Fred Left us this week. Well Fred - Your last years in the end were not the easiest for you to bear. And you never really complained. You stayed in touch with Jimmy Williams and with me collaberated sometimes on some writing projects.

Despite the distance from us you were a dear and wonderful friend.

In Highschool and afterwards be it in your music, humour, thought provoking articles on CBC, jamming (Season of the Witch at the Carnival by the arena or out at Bill Howes in Gaspe) simply 'hanging out', -your soul shone.

Fred Sailor you were one of the most philisophically cool people I had ever met.
I know a bit of you will always be with us. You gifted us with your presence.
Fly on Godfrey.
We'll miss you.
Les

Black and White and shades of gray.
Barry Jones, Steve Poirier, Scott Johnson.

(I'm afraid I cannot remember the name of the person sitting beside Scott Johnson.)

This is extracted from a class picture from grade 8 if I am not mistaken.

Photography is fascinating. It captures a moment and beyond that, it chrystalizes certain character traits and moods.

What makes a place a home territory?
Perhaps it's a time and not the place in and of itself?

I remember first moving to Chateauguay in 1963 in wicked mid February.

My parents purchased a model home next to and slightly to the side of Seigneury Park Country Club. The roads were full of pot holes then and the the trees were many. It was a very new development with some very new home models -more vertical in orientation rather than the spread of a New England or Ocean side bungalo. They were novel for Chateauguay.

After a number of years, this area became home to me and the centre of my being with many friends and acquaintences. The neighborhood community was focussed upon the pool and club house both in winter and summer.

I found that the rest of Chateauguay with it's separate neighborhoods - Colonia, Terrace, Parkview, The Heights, West End. Chateauguay North , The Basin all had similar cohesion and I believe it was due to the community activities surrounding water, pools, canoes, and rinks. But in each area I entered, I felt like a stranger. These places were not home to me and not until very much later in high school did I feel that greater Chateauguay was part of my being. This was of course, due to the fact that I was becoming more aware of other neighborhoods outside our collective environment - Ville de Lery, Woodlands, Maple Grove, Beauharnois to the west and Kahnawake to the North East.

Once again, as I ventured forth and met new friends in their domains I felt as a stranger in strange lands, pushing the limits of my awareness yet at the same time causing me to take posession in a sense, of Chateauguay as a whole with it's differing neighborhood parts.

By discovering outsiders and new places, Chateuaguy as a whole was becoming smaller to me and far more comfortable as names such as Houston, Hillock, Moody, Cushing from WestEnd or D'Aguilar, Mitchell and McGurk over by des Marguerites past the Centre or, Doumaraesque, Martin, Duchene, Holt, Kaye, Birch, Packer, Leroux, Robichaude, Starkey in Colonia, Ranger, Bushe, Deliva, Daze, Garnier, Craig, Ross, Crawford, Sailor, in Parkview, Perry, Fletcher, Farmer, Bissonette, Rennie, Hewitt, Poirier, Toth, Jones, McManus, and Gulkin in Seigneury Park, Finnerty, Wilding, Larsen and Birch in Northern Circle and Oliver, Boshart, Hart, Gilmore, Butt, Artagnon, Behrens, Mountain, Stuart, Rankin, Riley and Reid in the Heights and many others gave shape and texture if not a wonderful character to the Chateauguay we called home.

Today I was cycling around the bike paths of Chateauguay with Jane pointing out things which mark my memory.

I pointed out what used to be the pool at Seigniroy Park now buried beneath a Hyundai dealership. We passed through Colonia on Craik street where there was eveidence of a pool where the ball park still stands.

We returned to the Terrace, passing by the two new houses which sit atop what used to be the baby pool their respective back yards with fresh green sods covering the memories of the shallow end and deep end of our old community Terrace pool.

We stopped our bikes and remembered how Dave Maclean, myself along with Danny Cooney, Peter MacHardy, Peter Roy and many others from the neighborhood (Bobbit, Gurholt, Meaney) year after year ran that community pool with it's outdoor activities- swim lessons, racing team, camp nights, movie nights and dances.

"God we were lucky." Jane said . "Our kids were lucky. Nowadays there are pools in many back yards. And people have their own private domains just outside the back door."

This, while not bad, is not quite as good as what the children once had.

