town with his plow getting our driveways done . (I just can't stand driveway tents- sorry, no offence ...) He also thrives in the summer trimming all the trees, shrubs, grass and maintaining gardens. He still looks like a million bucks. I know the day will come when he's discovered by Hollywood.
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Oh yes -speaking about looking good, - I bumped into Janice Goodfellow over on Victoria street, in town the other day. How is it, that some people just don't seem to age or change shape?
Well- preserved comes to mind.
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I received a very nice e-mail from Anja Michielson a couple of weeks ago. Now there's another one...OK enough of that.
Suffice it to say she is still an airline stewa... do they call them service people or 'hostesses' now? I should check with Debbie Hillock who is married to Kevin Lyons -one of those flying 'nice people'. (Bring me another Champaign please.)
Anja was off to Europe for a few days...imagine. I saw her last spring in town also. Tall and graceful, lovely coat and beautiful eyes. Some people actually grow smoothly into their beauty as they age.
Oh yeah!- speaking of Airline people, Marianne Peacock is also one of those. I saw her picture on Facebook lately as one of the attendees of Billings 40th. You still 'got it' girl!
Which reminds me, if you have not seen those pictures, get onto Facebook and somehow become "a friend" to Sue Davis Worth or one of the Gurholt girls, (speaking of looking great Davis Worth and Gurholts) -then you can check out all the photos. ...
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How are you sleeping lately? Have you turned 55 yet? I did -in October. I find that every night I have to get up at around 4:00 a.m. and do yoga stretching for 15 minutes or so - 'Downward Dog and such(- no, not dirty dog) and then go back to bed where I do diaphramatic breathing for two minutes and thankfully submerge back into heavy duty dreamland.
Welcome to upper middle age. At least everything else is just fine ...knock on ..uh, well whatever.
Sunday, November 23, 2008
Tuesday, November 04, 2008
Friday, October 24, 2008
We are all proud of HSB Alumnus Dr. Seleda Williams of California, USA, the tall good looking one one on the left.
Say "Hi" to the governor for us Seleda!
All those who attended the 'Reunion '72 & Friends' last year, can say they met up with not only our old buddy Jimmy Williams, but his sister Seleda too.
Just another good example of how influences in life - from High School and friends, good decision making, passion, very hard work and determination - can get us somewhere. In each of us there is a seed that can be nurtured by ourselves and those around us.
The key I suppose, is not to give up or lose belief in one's self.
But where do we get that quality?
We grow it, in ourselves - despite all those who would oppose it's growth. The consistency of small steps everyday, gets us there, if we keep going in that one direction.
Well done Seleda! We are all proud of you and your family. What an example.
Les
Sunday, October 19, 2008
Shadowland in October Country Collection
Exit from Eden (Revison 7)
Her footsteps crunched the gravel.
She thought, "There are still no sidewalks, amazing how small the houses really are, almost as if trying not to be noticed. They seemed bigger back then, when our house was a home - of sorts."
In the field around the corner, train cars stood waiting, overshadowed by the ancient water tower, brown with corrosion - a place of exploration, memories laced with summer heat, brows of sweat, perfumed blend, creosote and field flower, hide and seek, chase catch and kiss through the milkweed, boyfriends and then, safety when mother sent her out of the house in a panic."He's been drinking again, go quick, come back when the lights go out. It won't be long now. "
Down the street- the corner store, where she would buy single cigarettes on the sly and gum with her birthday money. And on high, steeples, two of them, having lost their mystery long ago, erect, biding their time.
The lonely wail of an engine echoed off the water down by the plant -crying out to her, resonating within, to a time of innocence, magic, hope, and the ever yearning for a prince to take her away.
She quickened her pace down Main Street, glancing at her own reflection in the ice-cream shop window.
" More dimension to the curves, not bad for my age, but true enough though, youth is definitely wasted on the young, and wisdom just a convenient crutch for the aged."
Movement approached from the side.
"Quick! Keep the head down! Next street left, to the water and the taxi stand! Run!"
Escape routes never to be forgotten, well-ingrained, uncoiled themselves.
"Keep them looking - but not too closely, keep them paying and let their eyes move on." That was what he always said. They're just pictures and the money will help us get to where we need to be."
"So much for the long discarded 'Prince of optimism and deceit' and those bloody pictures. I don't even look like that anymore. Yet even now, they haunt me through the Net."
The twin shadows reached out beyond the train cars. Bells tolled the hour. Mist spread it's wing lightly over the field, sheltering precious memories beneath from the onset of the dark. Essence of dried leaves and the hint of frost idled upon the breeze.
She sighed, not looking back.
"And home? Just an idea of someone else's happiness lies submerged somewhere deep within; best not think about it. Keep going; come back when the lights go out, shouldn't be too long."
L.McConnell
Sunday
October 19.2008
Exit from Eden (Revison 7)
Her footsteps crunched the gravel.
She thought, "There are still no sidewalks, amazing how small the houses really are, almost as if trying not to be noticed. They seemed bigger back then, when our house was a home - of sorts."
In the field around the corner, train cars stood waiting, overshadowed by the ancient water tower, brown with corrosion - a place of exploration, memories laced with summer heat, brows of sweat, perfumed blend, creosote and field flower, hide and seek, chase catch and kiss through the milkweed, boyfriends and then, safety when mother sent her out of the house in a panic."He's been drinking again, go quick, come back when the lights go out. It won't be long now. "
Down the street- the corner store, where she would buy single cigarettes on the sly and gum with her birthday money. And on high, steeples, two of them, having lost their mystery long ago, erect, biding their time.
The lonely wail of an engine echoed off the water down by the plant -crying out to her, resonating within, to a time of innocence, magic, hope, and the ever yearning for a prince to take her away.
She quickened her pace down Main Street, glancing at her own reflection in the ice-cream shop window.
" More dimension to the curves, not bad for my age, but true enough though, youth is definitely wasted on the young, and wisdom just a convenient crutch for the aged."
Movement approached from the side.
"Quick! Keep the head down! Next street left, to the water and the taxi stand! Run!"
Escape routes never to be forgotten, well-ingrained, uncoiled themselves.
"Keep them looking - but not too closely, keep them paying and let their eyes move on." That was what he always said. They're just pictures and the money will help us get to where we need to be."
"So much for the long discarded 'Prince of optimism and deceit' and those bloody pictures. I don't even look like that anymore. Yet even now, they haunt me through the Net."
The twin shadows reached out beyond the train cars. Bells tolled the hour. Mist spread it's wing lightly over the field, sheltering precious memories beneath from the onset of the dark. Essence of dried leaves and the hint of frost idled upon the breeze.
She sighed, not looking back.
"And home? Just an idea of someone else's happiness lies submerged somewhere deep within; best not think about it. Keep going; come back when the lights go out, shouldn't be too long."
