Monthly Archives: May 2016

Too Late Smart

Too Late Smart

I once had a large beer stein, embossed with this statement in a mock German/English hybrid: Ve grow too soon oldt, und too late schmart!  Many a lager or ale was quaffed from that stein with not much thought to the import of those words.

beer stein 4

Predictably, I have grown old too soon, at least for my liking.  And that particular stein has long since vanished.  But strangely, the significance of the inscription has stayed with me.  In my wry moments, I apply it to the world at large, our planet, and to how we humans both inhabit and desecrate it.

There are various theories as to when the so-called new world was discovered by the Norse and European peoples; consensus has it somewhere between 500 and 1100 years ago—a not inconsiderable difference of 600 years, during which the indigenous new world inhabitants must have had scarce premonition of what was to befall them.

If I were to sum up the future they faced in one word, it would be exploitation.  If I added a word, it would be extinction, at least for many of them.  I’m reminded of the famous boast attributed to Julius Caesar:  I came; I saw; I conquered!  Just imagine that from your perspective if you were one of the indigenous new world peoples: they are coming, they see us, and they will conquer us!

Victor venit ad spolia!  To the victor went the spoils.

When one contemplates the imperial expansion of the old world into the new, there are several ex- words that come to mind:  exploitation and extinction, the two already referenced; extermination; expulsion; extraction; excision; expurgation; extortion; extrusion; exclusion; execution; exporting; expunging; extradition.  And exile, of course, for many who resisted.

Imperialism and all it entails seems to have been the motivation for such unbridled acquisition of new world territories.  In life, nothing is in stasis; organisms are either growing or dying.  And the great European colonizer-nations were most definitely organisms of a particular sort:  social, political, economic, and militaristic.  They either competed against each other for dominance or faded into irrelevance.

From today’s perspective, we can look back on all that has unfolded as a result of the aggressive outreach of those nations.  Depending upon our viewpoint, we can praise it or decry it.  Descendants of indigenous peoples displaced and overthrown might be forgiven if their outlook differs from that of the progeny of the invaders.

Wars among nations have been fought almost endlessly over the millennium, many in the name of the same acquisitional drive:  the Thirty Years War, the Seven Years’ War, the Anglo-Spanish War, the Napoleonic Wars, and of course WW I and WW II, to name but a few in the European sphere.  What have they resolved?  And what have we learned?

Are nation-states still expansionist?  Are militant religious factions still agitating?  Are the world’s peoples better off for all the strife?  Are we any smarter, or are we just older?

If only we could embrace different ex- words to drive international discourse over the next decades:  expiation; examination; exculpation; exemplary; exponent; excellence; exhortation; extolling.  Surely then, exaltation would arise among all of us, forever freed from conquest and suppression by others.

But sadly, we are likely too late smart.

Condoms or Condos?

As a virtuous, young man—newly-married, not ready yet for children, and still naïve about worldly pleasures of the flesh—I had occasion to consult a pharmacist about the purchase of a certain safe-sex item for use at home.  Sheepishly, in a voice so low the white-coated gentleman had to lean over the counter to hear me, I asked him for a box of what I needed.

“Condos?” he repeated, much too loudly for my comfort.  “I think you mean condoms, sir!”

Embarrassed by the amused attention his declaration drew from nearby customers, I was forced to endure a short tutorial on the difference between condos (profitable investments) and condoms (prophylactic vestments).  I never forgot the distinction, a lesson that served me well when my wife and I eventually purchased a condominium apartment.

No longer young now, nor nearly so naïve, I am living high over our shoreline neighbourhood, looking out on Lake Ontario, one of 328 suites in two towers that comprise our community within the larger community.  To the east of us, the city’s glass-plated skyscrapers gleam like coppery fire at sundown each day, a testament to the vibrant metropolis we border.

Balcony View5

We, too, are a vibrant community, with so much to offer those who care to emerge from their cliff-dwellings to engage with their neighbours.  The towers share a club facility with amenities including:  an exercise wing, featuring separate gyms for women and men, separate saunas, a yoga studio, a squash court, an indoor golf range, a large swimming pool under massive skylights, a communal hot tub, and a tennis court; a sizable art room for painters of all persuasions; a woodworking facility, complete with enough power tools to make a carpenter envious; a large lounge, enclosed along one entire side with outsized windows affording a magnificent view of the lake, with a massive fieldstone fireplace at one end; a billiards room; and magnificent grounds, shaded by mature trees, with gardens and ponds galore.