There is something to be said for heat build-up, the walk or ride over to the local pool, nearing it, the screams of excited children, whistles of the life guards, the sound system with the latest songs, 'eau de pool water' blended with fragrance of ice cream, popsicles, hot dogs and suntan lotion. You just never knew who would turn up at the pool.

And there was something else too- something significant. Older people would talk to younger ones. We were all together and exposed to varied social, cultural elements; English, French, men women, boys, girls, small, big, shaply or not, white, black, rich and poor - we were all together at our community watering hole, which helped to develop our outer natures as community beings.

But nothing could beat just lying on the hot concrete as the sun baked the water off one's browning limbs as we talked with our summer friends. It made going home in the evening all the better after a bar-b-q at the pool.

It just seems that Chateauguay and all developments with community pools were enriched - the whole being far greater than the parts. There was a belonging where now there is fragmentation.

I do not know if the Canoe Club still exists or not. I often hear stories of the times the people of 'the heights' had over there. I never really knew about this place until later. Most unfortunate. But I did belong to the Carlyle Tennis Club. Herbie Hart taught me how to serve!

There was a magic in the summer for many of us, perhaps the magic of a time. But I'm afraid that -that time -has gone.

Ah -but we can remember!

Jacob Sings "Over Malta"

This clip is taken at the "Grannies For Africa" Beaver Lake Picnic

Jan McConnell, Dr.Klaus Mindi, Dr.Nina Mindi, Linda, Hazel Finlay appear as Jacob sings one of his originals. He did a set of 10 songs ranging from covers to his own works.

Grannies from Canada along with the Stephen Lewis Foundation send supplies and support to the Grannies in Africa who have become the parents to Grandchildren. The Parents of the children have been massacred by AIDS. A whole strata of their society has simply vanished and continues to vaporize. While the cure exists to a great extent and the preventive knowledge is there, cultural, economic, commercial, physical and political realities subvert the timing of solution.

Life is short

and fragile.

Take care of the gift -the spark inside you

and those sparks inside the ones

who care for you.

As the trajectory

of the firefly etched upon the dark

or shooting star upon the night

the way is lit but not long

to our sight.

Take no one you love

for granted -

treasure, share and respect each moment of their being.

Avoid those things that would cause you

to lose your way.

LM

Happy Birthday Barry Jones
(Nice to See all the Jones clan and some friends Sharon, Greg and Tom.)

We now have kittens!

Do You Know the Inner You?
(I ask myself...)

So, how can one change the world if you have no controls on the world within?

If the outer YOU is nothing more than a 'persona', connected to the outer world through behavioral responses we like to call 'personality', then who or what is inside, driving this outer presentation shell?

Have you taken the quiet time to get to know that inner self?

Or is that "inner being" doing things in a reactive pre-programmed way? You know, -go to work, make money, pay the mortgage, buy food, meet Mr. or Mrs. Right, have children (fulfilling the prime objective), then get fancy by becoming competitive to see how much better than others one can be at growing our own little ball of dung and perhaps doing some traveling?

That stuff is there by default, part of the prime objective.

I suspect there is something more once we get to know the inner essence that drives the vehicle of our body.

Since the "thinking I " is the inner being, and not simply the ego sensor that perceives the world, the key would be to develop methods of being in control of this "I "; to minimize the reactive and accentuate the proactive. Say like knowing through our collected information that smoking is not good for the body.

Pro Active is actually being at the inner center of self and making positive healthy decisions that lead to positive healthy action. It is taking control of self.

Pro-active is overcoming the 'temptation' to have another chocolate chip cookie when no one is looking, or understanding that by smoking, one is simply a part of the cash flow equation for a cigarette company while slowly killing oneself.

Pro-active is deciding to get in shape and then taking the right actions.

Pro-active is taking one's life in hand and doing the best that one can do with it.

Pro-active is refusing to give in to the temptation that delusion offers -saying one is too old to lose excess weight, or "this is the way I am so if you don't like it bug off".

Pro-active is turning off the TV and writing the book, screen play, calling your relative who you know would love to hear from you, doing some simple stretching, or walking or training to run a marathon.

Pro-active is consciously acknowledging you have a habit of eating chips, drinking beer and then making the decision to stop.