L.McConnell
Sunday
October 19.2008
Saturday, September 06, 2008
I've Been Working on The Railroad
(Prince Rupert '76) continued
Jake, a forty five to fifty something 'White Russian' by birth (-Canadian by choice) proceeded to take me under his wing until such time as I could fend for myself and "... knew which way was up". He was not a foreman, but rather, the moral back bone and wise man of our crew. He was in fact deemed to be 'holy' by those from overseas.
The few Canadians on the crew- blue collar in orientation, just stayed clear of him.
Jake did not fit any known mold as he did not watch TV that much, did not care for any sport and did not suffer fools. His blunt comments could reach into the root of any situation and deflate the greatest shows of male bravado.
We all climbed into the 'speeder' or 'crew car' by pecking order.
The speeder experience is the most wonderful thing and brings out the kid in all of us until we become jaded by the job itself. Imagine yourself zipping through the wooded and mountainous hinterland on tracks at lightening speed - better than La Ronde any day.
We pulled out of 'Rupert', heading for the Mill down the line, the ponds, trees, sky opening up. Secluded spots where man has never stepped, emerge 50 yards in front. Pools of water, mist rising and quiet - pure quiet- solitude.
The others in the speede
r, used to the morning ritual are catching a snooze as we buzz through "the creation". Jake seems interested in watching my reactions . I suspect he's judging me, as if weighing my substance. 'Will the city kid make it -yes or no?'
We turn a gradual corner around a hill and there on the trees and telephone lines as if by magic- a regiment of Bald Eagles.
" Guys! Look!" I shout. "This is incredible..." when on the back of my helmet 'wop' !
"-ow!"
I could not restrain myself. I had never seen a real Bald Eagle 'live' before, let alone this many in one sitting and here they were - at least 8 or 9 of them, all about three feet high, yellow hook beaks, white or yellowing crests.
"Hey - new kid!" one of the workers reaches over from the other side and gives me a shove after hitting my helmet. "Shut up you mouth! Sleeping time!"
Jake observes me, apparently with great interest, to see my reaction, the suggestion of a smile playing in his steady eyes.
"But..." I reach to grab my helmet.
Jake put a finger up to his lips and raised an eyebrow.
"You have to figure" He whispers, "they go through this everyday. They've seen what you see and a great deal more, especially when they were in Angola fighting."
This is when I got my first lesson on culture. Apparently those on the crew with Mediterranean swarthy looks, were either from Greece or Portugal and the Portuguese in particular, ex-army regulars, were in from the colonial Portuguese Angola war.
"The one that just poked you," Jake informed me, ".. is 'Lil Tony'. Don't get in his way. Try to make him a friend. No one will ever bother you once they know he's on your side."
"Oh." I responded.
"You're from 'back East' and there is much that will be new to you. Try not to be an excitable kid, be cool, this is not a travel tour, it's our life and quite mornings on the ride to site are sacred."
I looked at the others , dozing.
"We only really start wa
king up once on the track, -once we've been on the job for about an hour and all the stiffness, aches and pains from the previous day have worked themselves out."
"..the Eagles.." I point.
"I know" he said, "- quite special, at first, but a regular thing out here, especially behind the canneries where the catch is brought in. Eagles, like gulls, come around for the innards left on the back pile. Easy 'pickins'."
Upon disembarking at our first work site, I cannot help but notice how Tony comes by his name. He stands, all of 4 ft. 5 inches tall, solid rock and I am to soon discover, one hell of a fighter -if not warrior in the traditional sense. 'Fear', I was to learn, has no place in his vocabulary. I could have used him at H.S. Billings.
During the summer, 'Lil Tony' would make a few extra bucks for himself and his shell-shocked buddy, Eduardo by ..well.. I'll get to that later
... but I'm sure you'll find it to be rather strange reading when I do get to it.
The speeder made it's way through the hills where fresh crystal water cascaded down- water that one could drink straight from the stream.
Soon the air became thick. My nose wrinked at the stench.
"That's the Pulp Mill." announced Jake shaking his head and looking down almost in shame.
--------------------------
Within myself I had been trying to fend off homesickness that had been bubbling beneath the surface since my buddy Monte had left for for his job in Terrace. But now, the fabric of this new scenic reality and human adventure caught hold of me. I discovered that as long as I was on the job, and had my trusty narrator and home grown Merlin, Jake, with me, I tacitly agreed to become the Arthurian apprentice in this 'quest' - for tuition money, life experience and the Holy Grail -my undiscovered inner self.
The real journey had begun.
(Prince Rupert '76) continued
Jake, a forty five to fifty something 'White Russian' by birth (-Canadian by choice) proceeded to take me under his wing until such time as I could fend for myself and "... knew which way was up". He was not a foreman, but rather, the moral back bone and wise man of our crew. He was in fact deemed to be 'holy' by those from overseas.
The few Canadians on the crew- blue collar in orientation, just stayed clear of him.
Jake did not fit any known mold as he did not watch TV that much, did not care for any sport and did not suffer fools. His blunt comments could reach into the root of any situation and deflate the greatest shows of male bravado.
We all climbed into the 'speeder' or 'crew car' by pecking order.
The speeder experience is the most wonderful thing and brings out the kid in all of us until we become jaded by the job itself. Imagine yourself zipping through the wooded and mountainous hinterland on tracks at lightening speed - better than La Ronde any day.
We pulled out of 'Rupert', heading for the Mill down the line, the ponds, trees, sky opening up. Secluded spots where man has never stepped, emerge 50 yards in front. Pools of water, mist rising and quiet - pure quiet- solitude.
The others in the speede
r, used to the morning ritual are catching a snooze as we buzz through "the creation". Jake seems interested in watching my reactions . I suspect he's judging me, as if weighing my substance. 'Will the city kid make it -yes or no?'We turn a gradual corner around a hill and there on the trees and telephone lines as if by magic- a regiment of Bald Eagles.
" Guys! Look!" I shout. "This is incredible..." when on the back of my helmet 'wop' !
"-ow!"
I could not restrain myself. I had never seen a real Bald Eagle 'live' before, let alone this many in one sitting and here they were - at least 8 or 9 of them, all about three feet high, yellow hook beaks, white or yellowing crests.
"Hey - new kid!" one of the workers reaches over from the other side and gives me a shove after hitting my helmet. "Shut up you mouth! Sleeping time!"
Jake observes me, apparently with great interest, to see my reaction, the suggestion of a smile playing in his steady eyes.
"But..." I reach to grab my helmet.
Jake put a finger up to his lips and raised an eyebrow.
"You have to figure" He whispers, "they go through this everyday. They've seen what you see and a great deal more, especially when they were in Angola fighting."