Gatherings in the lounge are frequent for many club activities, including bridge and euchre clubs, book clubs, a choral group, coffee klatches, knitting groups, readers in the library—and lots more besides.  In many ways, the club is a social centre for the two towers.  At least, it is for those who choose to take part.

One of our favourite activities is the Friday late-afternoon gathering, where residents and guests congregate for an informal cocktail party before dinner.  It used to be called Happy Hour, but is known now as After Five, and everyone brings their own libations downstairs.  In the winter, a roaring fire crackles in the hearth; in summer, doors are thrown open to the lake breezes.  We find it a happy time, my wife and I, a lovely way to keep in touch with friends and neighbours.  And nobody has to drive home!

Apparently, however, not everyone agrees with us.  On our way to the lounge one day we encountered a couple in the corridor, obviously returning from grocery shopping.  We didn’t know them, but it’s our habit here to offer a polite hello to all and sundry.  The man merely nodded curtly in reply.  His wife, pulling a laden bundle-buggy several paces behind him, must have seen the wine bottle case hanging from my shoulder.

“Oh, right,” she sniffed, “it’s the drinking night again!”

We were too nonplussed to reply and carried on to our destination, struck by the tone of disapproval in her voice.  I’ve since thought of many a response I might have made, but I know the opportunity is gone.  And I’ve wondered what it is that makes some people so judgmental.

On another occasion, not too long ago, we were returning from After Five, and were joined in the elevator by neighbours from our floor, people we rarely run into.  They keep pretty much to themselves, but we see them out walking from time to time.

“Greetings, neighbour,” the man said, pointedly checking to make sure I’d pressed the right button for the elevator.

“Hello,” I replied.

“I see you’ve been downstairs drinking,” he continued.  “We’ve been out for a long walk, our second of the day, I might add.”  His wife stared at the floor.

“Wow!” I replied, feigning admiration.  “We were out earlier, too.  But I don’t try to walk when I’m drinking.  Afraid of falling down.”  It was the first retort that sprang to mind.

Silence accompanied us to the twentieth floor where we went our separate ways.

“That was childish,” my wife chided gently as we entered our suite.  “But I loved it!”

It mystifies me as to why people are like that.  And I can never understand why they don’t take part in the myriad activities and events offered here.

“It was childish,” I conceded.  “But people like that bug me.  Instead of being con-do’s, like we are, they’re con-don’ts.  Where’s the fun in that?  And why do they condemn us for taking advantage of what’s here?”

For some reason, these incidents reminded me of my long-ago confusion about condoms and condos, and the linguistic lesson I suffered through.

“You know what?” I said to my wife.  “People like that aren’t living in a condo, or a condominium.  They’re living in a condo-minimum!

And on that note, we had another glass of wine with dinner.

Mothers’ Day Again

Another Mothers’ Day has passed, the sixth since my own mother passed away.  The living mothers in my family number nineteen in all: my wife, two daughters, three sisters, two sisters-in-law, ten nieces, and one grand-niece.  All were recognized and honoured by their children, many on social media, and it was lovely to witness.

But I still miss being able to pay homage to my own mother each year—to hear her voice, see her smile, smell her perfume; and mostly, to feel her arms around me.  We knew each other for sixty-seven years, with nary a breach in the trust and love we shared, and my world is emptier without her.

On her ninetieth birthday, four years before she died, I wrote this poem to convey what she had meant to me for so long.  I likened her to a tree that sheltered me until I dared to strike out on my own, and even thereafter.

At the time, I thought I had written it for her; but now, I suspect, I wrote it for me.

 

Mum April 04

My Tree

For ninety years and more, my tree has spread her boughs across my yard,

Festooned with leaves providing shade, standing tall and proud, on guard.

When I was young, and climbed up high into my tree, carefree and fleet,

Her branches hugged me safe and close, held fast my hands, secured my feet.