The big problem is, that if we cannot take control of ourselves and save our own inner and outer world, how can we ever hope to change the the earth? The scientists and activated individuals cannot do it by themselves. We cannot just let others do it. We are all part of the greater whole.

What do we want to teach our children?
- That we inevitably are going to kill ourselves and our planet so get used to it?
Or is there something else we can do?
I suspect it begins with acheiveing the little things within the self.

Can you quit smoking? Can you exercise?
Can you control the temptation to say something bitchy or to laugh at someone else?
Can you stop the small habits that lead to big problems later?

I suspect that by setting these kinds of goals from the simple to the more demanding, we learn the power of "NO" with temptation and earn the discipline to take control of ourselves. I am inspired to run by the lesson my fifty-two year old sister Gaye has shown - running the Boston Marathon -twice! Up until a few years ago she never ran at all.



These are some of the things that I hope are being taught in school these days... understanding who and what the inner being is and the relationship that exists between it and the planet.

Center Circle

Have you ever taken a quiet moment to ask yourself Who you are?

Think about it for a moment.

Our outside persona is made up of a transport system, equipped with tools that enable us to travel and gather data about our world. We 'do' all kinds of things and collect experience like ants collecting prize bits of leaves or chunks of cookie droppings.

The data is transmitted bio-electronically through to our central processing units (brain) for decision making.

Our primary 'goal-setting default or bias' is biologically 'set' towards continuing the species and surviving individually. Emphasis on "individually".

Our 'ambulatory' or walking transport systems have a fuel entry point and a spent fuel refuse ejection system.

We are gifted with arms and hands to manipulate the world around us and our meagre creations and re-creations. Our eyes and noses further refine the vision, quantifying and qualifying our findings, the most notable saved for adulation, discussion and academic digestion.

But all this describes the outer shell of our 'being'.

So who are we?

We are individually oriented so that as we attain our inevitable passing from this sphere, those left behind can continue on without too much bother.

We are therefore 'self centric' and endeavor to be self sufficient within the systems we have created for ourselves on this planet. Again, the outside 'shell'.

Who am i?
If my body (and it's internal parts that support the ambulatory vehicle) make up the outer side of a circle, the inner me would be the inside of the circle.

So the 'i' or inner voice within the circle would be the center transmitting desire and direction to the outer me via synaptic pathways . But 'who', is that 'i' or inner voice?

Where does it live?
In the brain? The heart? The chakras? The solar plexus?

That 'consciousness' carried about within the bony container, the 'i' or 'me' cannot be seen.

It,-- that invisible center of the inner circle, is evident, only so long as the outer shell is 'alive'.

So, that consciousness at the center within, drives the outer vehicle- with the intent of getting from here to there through space to achieve self oriented goals of survival and continuation as a point of necessity.

Is that inner 'me'-- my personality? Soul? Spirit? or just arbitrary electrical impulses?

Once I stop 'doing', cease activity, calming the outer and inner motion, who am I?
Yes- the outer shell is still recognized by others by it's given name, social status and difference to others. But what of the inner core?

Have you ever tried to - stop all doing- even for 30 seconds?

Try it! Stop all movement, seeing/looking, talking, thinking, planning next steps -all activity... except for breathing.

Now shine the flashlight of your mind on where the identity of 'you' is .

Where are "you"? - locate it .

Stop the needs voices " What shall I make for dinner, I wonder if he/ she still loves me, What should I get at IGA...stop shhhh! (Make the thoughts stop just for a few seconds. )

Where is the 'i'? Where does it go when your body sleeps?
The outer identity vehicle is in bed...but where is the 'i'?
Perhaps the question might better be...'What' is 'i'.

I 'think' I know you. You 'think' you know me.
How presumptuous of us all! I am still trying to understand who or what I am and where my 'attitude' originates. Why do I knee jerk 'react' to some things while with others I am able to calmly 'respond' with applied inner discipline?

Such clever beings are we, gifted with the ability to 'discern' that which is agreeable and that which is not...gifted with the ability to choose what action we will apply in this life and those actions we will not.

What is the purpose of 'i'...
another question...
How will WE save our world?

Once Upon a Trek To Lery

Dial a Picture? and other reflections...











Transcendent Lines of Ascension.











Don't try to find a corner in this building.