This is when I got my first lesson on culture. Apparently those on the crew with Mediterranean swarthy looks, were either from Greece or Portugal and the Portuguese in particular, ex-army regulars, were in from the colonial Portuguese Angola war.
"The one that just poked you," Jake informed me, ".. is 'Lil Tony'. Don't get in his way. Try to make him a friend. No one will ever bother you once they know he's on your side."
"Oh." I responded.
"You're from 'back East' and there is much that will be new to you. Try not to be an excitable kid, be cool, this is not a travel tour, it's our life and quite mornings on the ride to site are sacred."
I looked at the others , dozing.
"We only really start wa
king up once on the track, -once we've been on the job for about an hour and all the stiffness, aches and pains from the previous day have worked themselves out.""..the Eagles.." I point.
"I know" he said, "- quite special, at first, but a regular thing out here, especially behind the canneries where the catch is brought in. Eagles, like gulls, come around for the innards left on the back pile. Easy 'pickins'."
Upon disembarking at our first work site, I cannot help but notice how Tony comes by his name. He stands, all of 4 ft. 5 inches tall, solid rock and I am to soon discover, one hell of a fighter -if not warrior in the traditional sense. 'Fear', I was to learn, has no place in his vocabulary. I could have used him at H.S. Billings.
During the summer, 'Lil Tony' would make a few extra bucks for himself and his shell-shocked buddy, Eduardo by ..well.. I'll get to that later
... but I'm sure you'll find it to be rather strange reading when I do get to it.The speeder made it's way through the hills where fresh crystal water cascaded down- water that one could drink straight from the stream.
Soon the air became thick. My nose wrinked at the stench.
"That's the Pulp Mill." announced Jake shaking his head and looking down almost in shame.
--------------------------
Within myself I had been trying to fend off homesickness that had been bubbling beneath the surface since my buddy Monte had left for for his job in Terrace. But now, the fabric of this new scenic reality and human adventure caught hold of me. I discovered that as long as I was on the job, and had my trusty narrator and home grown Merlin, Jake, with me, I tacitly agreed to become the Arthurian apprentice in this 'quest' - for tuition money, life experience and the Holy Grail -my undiscovered inner self.
The real journey had begun.
Thursday, September 04, 2008
Sunday, August 10, 2008
Prince Rupert Station Yard /II
continued...
I grappled with the bar on the frayed wood floor hoping to avoid splinters, while trying to pick the damn thing up. It was cold, hard and very heavy.
I recalled in grade six doing research for the project everybody in the school (and most schools at the time) was involved with on Confederation, seeing pictures of laborers -Chinese and white- at the sides of the rails leaning into their labours using long staff like things. If these were the same, I figured I was either going to break this summer or get into some really good shape despite my skinny 19 year old frame.
Dragging one end of the first 'pick' on the floor, I was able to negotiate my way out of the shed to the side of the "car" which had it's wheels affixed to the sides of the rails on the spur. Even though I wore leather workman's gloves, I could feel the chaffing on the skin of my palms. The thought hit me like a slap in the face how I would complain in the autumn when raking the leaves with my dad, about the blisters forming on my palms. In my minds eye, I could see Jimmy Williams back in grade 10 up on the high bars being coached by Mr. Peterson. Despite the gymnast gloves and chalk used, he had callouses upon callouses on his hands. They were like thick pads of leather. I was seriously wondering now, how long I could take this. Whoever coined the saying was right. "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it."
The sun was just blinking through the trees from the East. It had already done so in Montreal I imagined some three hours ago. There was a mist shrouding the yard, but there was no covering the ever-present smell of tar coming from the piles of rail ties.
I had managed to pull three picks out in about four minutes and was seriously considering a break and some coffee from my thermus.
A little ways over, by the side of the track, lit up from behind in silhouette, a small crowd was gathering to watch my progress. Everyone was in gray coveralls and billy boots topped with the CN helmet. The morning quiet was littered with bits of language I could not place coming from the group. It sounded like a combination of Hindi or Pakistani, some Greek and there was some other language which turned out to be Portugese. There was one thing they all had in common - their apparent delight in watching skinny white guy trying to lug the pry bar picks.
Off to the side of this giggling coterie of linguistic jibber-jabber, (which I would grow used to over the course of the summer), a loner sat, on his CN helmet no less, one leg draped over the knee of the other, the upper foot rocking up and down ever so nonchalantly. He was was smiling, shaking his head and it was at that point the realization dawned upon me that I was the source of some hilarity.
"OK guys - help him out!"
They all moved at once .
It was the man who had given me the instruction in the first place.
There were some more picks left in the shed.
"Put it down and watch." he said to me, chuckling still.
He went into the shed, bent at the knees lifting two at a time in the mid section and passed them to the others. They hoisted the bars in smooth swings onto their shoulders and then gently put them into the 'work car'. He put his arm around my shoulder and walked me over to the group.
As the sun rose, his face emerged magically from the dark. He must have been in his fifties, but he was built like me only fuller in the arms and shoulders. His hair was silver and rust. Life had etched mystic runes upon the tawny leather above and beneath the eyes. His smile was warm. Instinctively, I knew I had an ally - a guide .
"Welcome to the gang kid. I'm Jacob or as most call me - Jake."
He extended a bony hand and I, gratefully, shook it.
Wednesday May 1976
Journal Entry
My first day at work went very well...considering...that my day consists of 11 hours of very hard manual labour.
My muscles have gone stiff on me as I write. I shall have to take a bath down the hall. My room is without toilet facilities; just a bed, a shelf, and old stove. The milk I kept on the windowsill thinking it would stay cool has curdled.
After work I made my way over to a book store in the small mall. There was a friendly lady behind the cash.
"People in this town seem nice," I said, " But they are unlike other small towns I have been in, in that I sense a general 'holding back' from strangers which I suppose is only natural."
She considered what I had said for a moment, given I suppose that I was the 'stranger' and she of course, one of the towns people. The words had already slipped out of my mouth, too late to snatch them back.
"Outsiders", she said slowly, peering at my soiled jeans, dirty hands while appreciating my unmistakable musk of sweat, kerosene and creosote, " generally come in to Prince Rupert on their way to somewhere's-else and take jobs for a while, that the town-folk might otherwise have. When they have made their money - they disappear."
"Would you like the key to the city with that ?" Handing me the purchased book, she winked. And there it was again... the smile.
continued...
I grappled with the bar on the frayed wood floor hoping to avoid splinters, while trying to pick the damn thing up. It was cold, hard and very heavy.
I recalled in grade six doing research for the project everybody in the school (and most schools at the time) was involved with on Confederation, seeing pictures of laborers -Chinese and white- at the sides of the rails leaning into their labours using long staff like things. If these were the same, I figured I was either going to break this summer or get into some really good shape despite my skinny 19 year old frame.