As I grew braver, I would stray beyond the fence that kept me in.

But at day’s end, I’d rush back home to settle ‘neath my tree again.

Her boughs would gently bend and blow about my head, and whisper soft,

And tell me of the wide world they had seen from high aloft.

Sometimes she’d bend, tossed by storms that raged around us, blowing fierce,

Yet, ne’er a storm could match her strength, nor through her loving shelter pierce.

Then, all too quickly, I was gone to seek a new yard, far away.

Yet always I’d return to hug my tree, and feel her gentle sway.

Too big by then to climb once more her branches, high o’erhead,

I still found comfort there, among the fallen leaves my tree had shed.

 ~  ~  ~  ~  ~

Past ninety years, yet still she stands, her canopy now drooping low,

Creaking, bending, in the winds that shake her branches, to and fro.

As spring and summer fast have fled, and fall has turned her leaves to gold,

My tree displays a majesty that can be neither bought, nor sold.

And I’ll remember all my days her love, like ripples in a pond,

Because I’m sheltered now by younger trees—the seeds she spawned.

For ninety years and more, my tree has spread her loving boughs each day

Above my head, to nurture me, and gently send me on my way.

Manic Manifestations

This era of gender fluidity in which we live presents some complicated situations for elderly gentlemen—among whom I am more and more often numbered.

By gender fluidity I mean two things.  First, the long-time conversation around the issue of feminism, and what it means to be a woman in today’s world.  The topic is not new, having been a part of our public discourse through most of my adult life.

Gloria Steinem, a journalist and activist, defined feminism as a recognition of “the equality and full humanity of women and men.”  Bell Hooks, an author and activist, explained it as “a movement to end sexism, sexist exploitation and oppression.”

The second aspect arises from the increasing awareness and sometimes reluctant acceptance of people’s choices respecting their sexual orientation.  The initials LGBTQ (Lesbian/Gay/Bisexual/Transgender/Queer/Questioning) were unheard of, at least in my circles, not so long ago.

Mind you, the issues confronting people who question their gender identities are not new.  But the open, public conversation about them is a fairly recent development.

My viewpoint has always been live and let live, and I have never questioned the sincerity of those whose inclination leads them to follow a different path than I.  Believing us all equal under the sun, I support those who agitate for equality among the genders; for recognition of gender identity; for a rethinking of what it is that makes us human; and especially for acknowledging what differentiates us as men and women.

But such issues do lead to complicated adjustments for me, an older man who cleaves to the old ways, who has never doubted or lamented the fact that I am male.  Not privileged, not ascendant; just male.

old-man-4849420

I refer here to alterations to our language that seem to assail me for doing what I have always done.  The changes involve substituting the word man for parts of otherwise perfectly understandable words, creating a verbal-portmanteau previously unknown to our language.

For example, when I sit down now, on a shared sofa or bus seat, I may be accused of manspreading, the act of sitting with my knees apart.  This, I assure you, is less a hostile statement on my part, and more a search for comfort.  I intend no offense by it, but now increasingly find myself trying to shrink into as small a space as I can possibly occupy.

If I am asked to account for this conditioned behaviour, I might be accused of mansplaining, which is apparently a less than satisfactory justification.  Implied is the notion that I am merely defensively defending an unsustainable position.

Occasionally I find myself in a cluster of other men at a social gathering, enjoying our respective insights into politics, sports, or someone’s latest fishing trip.  It’s never too long before one of our fair companions happens by to ask how long we plan to carry on our manversation.  It feels like a putdown…or mandown!

But when we dare to get involved in a mixed-company discussion, and if one of us turns the talk in a different direction, we could be accused of manjacking the conversation.

I feel sometimes as if I’m being managed unfairly, or manipulated, even manhandled by those who resent what they assume is my inherent sense of masculine superiority.  They come across as manic in their correctness.

If I, perchance, did consider myself superior, it wouldn’t be because I’m a man; rather, it would be due intellectual brilliance, sparkling wit, or matinee-idol appearance.  Alas, given that none of these is true, I have long accepted the reality of my pedestrian, mundane maleness.

Perhaps it’s time I just man up and live with the new realities.  But that feels so…so…mandescending!