Good Neighbors in Our Home Town















Mrs. Gurholt and Mr.Gurholt




Mrs. Bobbitt

Roddy and Jim Cuddy (Blue Rodeo) ...don't they need someone new on Keyboards?

Roddy McManus giving George the pleasure of his company.
Well done Roddy!
Les

All That Glitters is Not...

What is it about the past that has us so fascinated?

On Facebook we are fascinated and amused, for a short while at least- especially with the pictures. This place allows one to be a social voyeur, peering at pictures of those we knew or sometimes thought we might have considered 'getting to know' - but way back then.

Reality hits home and quickly. Those people are just not adding up to how we see them in our memory mind's eye. They have become older, mundane and far less fascinating. In short, (I) we have become, dare I say it, -'normal' in our middle to upper middle age. Many of us are down right boring compared to the Shakespearian Midsummer night's Dream- like hyper sexual selves we flaunted from the Age of Aquarius. (Steve Poirier is now saying -"Speak for yourself".) But those inner fantasy projections were worn by youthful beings striving and rebelling to emerge from a chrysalis childhood to a new world of awareness yet having to wear school uniform and keep hair short.

So therein lies the rub! The real nostalgia is about who we once were and not who we are now. It is perhaps about who we wanted to be and how we wanted to be seen.

I guess this is why a reunion is most effective perhaps every ten years or so and not every two or three. At age 16, fundamental change occurs every two weeks or so while at age 45 and onward change is somewhat less sought after. (I am a rock, I am an island -and an island never cries.)

The memories are golden or horrific depending upon the reality that we sprang from. And there is no going back. That is the value of memory. (All That Rises Must Converge.)

Greeting/'poking' people with ditty Facebook comments replaces taking a walk in the Chateauguay Shopping Centre ('mall' nowadays) or strolling down the hall back in Billings-mode, familiar faces passing by. But if they were never really your friends or even acquaintances, you're not about to invite them home right? One can nod and just keep on going. Actually not so with Facebook, depending on how you set it up, your family life and pictures and real friends are now open to others to gawk (or steal pictures without asking) whether you like it or not.

Hmmmm time to adjust my FB settings.

To remember in a moment of nostalgia is one thing. To meet up with those who never really had anything in common(in cyberspace), is something else indeed. ('Un Nouveau Monde', mais faux!) It distracts from the activities in life that we really value - that is, if one has a life with valued activities.

But then my real friends communicate by phone or direct e-mail or yes!- even hand written mail which still contains it's archaic charm.

A Whispered Dream

Sometimes
I close my eyes
and I'm back there.

The night closes in
and the magic plays
and I'm back there.

Sunshine On Your Love
Born to Run, Thunder road,
And I'm back there.

I'm on the bus
I'm in the pines or behind the trains
And I'm back there.

I smell your hair,
the autumn to winter air
And I'm back there.

The waxed floors in the halls
The lockers, the dance, the high gym walls.
And I'm back there.

The twinkle smile in your eyes-
the moment frozen and with you, gone.
And I'm back there.

L.McConnell
March 4 2009 link to 1969-70-71 & 72

Crock Pot Tru-isms

There are truisms that I bump into from time to time, like, turn on a light before entering a room.

Tru-isms: Something basic we learn by experience even though others may have told us already when we weren't listening.

I am going through a phase lately, which Jane is thoroughly enjoying, the discovery of the forgiving art of the slow cooker. I know. You're thinking , " it's about time."

If you're male and reading this, you probably discovered Crock Pot Cooking years ago. "As easy as BBQ-ing," you might say.

I wish I discovered the process 31 years ago when living in my lonely city apartment while studying at McGill!

Imagine buying the cheapest cut of tough meat, tossing it into a pot with chopped onions, carrots, potato, celery, a little salt, pepper, garlic or even a dried soup mix and some water, leaving it to cook 8 hours while out and doing your thing. Simple. Now imagine returning home. It smells like mother has sneaked in to cook Sunday meal, old home comfort style.

Anyway, I'm new at this game trying out different recipes.

During my CEGEP days, I was very fortunate to have a Jewish girlfriend and discover her mother's cooking. In my family, Pot Roast was the big deal while hers was Brisket.

If you don't know what a Brisket is, it's the same cut as smoked meat. You like smoked meat? A nicely done 'Brisket' is 'to die' for. Oh gosh- I can feel my 'goi-ish' side falling and the Jew in me emerging. You didn't know that I am part Jewish did you? Surprise! It was a surprise to me too. But that's another story.