Dragging one end of the first 'pick' on the floor, I was able to negotiate my way out of the shed to the side of the "car" which had it's wheels affixed to the sides of the rails on the spur. Even though I wore leather workman's gloves, I could feel the chaffing on the skin of my palms. The thought hit me like a slap in the face how I would complain in the autumn when raking the leaves with my dad, about the blisters forming on my palms. In my minds eye, I could see Jimmy Williams back in grade 10 up on the high bars being coached by Mr. Peterson. Despite the gymnast gloves and chalk used, he had callouses upon callouses on his hands. They were like thick pads of leather. I was seriously wondering now, how long I could take this. Whoever coined the saying was right. "Be careful what you wish for, you just might get it."
The sun was just blinking through the trees from the East. It had already done so in Montreal I imagined some three hours ago. There was a mist shrouding the yard, but there was no covering the ever-present smell of tar coming from the piles of rail ties.
I had managed to pull three picks out in about four minutes and was seriously considering a break and some coffee from my thermus.
A little ways over, by the side of the track, lit up from behind in silhouette, a small crowd was gathering to watch my progress. Everyone was in gray coveralls and billy boots topped with the CN helmet. The morning quiet was littered with bits of language I could not place coming from the group. It sounded like a combination of Hindi or Pakistani, some Greek and there was some other language which turned out to be Portugese. There was one thing they all had in common - their apparent delight in watching skinny white guy trying to lug the pry bar picks.
Off to the side of this giggling coterie of linguistic jibber-jabber, (which I would grow used to over the course of the summer), a loner sat, on his CN helmet no less, one leg draped over the knee of the other, the upper foot rocking up and down ever so nonchalantly. He was was smiling, shaking his head and it was at that point the realization dawned upon me that I was the source of some hilarity.
"OK guys - help him out!"
They all moved at once .
It was the man who had given me the instruction in the first place.
There were some more picks left in the shed.
"Put it down and watch." he said to me, chuckling still.
He went into the shed, bent at the knees lifting two at a time in the mid section and passed them to the others. They hoisted the bars in smooth swings onto their shoulders and then gently put them into the 'work car'. He put his arm around my shoulder and walked me over to the group.
As the sun rose, his face emerged magically from the dark. He must have been in his fifties, but he was built like me only fuller in the arms and shoulders. His hair was silver and rust. Life had etched mystic runes upon the tawny leather above and beneath the eyes. His smile was warm. Instinctively, I knew I had an ally - a guide .
"Welcome to the gang kid. I'm Jacob or as most call me - Jake."
He extended a bony hand and I, gratefully, shook it.
Wednesday May 1976
Journal Entry
My first day at work went very well...considering...that my day consists of 11 hours of very hard manual labour.
My muscles have gone stiff on me as I write. I shall have to take a bath down the hall. My room is without toilet facilities; just a bed, a shelf, and old stove. The milk I kept on the windowsill thinking it would stay cool has curdled.
After work I made my way over to a book store in the small mall. There was a friendly lady behind the cash.
"People in this town seem nice," I said, " But they are unlike other small towns I have been in, in that I sense a general 'holding back' from strangers which I suppose is only natural."
She considered what I had said for a moment, given I suppose that I was the 'stranger' and she of course, one of the towns people. The words had already slipped out of my mouth, too late to snatch them back.
"Outsiders", she said slowly, peering at my soiled jeans, dirty hands while appreciating my unmistakable musk of sweat, kerosene and creosote, " generally come in to Prince Rupert on their way to somewhere's-else and take jobs for a while, that the town-folk might otherwise have. When they have made their money - they disappear."
"Would you like the key to the city with that ?" Handing me the purchased book, she winked. And there it was again... the smile.
Saturday, August 09, 2008
1976 May 7th. En Route
(Journal Entries)
I'm on my way to Edmonton.
Montie and I have been on the train for about 26 hours since leaving Montreal. We expect to arrive at the Edmonton station for about 7:00 a.m. on Sunday and then meet up with Scott Johnson later in the day at the Library. Hopefully we'll find a job on Monday...if we are lucky.
The prices on the train for food are ridiculous.
At least we have the entertainment factor - drunks who enjoy singing through the night. Could be worse - babies crying.
1976 Monday May 17
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
It's late afternoon.
I have spent another day at the railway station...waiting, waiting, reading, waiting.
Such patience I never knew I had.
All this for a job.
Did I make a big mistake letting Montie have the job that I had fought for?
I guess after a day like this one would think so. I sure hope something turns up tomorrow. I understand that today is payday for the work gangs, which for me I'm told is good, since once paid, some of these people never come back. Well hopefully someone will quit.
I'll either have to get in touch with Montie for money soon or go home this Friday. I am paid up in this hotel until then.
I am not homesick for home... but I am for my girlfriend.
1976 Tuesday May 18
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
7:13 AM
I'll be back at the Railway station in about 15 minutes. It's just around the corner and down the hill and looks out over the Pacific and Queen Charlottes. It is strange to think I am on the other end of Canada.
Hopefully by this evening, I will have a job.
Well here goes.
1976 Tuesday May 18
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
10:15 AM
Well it's about time.
Got it! I took a job in the Prince Rupert Yards. I start tomorrow morning at 7:00 A.M.
I'll be making $4.52 per hour and the shift is minimum 9 hours per day.
1976 Wednesday May 19
Prince Rupert BC
CN Yards
6:30 AM
The sun is not yet up. I have met the yard master. He gets to wear the white helmet while the crew have to wear yellow ones. I'm crew.
(I'm glad I ran into Scott back in Edmonton. He warned me to get well stocked up on steel-toed construction boots and warm light hunting jackets to wear under the over-alls and rubber wet ware. You can almost set your watch to the rain-fall here. It is clear in the morning with sun until late morning and then it pours on you. Then it clears by 2:00 or 3:00 PM.)
"Hey you - get some work gloves on and follow me." A yellow helmet guy commands me. He doesn't even look at me or say good morning.
"Christ I'm just waking up! " I think to myself. What happened to the ..you start at 7:00a.m. bit?
I can make out a white shack in the emerging morning haze.
"Here..." He says, "...Take the key and open the shed. Then bring out the 'picks' off the floor. Bring out six of each and I'll bring the car over."
He looks me up and down in disbelief.
"Oh by the way, have you ever done this before?" He asks.
"No, but I'm a fast learner." I respond -trying to sound motivationally correct.
" Well you might learn fast, but the question is, will you last?"
"Oh come on, " I think to myself, "It can't be that hard..."
The shed is right beside a parallel side track or "spur".
I manage to unlock the big padlock and open the heavy doors.
It's dark in there and I stub my steel toed boot against something and fall making one hell of a racket while bashing my shin on the way down.
From outside a head peers in.
"Ya gotta turn on the light first. " He says, reaching in to the side wall.
The bare bulb on the ceiling goes on and I find myself sitting atop a bunch of heavy steel rods.
"Those are the picks." he says.
He leaves me to continue the task.
I look down.
The rods (picks?), gray steel, are about an inch to an inch and a half thick in diameter and are about six feet long. At one end a point and the other flattened.
"O.K." I think, "let us begin".
I reach down and get my fingers under one of these things and pull.
"Oh Oh"
"Did I hear an 'oh-oh'?" a voice queries outside.
"Shit".
(Journal Entries)
I'm on my way to Edmonton.
Montie and I have been on the train for about 26 hours since leaving Montreal. We expect to arrive at the Edmonton station for about 7:00 a.m. on Sunday and then meet up with Scott Johnson later in the day at the Library. Hopefully we'll find a job on Monday...if we are lucky.
The prices on the train for food are ridiculous.
At least we have the entertainment factor - drunks who enjoy singing through the night. Could be worse - babies crying.
1976 Monday May 17
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
It's late afternoon.
I have spent another day at the railway station...waiting, waiting, reading, waiting.
Such patience I never knew I had.
All this for a job.
Did I make a big mistake letting Montie have the job that I had fought for?
I guess after a day like this one would think so. I sure hope something turns up tomorrow. I understand that today is payday for the work gangs, which for me I'm told is good, since once paid, some of these people never come back. Well hopefully someone will quit.
I'll either have to get in touch with Montie for money soon or go home this Friday. I am paid up in this hotel until then.
I am not homesick for home... but I am for my girlfriend.
1976 Tuesday May 18
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
7:13 AM
I'll be back at the Railway station in about 15 minutes. It's just around the corner and down the hill and looks out over the Pacific and Queen Charlottes. It is strange to think I am on the other end of Canada.
Hopefully by this evening, I will have a job.
Well here goes.
1976 Tuesday May 18
Prince Rupert BC
Inlander Hotel
10:15 AM
Well it's about time.
Got it! I took a job in the Prince Rupert Yards. I start tomorrow morning at 7:00 A.M.
I'll be making $4.52 per hour and the shift is minimum 9 hours per day.
1976 Wednesday May 19
Prince Rupert BC
CN Yards
6:30 AM
The sun is not yet up. I have met the yard master. He gets to wear the white helmet while the crew have to wear yellow ones. I'm crew.
(I'm glad I ran into Scott back in Edmonton. He warned me to get well stocked up on steel-toed construction boots and warm light hunting jackets to wear under the over-alls and rubber wet ware. You can almost set your watch to the rain-fall here. It is clear in the morning with sun until late morning and then it pours on you. Then it clears by 2:00 or 3:00 PM.)
"Hey you - get some work gloves on and follow me." A yellow helmet guy commands me. He doesn't even look at me or say good morning.
"Christ I'm just waking up! " I think to myself. What happened to the ..you start at 7:00a.m. bit?
I can make out a white shack in the emerging morning haze.
"Here..." He says, "...Take the key and open the shed. Then bring out the 'picks' off the floor. Bring out six of each and I'll bring the car over."
He looks me up and down in disbelief.
"Oh by the way, have you ever done this before?" He asks.
"No, but I'm a fast learner." I respond -trying to sound motivationally correct.
" Well you might learn fast, but the question is, will you last?"
"Oh come on, " I think to myself, "It can't be that hard..."
The shed is right beside a parallel side track or "spur".
I manage to unlock the big padlock and open the heavy doors.
It's dark in there and I stub my steel toed boot against something and fall making one hell of a racket while bashing my shin on the way down.
From outside a head peers in.
"Ya gotta turn on the light first. " He says, reaching in to the side wall.
The bare bulb on the ceiling goes on and I find myself sitting atop a bunch of heavy steel rods.
"Those are the picks." he says.
He leaves me to continue the task.
I look down.
The rods (picks?), gray steel, are about an inch to an inch and a half thick in diameter and are about six feet long. At one end a point and the other flattened.
"O.K." I think, "let us begin".
I reach down and get my fingers under one of these things and pull.
"Oh Oh"
"Did I hear an 'oh-oh'?" a voice queries outside.
"Shit".
Wednesday, August 06, 2008
Sunday, July 20, 2008
The End of The Line (Revised)After High School, sometime during my last year in Dawson and beginning of McGill, 1976, I and the brother of my then girlfriend, shipped out from Montreal on the quest for a job.
"What have you got in mind?" He asked.
"Well Monty, I have a plan, but you have to have faith in me- and this will test us both." I replied.
He never knew how really scared I was.
The plan was to get on a train in Montreal and not get off until the end of the line - somewhere out west -presumably Vancouver. That train came upon a divide -one way to Vancouver, the other to Prince Rupert BC....North West, just under Alaska across from the Queen Charlotte Islands - Haida Territory.
We had about $150 dollars between us. It would last a few days, but the last thing I wanted, was to use it up and beg my way home to Chateauguay.
"So, OK, we're here," Monty said, "Now let's hear some more of the plan."
An hour later we were in the Office of Mr.Louis Arsenault, stationmaster of the Prince Rupert CN yard.
"Who 're you?" He looked us up and down and then back to the statistics on his desk.
"What do you take in your coffee?" I asked while looking around the office. My eyes settled on his stained coffee mug - apparently used for years, it sat over near a pile of yellowed news-papers.
"What d' ya mean?" He barked, still not lifting his head to look at us.
"I mean, what do you take in your coffee -one cream two sugars?"
The head rose, as stubby workman's fingers, yellow-tanned with years of nicotine, gripped the desk and pushed back, revealing a generous beer gut, well worn belt with a CN train buckle. The two day stubble seemed to grimace into a painful smile. The bleary red eyes blinked behind the coke bottle glasses.
"I know a number of Arsenault's back in Quebec" I ventured, "They are good people. So- ah, what time do you start work in the morning?" I asked.
"Why da-ya want ta know d'ese-'tings-fer-christ's-sake?" He demanded, all in one word, voice beginning to rise
Monty was gently starting to back out of the room.
"Monty - stay here for a second. This won't take long." I said.
"Mr. Arsenault you should expect to see me every morning as you start work. I'll have your coffee and newspaper all ready for you."
His eyes began to bulge.
"What d-y'a want?" He laughed, unsure of what the devil was going on.
"I want a job" I said.
"But d'ers no jobs." he retorted.
"That's precisely why you will see me every morning from now on. I will bring your coffee, newspaper, run errands, do what needs to be done. I will be your 'unpaid' assistant."
"I don't need any assistant". He roared, turning red almost to blue ... (blood pressure?).
"I can't pay you not'n anyways."