Oh yes,- the Crock Pot and 'truisms'.

I ended up marrying one of the finest Shiksas (Non Jewish Girls) I ever met. As a result, it has been some time since my last brisket meal...not including smoked meat sandwiches which don't count.

Since I now know that I am G-d's gift to the kitchen - after all, I created my very first crock pot Stew only last week, I figured I would graduate to something more adventurous.

Yesterday, recipe in hand I made my way out to the supermarket, negotiating between wheeled wire baskets, meandering men eying younger women and wives deciding upon five or ten grain breads. Yes, I strode with purpose through IGA, empowered by my new found sense of culinary prowess, bent on my quest for the perfect Brisket.

You can imagine my distress when the butcher said, "Sorry, we don't sell those cuts of meat here."

"Aha... discrimination!" I thought. But no. Only small butcher shops supply these cuts.

The gentleman with the hair-net gave me directions to where I might find such an establishment. I bet I could get a Brisket faster at the Atwater market or on 'the Main' near Moishe's at Warshaw's if still open,-but never mind, next week for that.

I made my way up the street and around the corner once again imbued with confidence, to present myself to a more powerful wizard of the macabre arts of meat cutting .

"Brisket?" he looked back at me wide eyed. Clearly I had upset some arcane protocol.

"You mean 'fresh' Brisket?" His brow furrowed.

"Yes." I said sincerely holding up my little recipe as one might hold forth a crucifix to the heathen.

"Not 'marinated' or 'smoked'?" He looked hopeful for a moment.

"Oh, uh, no. Fresh please." I crumpled my holy relic and shoved it into the depths of the of my pocket.

"If you order it I'll receive it next day."

I looked down, scratched my head in wonderment as this man waited for my answer.

I recalled this exact feeling, when attempting a move in a game of chess against one who had the good sense to know how to play in the first place.

As I searched for a handy chess board to overturn, I caught sight of a small tag. It was under the glass counter, positioned below a beautiful hunk of meat which had been all tied up so it couldn't run away.
On the tag written in some ancient perhaps Aramaic script was "POT ROAST". I felt a little like Alice in Wonderland.

Remembering having spied a Pot Roast right next to that of my Brisket in the recipe listing at home, I pointed. "Give me that!"

"Ah. The Pot Roast!" exclaimed the butcher now within his realm of cultural expertise, " The perfect meat for the slow cooker. You cannot go wrong with that." He smiled. I had clearly made his day.

A lady to my left seemed to turn away from me, her shoulders making small movements inside her fur coat as if trying desperately to squeeze in a sneeze or some other passing tremor.

I, new proud owner of a five pound bouncing 'Roast Beast' returned home, tucked it snugly into the refrigerator with all the other ingredients, resolved to prep later in the evening.

Jane and I proceeded out to my parent's for a birthday celebration. Later we arrived back exhausted, not in any mood to face off with an onion or meat. "I'll do the prep for the slow cooker in the morning".

The problem when learning something new, without having taken lessons or spending time doing proper research, is the process of finding out later through 'Eureka!' moments, that certain emerging patterns do make sense despite what we may think.

If you were to glance at various Crock Pot cook books, you would notice a pattern. They always say to prepare the night before and only next morning throw everything in the pot. Easy. They do not say in big bold letters why you should not do everything at once.

Morning arrived. I entered the Kitchen re-energized, the rack of dishes dry, a small amount of dirty dishes on the counter awaiting the next wash session. I pulled out the celery, carrots, onions, potatoes.

Chop chop chop. Easy.

Next, I pulled out the clunker eight pound iron frying pan, turned it on high and added the oil, to 'brown the meat'.

I located the recipe for Pot Roast and put aside the one for Brisket. Every thing was ready.

I put the Crock Pot on the counter and took the meat out of the fridge shifting it onto the sizzling pan with a spatula and fork.

"OOOPs."

Quickly opening the window, then running to open the front door, I let the smoke escape. Everything was soon under control, fork and wooden spatula in hand, having turned the heat down, the 'browning' of the pot roast on-going.

"Alright! What a pro!" I congratulated myself.

OK, next..uh - oh yeah- follow the steps in the recipe.