" That's OK ." I replied gently, " Something will turn up and when it does, perhaps you will think of me."
Next morning, we went back coffe and newspaper in hand- nothing. The door was locked from the inside.
We went back the day after -nothing. But this time the door was open.
On the third day -finally - a job..in Terrace down the track, a little west of Prince Rupert.
"OK, now you can get 'da hell outta my office and leave me alone." He said, sighing with some relief.
"Why?" I asked quietly, still sorting through some of his papers and moving his freshly cleaned mug and ashtray.
His jaw did a whip saw double-take. He could not believe what he was hearing.
"I gotta job for you! You fukin crazy or somtin'? " He shrieked.
" No, - you got Monty a job, and we thank you very much, so I'll see you tomorrow morning as usual, -until you get one for me."
H tried to swallow a choke or a gurgle.
He just stared at me and then at Monty and then back at me.
He just couldn't believe what was happening.
Monty gave me his last twenty dollars before getting on the train leaving Prince Rupert.
"Thanks - I 'll visit, but somehow, I don't think you will lack for 'friends' or enemies for that matter - so be careful."
The Tamper Machine, I shoveled gravel in front of for 8-10 hours a day.
The Federal Fisheries Boat that Scott Johnson worked on upon the Skeena River. I met him a month after I got my job.
The beautiful yet treacherous Skeena River
The Mobile Home four of my crew and I lived in at Tyee Station at the side of the track- which was the only thing in the station. It was more a 'stop' than a station.My Crew was composed of ex-soldiers from Portugal (some shell shocked I figure) after their respective terms in Mozambique after their days of colonialism had come to an end. We had Pakistanis and Sikhs in search of a better life. Oh yes, there were two bunks to a room. I had mine to myself for a few weeks, until a tall, mustachioed, muscle bound man stood in the doorway and noted my record player. He took over the other bunk.
I asked him how his left eye had clouded over to such a milky white -eclipsing all color?
"Oh it's dead, lost it in a prison riot." He peered at me from the good eye.
I could not think of a better time to put my girlfriend's picture up on the wall for all to see.
We used to enjoy going back into town to the tavern. It became rather activated when the Haida fisherman would come in after getting paid by the cannery for their catch. I learned to camp carefully with my glass of beer beneath the pool table until things would settle. Other rail guys used to be up for the fun.
Well that was a long time ago.
But I hear that either Beverly or Barbara Hague now run a fishing bout out that way. Remember Barbara's infectious giggle?
Wednesday, July 16, 2008
Sunday, July 13, 2008
Saturday, July 05, 2008
Step Around The Three Hundred Pound Elephant ...please.
-----------------------------------------------------------
"Yes, I have been in contact -with "X", by e-mail, over the past two years since before the reunion -every now and then." I responded.
He said, "I find that some people are really quite 'unique' when it comes to communications."
"How do you mean?" I asked
"Well ...in that they don't always answer or can't be depended upon to respond to my e-mail- even given that we are 'friends' or on a closer level than acquaintances.
I mean these are people who have a history with me and when I send an e-mail greeting, in some cases I don't get an acknowledgment. They don't even answer!" He said.
"Hmmm... I know for a fact that the ones you mentioned, have always considered you to be one of their "chosen" - not best buddies or lovers or anything like that, but close to the centre of their being, if you know what I mean."
"Well what is it with these people?" There was a slight touch of hurt in the voice.
"Are they just out-right rude or something?.. or is their silence supposed to 'be' the
"message-meaning-more-than-words" - like don't call me-I'll call you?" He ventured.
"I know what you mean - it can be quite perplexing, but- I think you may giving the 'lack of response' too much credit." I said. "I suspect that people these days are just really busy and probably this element is combined with a little complacence or mild laziness, since they know you and consider you a 'friend' and that you will know better."
"I mean, I think you are the type of person who, once you receive a communication, are very sensitive to proper communication protocals and get back to people very quickly. You, I suspect are the type who truly respects the nature of 'dialogue', in that, if one initiates communication with you, you owe them a response -and in good time, for anything else would be rude and a poor reflection on your character. But you also expect others -especially those who you deem as being special to you, to be LIKE YOU and behave 'in-kind'. And you get disappointed when they do not."
"All I know" he said, "is that some people are special to me and to get nothing in reply makes me wonder.
"What do you wonder?" I asked.
He paused and thought for a moment.
"Well in So-and-So's case, we had been kind of, close in high school and when I communicate with that person, it's like that "close" memory- is a 350 pound elephant sitting in the room and it must be tip-toed around- we or maybe, I, pretend it is not there since we are all grown now, even though I feel it's presence."
"Wait a minute" I said, "You are now talking about someone you went out with, or came close to doing so -or maybe you wanted to but it never did?"
"Yes." He replied
"So you figure then, that due to the 350 pound emotional memory elephant and underlying potential feelings, (that still could easily be there, if paid attention to,) but pretend are not, ... that So-And-So is in fact communicating with you by 'not' responding, - that maybe the message is -that they don't want to talk to you. So sometimes the elephant- potential feelings are too hard to ignore for them and that this elephant complicates the possibility of communicating with you -at this time?"
"Perhaps" He said.
"Hmmm - this is perplexing."
" On the other hand" he said, " When it comes to long distance e-mail communication with "friends from the past", I believe there are three types of communicators:
Firstly, those who were close and are responsible when it comes to communication.
Second - there are those who may have been close, but are poor communicators -that they do not respond in good time or at all, for various reasons -laziness, complacency and taking the relationship for granted -'You'll understand if I don't respond', or the 350 pound elephant factor causing fear in communicating. On a very subtle level they feel that by responding, it may tacitly imply acknowledgment of special feelings from the past...which complicate being "just good friends" nowadays.
"Third and lastly" He announced, "There are those who have always had dust-free, clean and neat simple lives with a plan - compulsively so; who have thrown into the trash can of obsolescence, everybody from the past. For them, the past does not exist. There is only "now".
These people are 'black and white' in nature. We recognize them from high school. They considered themselves "all-grown -up" and knew precisely what they wanted and have got it now - perhaps- and anything else is a distraction. Going to a reunion, would not be considered a worthy expenditure of what of their time -no offense intended, ...and you are simply a distraction, similar to distant relatives wasting time with well meaning innocuous chain e-mails - to be deleted immediately.
"Wow - you seem to have it all figured out!" I said.
"While I do not like the third group" he said, " I respect them since they are consistent. They never communictaed then and never will, although, I do feel very sorry for them since I suspect one day, when it is too late, they will wake up to the realization that they threw out that which may have mattered most."
"So you like group one and three, but you are perplexed by group two because they cannot conform to your sense of proper communication protocol or being afflicted by the 350 pound invisible elephant wish can be side stepped ever so gently."