'..put the roast into the pot.' -check.
'..put chopped vegetables in the pot.' -che.... what the hell?
There was no room for the chopped veggies!

I grabbed the spatula and fork, stabbing the carcus, I pried it from the the pot, flinging it onto the cutting board while gaining elbow room on the counter by employing an elegant 'foot-ball straight-arm' gesture, sweeping the dirty dishes with minimal application of force to the wall .
"Jane would be getting up soon." I thought.

"Eureka!" It was one of those revelations. A five pound pot roast is just 'not' the same shape as a five pound Brisket. Therefore, as per the Brisket recipe it cannot be 'folded' into the pot let alone allow room for 3 cups of water and veggies. "

So lessons for the day, as I take refuge in my office downstairs safely behind my computer, are...

1) KISS rules to apply, (Keep It Simple Stupid!)
2) Don't mix metaphors or recipes.
3) Make sure your kitchen area is clean and ready for you. No lagging dishes!
4) Envision and think through the process a few times before doing!
5) Keep preparation 'grunt work' to the night before. This keeps the 'day after' stage, nice and easy.
6) Look at the size of the pot and compare to the size of the roast before all else.
7) Run the process by Jane first.

I suspect, I would have been much better off, if back in high-school, I had opted for Miss. Green's Home Ec. class, rather than the Agriculture class with H.Gordon Green. But in his class we heard stories of bulls testicles 'this big', being hung above the barn door and he would casually refer to dangling parts on cows while hinting at the female anatomy of our species, all without sounding salacious.

But what of the Crock-Pot and the Pot Roast?
Oh that. Well It's upstairs bubbling away.
One of the hints the cook book says- Do not to lift the lid to smell the progress.
I don't know...maybe just a little...

Dream Scape

During Cegep years 1973/74, I took a course on writing.

The teacher, David Gray, told us that it is best to write from experience.

Since our life experience was limited he said, "Keep a little notebook beside your bed. Upon awakening, quickly jot down, in point form, elements from your dreams. Later, time permitting, read the notes and most of it will come back to you. Then write about your dream. You may even find the seeds of good stories there. After all you really do experience the dream fabric."

The interesting thing about dream catching, as far as it relates to this blog, is that there are many of you who make occasional appearances in my dreams.

Richard Rankin's 'invisible elephant' notwithstanding, I think I might include a few of these in the blog. (For Richard's 'Invisible Elephant' go further back to the spring or summer in this blog.)

If you have some of your own you would like to tell me about, please feel free. I will not write about them in the blog unless you give me permission to do so.

Remember the song "Good Night Irene" (...I'll see you in my dreams...) or even Roy Orbisson's, Dream (In dream I walk with you, In dream I talk with you.)

I wonder if our dream life becomes a more significant part of our existence as we age, or as we lose our family, or why some people show up in my dreams and not others.

While Freud's theories on dream tend to be discounted, Carl Jung's theory, says that all facets of a dream are aspects of the dreamer. Yet the lingering questions might be- why a specific place or person? Ah! Now that would be telling.
----------
Welcome to my world.
------------------
So, in last night's dreamscape ...

I am on St.Francis Street cradling a baby in my arms as I walk towards the highway -St. Jean Babtiste. The baby must be a newborn infant as it is very light to hold and is completely covered in a blanket. It does not cry or make any movement.

Seigniory Park Country Club is on my left.

I enter the front parking lot. People are streaming out from the gate.

Walking towards me, is a 17 year old Linda Baron.

The realization that this is a dream, emerges, since I knew Linda at an even older age when we were in Cegep. But then, perhaps she has a daughter? I then remember that Seigniory Park has been plowed under for many years, so this cannot be taking place in the conscious world.

I continue to walk inward against the flow of exiting people .

Linda walks right up to me. "Linda, - wow! How are you?"
"I'm sorry" she says, "That is not my name."

She begins to change.

"Oh, sorry." I walk on.

Passing by on my right and further over in the crowd, I see Hubert Jenosh.
I have not seen him since grade 8 or 9.

There are too many people between us for me to try to go over and I don't want to accidently crunch the baby in my arms by negotiating my way through the crowd. He does not see me.

I continue on.
End.
-----------

Perhaps next time I'll tell the one about what I found in the massive crater on Craik Street over near where the Colonia Pool used to be.
-------------------

By the way all - Happy New Year.