"Yes" he said..." but an elephant -invisible or not- never forgets -especially when ignored!"
-----------------------------------------------------------
"Yes, I have been in contact -with "X", by e-mail, over the past two years since before the reunion -every now and then." I responded.
He said, "I find that some people are really quite 'unique' when it comes to communications."
"How do you mean?" I asked
"Well ...in that they don't always answer or can't be depended upon to respond to my e-mail- even given that we are 'friends' or on a closer level than acquaintances.
I mean these are people who have a history with me and when I send an e-mail greeting, in some cases I don't get an acknowledgment. They don't even answer!" He said.
"Hmmm... I know for a fact that the ones you mentioned, have always considered you to be one of their "chosen" - not best buddies or lovers or anything like that, but close to the centre of their being, if you know what I mean."
"Well what is it with these people?" There was a slight touch of hurt in the voice.
"Are they just out-right rude or something?.. or is their silence supposed to 'be' the
"message-meaning-more-than-words" - like don't call me-I'll call you?" He ventured.
"I know what you mean - it can be quite perplexing, but- I think you may giving the 'lack of response' too much credit." I said. "I suspect that people these days are just really busy and probably this element is combined with a little complacence or mild laziness, since they know you and consider you a 'friend' and that you will know better."
"I mean, I think you are the type of person who, once you receive a communication, are very sensitive to proper communication protocals and get back to people very quickly. You, I suspect are the type who truly respects the nature of 'dialogue', in that, if one initiates communication with you, you owe them a response -and in good time, for anything else would be rude and a poor reflection on your character. But you also expect others -especially those who you deem as being special to you, to be LIKE YOU and behave 'in-kind'. And you get disappointed when they do not."
"All I know" he said, "is that some people are special to me and to get nothing in reply makes me wonder.
"What do you wonder?" I asked.
He paused and thought for a moment.
"Well in So-and-So's case, we had been kind of, close in high school and when I communicate with that person, it's like that "close" memory- is a 350 pound elephant sitting in the room and it must be tip-toed around- we or maybe, I, pretend it is not there since we are all grown now, even though I feel it's presence."
"Wait a minute" I said, "You are now talking about someone you went out with, or came close to doing so -or maybe you wanted to but it never did?"
"Yes." He replied
"So you figure then, that due to the 350 pound emotional memory elephant and underlying potential feelings, (that still could easily be there, if paid attention to,) but pretend are not, ... that So-And-So is in fact communicating with you by 'not' responding, - that maybe the message is -that they don't want to talk to you. So sometimes the elephant- potential feelings are too hard to ignore for them and that this elephant complicates the possibility of communicating with you -at this time?"
"Perhaps" He said.
"Hmmm - this is perplexing."
" On the other hand" he said, " When it comes to long distance e-mail communication with "friends from the past", I believe there are three types of communicators:
Firstly, those who were close and are responsible when it comes to communication.
Second - there are those who may have been close, but are poor communicators -that they do not respond in good time or at all, for various reasons -laziness, complacency and taking the relationship for granted -'You'll understand if I don't respond', or the 350 pound elephant factor causing fear in communicating. On a very subtle level they feel that by responding, it may tacitly imply acknowledgment of special feelings from the past...which complicate being "just good friends" nowadays.
"Third and lastly" He announced, "There are those who have always had dust-free, clean and neat simple lives with a plan - compulsively so; who have thrown into the trash can of obsolescence, everybody from the past. For them, the past does not exist. There is only "now".
These people are 'black and white' in nature. We recognize them from high school. They considered themselves "all-grown -up" and knew precisely what they wanted and have got it now - perhaps- and anything else is a distraction. Going to a reunion, would not be considered a worthy expenditure of what of their time -no offense intended, ...and you are simply a distraction, similar to distant relatives wasting time with well meaning innocuous chain e-mails - to be deleted immediately.
"Wow - you seem to have it all figured out!" I said.
"While I do not like the third group" he said, " I respect them since they are consistent. They never communictaed then and never will, although, I do feel very sorry for them since I suspect one day, when it is too late, they will wake up to the realization that they threw out that which may have mattered most."
"So you like group one and three, but you are perplexed by group two because they cannot conform to your sense of proper communication protocol or being afflicted by the 350 pound invisible elephant wish can be side stepped ever so gently."
"Yes" he said..." but an elephant -invisible or not- never forgets -especially when ignored!"
Thursday, June 12, 2008
Variety at OLPH
Recently I went to the OLPH church up the street from the school to film my son, nephew and my sister sing and play guitar.
In that show were some familiar McNamee and Maude Family entertainers.
Here is their " I Wanna Be On Oprah" song written by Kathleen McNamee. They still have their harmonies.
So instead of Oprah, they are on The HSB Reunion72 and Friends Blog.
L
Recently I went to the OLPH church up the street from the school to film my son, nephew and my sister sing and play guitar.
In that show were some familiar McNamee and Maude Family entertainers.
Here is their " I Wanna Be On Oprah" song written by Kathleen McNamee. They still have their harmonies.
So instead of Oprah, they are on The HSB Reunion72 and Friends Blog.
L
Wednesday, June 11, 2008
Every Now And Again (Revision).
So this person says to me..."It's 'the' classic case of bad timing,
or, perhaps the right time has simply not yet arrived.
I live in hopes. But I believe that a past 'true-love' and I are destined to somehow meet again."
"Really?" I said, "You believe in that old proverbial fairy-tale?"
" Well, - during high-school and after, any time I was 'uncommitted or not-going-out-with' someone, the person I really wanted, was either in love with, committed to, 'or going-out-with' someone else and/or had dropped off the grid of my awareness.
Throughout my life, that person has been in the back of my mind and every so often peaks through my dreams."
"Well, have you ever tried to connect in some way?"I asked.
"Yes - and I intentionally went to the reunion to see if that person would come too."
"And..." I continued.
"And nothing. They did not show.
"But are you unhappy?" I asked.
"No - I love the person I am married to and love my family.
It's just this nagging feeling in my heart, of something not complete, something special that might have been, or still might be -in the future."
"But if you are happy now, and with Family and you Love your spouse, what would happen if that special someone from your past suddenly showed up?"
"Oh God- That would not be good, I mean, as much as I yearn to see that special person again, - uh, no-the time is not right. I would hope that would not happen. What a mess!"
"Then you know why that person did not show, at the Reunion."
"I suppose you might be right." Anonymous said.
"But then, do you suppose that person feels the same way you do?" I asked.
"I really don't know at this point, although some time after high-school, we met and they said, that they had wanted to be with me too - but I was always with someone else when they were free or they were with someone else when I was free. So, as for now how they might feel, you never know, perhaps they do. But of course this could all be my romantic wishful thinking - but a lovely thought, just the same."
"Well, I think you're lucky in a way, since you have that little nagging hope and fantasy that keeps you dreaming and -occasionally wistfully thinking about some magic time and place which has yet to be or may never be, but in itself, is like a picture in the wallet - nice to have; -your private spot."
"Just think," I continued, "There are those from our past, who did marry their one true love from high-school and that was it.
There is no one else. They are either happy -or not.
And if not, perhaps they are wrestling with the conundrum of having gotten who they wanted, - but have grown away from.
Conversely, they may be contented and very happy and that's it.
But you, on the other hand, have something extra -as yet unspoiled by reality or your own human foibles and foolishness, (or theirs), -pristine, unwrapped and always fresh! And just think- you haven't seen them since College....would you really like to meet now? Would you like to give up the fantasy so readily?
Anonymous replied, while looking off in the distance, "These days - in our fifties, I'm pleased to be in good health and with certain means. And I hope that person and I, do meet,-at least one more time before we die. Until then, you are right, I still have my dreams -where that person shows up 'in the guise of youth' ...every now and again....
...But I have learned over time -through my spouse, to understand, that the outer crust of being, is not as important as the magic that attracted me in the first place, that is always there - a side glance, their smile, their laugh and their company.
So for the one from my past, - perhaps we were simply destined to appreciate the magic moments in each other's passing."
"That's a nice thought" I said, "but I bet you still live in hopes."
So this person says to me..."It's 'the' classic case of bad timing,
or, perhaps the right time has simply not yet arrived.
I live in hopes. But I believe that a past 'true-love' and I are destined to somehow meet again."
"Really?" I said, "You believe in that old proverbial fairy-tale?"
" Well, - during high-school and after, any time I was 'uncommitted or not-going-out-with' someone, the person I really wanted, was either in love with, committed to, 'or going-out-with' someone else and/or had dropped off the grid of my awareness.
Throughout my life, that person has been in the back of my mind and every so often peaks through my dreams."
"Well, have you ever tried to connect in some way?"I asked.
"Yes - and I intentionally went to the reunion to see if that person would come too."
"And..." I continued.
"And nothing. They did not show.
"But are you unhappy?" I asked.
"No - I love the person I am married to and love my family.
It's just this nagging feeling in my heart, of something not complete, something special that might have been, or still might be -in the future."
"But if you are happy now, and with Family and you Love your spouse, what would happen if that special someone from your past suddenly showed up?"
"Oh God- That would not be good, I mean, as much as I yearn to see that special person again, - uh, no-the time is not right. I would hope that would not happen. What a mess!"
"Then you know why that person did not show, at the Reunion."
"I suppose you might be right." Anonymous said.
"But then, do you suppose that person feels the same way you do?" I asked.
"I really don't know at this point, although some time after high-school, we met and they said, that they had wanted to be with me too - but I was always with someone else when they were free or they were with someone else when I was free. So, as for now how they might feel, you never know, perhaps they do. But of course this could all be my romantic wishful thinking - but a lovely thought, just the same."
"Well, I think you're lucky in a way, since you have that little nagging hope and fantasy that keeps you dreaming and -occasionally wistfully thinking about some magic time and place which has yet to be or may never be, but in itself, is like a picture in the wallet - nice to have; -your private spot."
"Just think," I continued, "There are those from our past, who did marry their one true love from high-school and that was it.
There is no one else. They are either happy -or not.
And if not, perhaps they are wrestling with the conundrum of having gotten who they wanted, - but have grown away from.
Conversely, they may be contented and very happy and that's it.
But you, on the other hand, have something extra -as yet unspoiled by reality or your own human foibles and foolishness, (or theirs), -pristine, unwrapped and always fresh! And just think- you haven't seen them since College....would you really like to meet now? Would you like to give up the fantasy so readily?
Anonymous replied, while looking off in the distance, "These days - in our fifties, I'm pleased to be in good health and with certain means. And I hope that person and I, do meet,-at least one more time before we die. Until then, you are right, I still have my dreams -where that person shows up 'in the guise of youth' ...every now and again....
...But I have learned over time -through my spouse, to understand, that the outer crust of being, is not as important as the magic that attracted me in the first place, that is always there - a side glance, their smile, their laugh and their company.
So for the one from my past, - perhaps we were simply destined to appreciate the magic moments in each other's passing."
"That's a nice thought" I said, "but I bet you still live in hopes."
Sunday, June 01, 2008
Rick Kilpatrick and his Masters of Writing!
...a pre-grad photo of me getting the award I mentioned, and a 2nd photo of me in grad garb with two of my sisters, Karen and Debbie (my mom hurt her leg and couldn't come). Also, here is a link from a professional service affiliated with the school that has 2 photos of me walking (well, technically, I'm standing in one and shaking the dean's hand in the other).
Well Done Rick...
wait until our old English teacher Miss. Green sees this...
and realizes you now understand the meaning of denoument.
L
...a pre-grad photo of me getting the award I mentioned, and a 2nd photo of me in grad garb with two of my sisters, Karen and Debbie (my mom hurt her leg and couldn't come). Also, here is a link from a professional service affiliated with the school that has 2 photos of me walking (well, technically, I'm standing in one and shaking the dean's hand in the other).
Well Done Rick...
wait until our old English teacher Miss. Green sees this...
and realizes you now understand the meaning of denoument.
L
Friday, May 16, 2008
Monday, May 12, 2008
The Essential Rick Rankin
These days, Rick lives with his wife Lesley in Ontario. He clearly lucked out as she is personable, intelligent and a fine looking. They are both Lawyers by profession.
He still has his wonderful sense of humor, demeanor and heart. But while he has kept most of his youthful features, I don't think he wears over-alls anymore.
But in my minds eye, this is how I will always see our old friend. And nothing will ever change that image.
Lorraine R. D'Aguilar sent Rick this picture after the reunion last May07 and he sent it on to to me.
If you have any pictures of yourself or other friends from back in 1968-75 range, before during or even after high-school into college days, send them to me - I'll post them here.
Send them as jpeg images attached to an e-mail to the hotmail address listed above on this blog.
These days, Rick lives with his wife Lesley in Ontario. He clearly lucked out as she is personable, intelligent and a fine looking. They are both Lawyers by profession.
He still has his wonderful sense of humor, demeanor and heart. But while he has kept most of his youthful features, I don't think he wears over-alls anymore.
But in my minds eye, this is how I will always see our old friend. And nothing will ever change that image.
Lorraine R. D'Aguilar sent Rick this picture after the reunion last May07 and he sent it on to to me.
If you have any pictures of yourself or other friends from back in 1968-75 range, before during or even after high-school into college days, send them to me - I'll post them here.
Send them as jpeg images attached to an e-mail to the hotmail address listed above on this blog.
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