The Long Road to Nowhere


(... a time of Maple School and Chateauguay High)


Mr.Peterson pushed the bar down with a slam opening the door.

"Come on boys, get moving."

Warm air was sucked out of Maple School by the deep February freeze.

We scrambled across the no-mans-land separating Maple from Chateauguay High, our blue shorts, t-shirts, pungent traces of locker room sweat and unwashed socks in our wake, the compact ice crust beneath our sneakers squeaking.

With pained expression, Mr.Plewinski held the door open across the yard.
"Hey you! Skinny! Get you-self moving!"
Roddy's glasses fogged up upon entry.

The fragrance of floor wax and detergent welcomed our stomping feet as we passed the T.D. class on the right. Tradition was upheld as our gaggle of thirteen year-olds booed and screeched up the unlit winding staircase to emerge within the "Old Gym".

Steve motioned to Bobby. Bobby knelt behind Barry. Just one nudge was all it took. Barry flew eyes wide in disbelief following the trajectory of his feet above his head, crashing onto the floor-mat losing his breath with a jolt. Pandemonium and guffaws rose to the heavens.

The gym teachers tried to locate the cause of the outbreak. Barry rose, wondering if he could take him but saw that Steve would be most willing to accept the challenge right there and then.

The shrill tones of the 'ref' whistle cut through.

"Get your feet on the black line." barked Plewinski. "Hey skinny! Get down and give me ten!"

"But sir! It wasn't me." protested Roddy.

The diversion worked. We all watched Roddy try to perform his task.

"...Two.....Three..." he grunted pushing his frame off the floor.

"Start again! I did not see your number one push-up!" sneered Plewinski.

Roddy's face turned crimson, humiliation getting the better of him more than exertion.
He was everybody's 'good guy', but even Roddy had his limits.

"O.K. - O.K., that's enough," Shouted Mr. Peterson, "get off the floor Mr.McManus and get back to the black line. Today we're playing dodge ball. Start with twenty laps around the gym. Alright - go!"

"Fuckin bastard!" Roddy's whisper was just loud enough.

Plewinski, grinning, walked towards the showers.

We ran, on our long road to nowhere.

One day, surely, we would get out.

The Smile Always Said it All

There are some people from High-School days, that I can't ever leave out of my past.

Now amongst the images that float to the surface from time to time, is one in particular - she had this walk, no- it was a sway -hypnotic, and combined with her perfume... And the way she clasped her books to her chest with both arms, coyly, she might look my way.

Her eyes - Ah- her eyes, when she would bat those lashes, once and then twice! I wonder if she knew - I wonder if all of the girls in high-school knew the power they had over us stupid puppy dogs.

Her personality was just so - calm, friendly.

High-school can be a very scary place for a scrawny teen in a jean jacket, smelling of gum, cigarettes and SNAP -roaming the halls, not having done assigned homework, possibly getting caught, perhaps offending the wrong guy by looking sideways at his girlfriend and being challenged out back after school, or trying to say something with due seriousness only to have my voice crack.

Somehow she seemed to know and with one look, -just one was enough, to make me feel alright. She would smile .."Hi Les".
She made my day. Then she and Donna would be on their way. Angels?

To my friend Carol Broomer- many years later- ... well,
Thank you.

Thank you for being- you,
for being- there,
probably without even knowing what a positive effect you had,
on me
-and probably many others.

Now, who is that in the picture with you anyway -Jon Bon Jovi? Look at his smile -you see what I mean...he knows how lucky he is -( what Photoshop program version did this? Good job...almost seamless).

Congratulations Carol. You grew into your beauty with grace, keeping that smile of light, now with a great family, lots of good friends and health. You have reason to be proud. The beauty has always been authentic.

Know that you were appreciated by many of us in High-School.
Les

Past Perspective
Some time after high-school, after Dawson, after McGill, came the world of the brass ring and either "going for it" or not.

I grabbed for it and got it, - for a spell.

This is (or was) the view from our offices at the top of The World Trade Center, NYC . It was a low cloud cover day and the building did not sway as much as usual.
After eighteen years in the corporate world of international transportation, an intuition came upon me and I decided to exit that existence and go into another -closer to home.

Sometimes, it pays to listen to the inner voice.