Author Archives: talebender

I Believed ‘Em All!

Step on a crack, break your mother’s back!  Tell a big lie, your father will die!

I remember chanting this doggerel over and over as I pranced along the sidewalk as a young boy.  I have no idea where I first heard it, but I wasn’t the only one whose sing-song voice could be heard uttering the same incantation.

To this day, I try to avoid those sidewalk cracks, and most of the fibs I’ve told over the years have been small.  I swear!

That little ditty was just one of many such learnings we picked up as children from playmates, kindly old aunts and uncles, even parents.  And for periods of time, I believed all of them!

Eat your carrots, sonny!  They’ll put hair on your chest.  I’ve always loved carrots, especially raw, and I do have hair on my chest—gray now, of course, but still curly—so that advice bore out, I guess.

Drink your milk!  It will make your bones strong.  I readily believed that, but when I was that age, we were drinking powdered milk my mother mixed up from a box.  Even when ice-cold, it tasted vile, and I always wished we had a cat I could feed it to—but not a black one.

Superstitions played a big part in much of the advice I was given, even though my parents told me superstitions were premature explanations that had overstayed their time.  Unfortunately, I didn’t know what that meant.

It’s bad luck if you ever let a black cat cross in front of you!  To this day, if a black cat crosses my path, I detour.  It makes no sense, yet I do it, anyway.

Don’t walk under a ladder!  It will bring bad luck, too.  That seemed logical to me, but I would sometimes tempt fate by doing that very thing.  Today, though, a grown man, I always walk around ladders.  I mean, a piano could fall on me, right?

Bad luck will follow if you open an umbrella in the house!  I can attest to the truth of this one because I did open an umbrella indoors one day, just to test the proposition.  As it popped open, it struck a vase on the ledge beside the front door, sending it crashing to the ground.  That led to one of those rare occasions where I told one of those small fibs I mentioned earlier.

Look for four-leaf clovers if you want good luck!  My friends and I spent many an hour doing just that, and found lots of them, as I recall.  And because no great tragedy ever befell us, I suppose the statement was accurate.  One friend insisted on calling them shamrocks, and said we might find a leprechaun.  I never did.

Don’t pull on the wishbone ‘til after you’ve made your wish!  I tried earnestly to comply with that advice, but my brother—more interested in winning the contest than having his wish fulfilled—always pulled first and usually won.  And as a result, my wish that he would magically disappear never came true.

Keep your eyes closed and the boogey-man won’t get you!  I had a lot of faith in this one, especially in the dark of the bedroom I shared with my brother.  I would sometimes hear terrifying moans coming from the vicinity of his bed, so I’d cower under my blankets, eyes screwed shut, praying the advice was well-founded.  I never wished for my brother to be taken, but I did prefer it be he rather than I.   

Don’t cross your eyes for fear they’ll stay that way!  I remember my friends and I daring each other to try it, all of us fearful it might be true, none of us willing to be the one who found out.  I know now there’s nothing to it, and I attribute the fact that I have to wear corrective eyeglasses to some other factor.  But I did look cross-eyed at one of my teachers once, and was surprised when she did the same back at me.  She was one of my favourites ever after!

As I entered adolescence, the nature of advice I was given by well-intentioned relatives changed, although most of it was equally preposterous.

Don’t pick your zits!  You’ll end up with boils all over your body.  The spectre of boils was terrifying, but so, too, was the mortification of acne.  For a while, I tried to convince myself I was developing freckles, but I knew better.  A variety of creams and lotions entered the fray, but I did resort to picking at my zits out of desperation.  Sixty years on, I’m still waiting for the boils.

Beware the devil’s hands, boy.  If you succumb to his entreaties, you’ll go blind!  Well, all I can say to that is, although I do wear glasses now, I never once lost my sight.

Yes, you can borrow the car again.  But see that you bring it back!  This command from my father on every occasion I asked for his keys, was aggravating at the time, but has since become a standard family joke among my siblings.  And it’s a source of wonder to me now that one of my granddaughters owns and drives a car I used to own.  She brings it back every time she visits.

There are other gems of wisdom from my childhood, most of which I no longer follow, some of which I do.  They pop into my mind at the oddest moments, sometimes evoking a laugh, occasionally a tear.  They are milestones along the road I journeyed as I grew up, and they helped bring me safely to the cusp of my ninth decade.

And once upon a time, I believed ‘em all.

Ready For The Fall

The prompt from my Florida writers’ group this week was to write a piece about fall. Here is what I came up with, and I hope it will conjure memories for you, too—

A middle-aged woman I didn’t know smiled as she entered the elevator with me one day last week.  “Are you ready for the fall?”

I cringed, steeling myself for an unwanted mini-sermon from a dogged do-gooder, a holy-roller.  “I…I guess so,” I stammered.  “I mean, I pray, I try to do good…”

A look of bewilderment creased the woman’s face, followed quickly by one of amused pity.  “No, no,” she corrected me patronizingly, “you misunderstand me.  I meant the autumn, not the apocalypse!”

“Ah…of course,” I sighed, embarrassed by my mistake.  “Sorry…”

As the elevator doors opened on the eighteenth floor, the woman stepped out, still amused by my obtuseness.  “No need to apologize,” she said.  “At your age, I imagine it’s best to be ready for both!” The doors slid closed behind her before I could think of a suitably nasty retort.

Back in my apartment on the twentieth floor, I reflected on our conversation as I unpacked the groceries I’d been carrying.  It seemed to me an honest mistake to make, an understandable one, and the woman’s parting shot was likely good advice.  But why did she have to be so rude?

Later, relaxing with my wife over a cup of tea, I talked about what had happened, and about getting ready for the fall.  “Remember when we were kids, it seemed summers would never end?” I said.  “From the day school let out until the first fall-fair arrived, our days were blissful, carefree, limitless.  Eat breakfast and head outside to play; dash inside for lunch, then back outside; trudge home for supper, then out again ‘til the streetlights came on.”

“I remember,” my wife said.  “But things sure changed when we grew up, in spite of our best intentions.  We got married, started working, became parents.  Those summers suddenly became  a lot more finite.”

I nodded agreement.  The calendar tells us summer ends with the autumnal equinox in late September, but the end always came much sooner for us.  It was marked, not by an arbitrary calendar, but by the requirement to go back to school.  Both of us were teachers in those long-ago days, and felt we had to get back ahead of our students if we had any hope of being ready for their return after Labour Day.

For many folks, I guess—like the woman on the elevator—the coming of fall is a time of new beginnings, of anticipation.  They think in terms of flaming fall-colours, brisk autumn days, evenings spent curled up with a book in front of a cozy hearth.  They look forward to the change of seasons.

Not I, though!  I’ve always thought of it as a gloomy time—the conclusion of summer, and the close of so many pleasurable things that vanish with the coming of September.

For example, with the end of warm, sunny weather, there came an end to my carefree habits of dress.  No more swimsuits or running shorts; no more open sandals or ancient running shoes; no more tank-tops or faded team sweaters.  Instead, it meant a return to the straitjacketing drill of collars and ties, pressed slacks, knee-high socks, and polished dress shoes.

The end of summer put a stop to the treasured luxury of shaving every two or three days, depending upon what activities were planned.  And it called a halt to the wearing of old ball caps as an alternative to brushing my hair.

The inevitable onset of fall wrote fini to three or four leisurely cups of coffee with the morning paper, and an end to mid-morning breakfasts on the back porch.  It heralded, in their stead, the beginning of hurried showers and breakfasts-on-the-run.  It marked the re-entry into the exciting world of daily traffic reports, as I attempted to find the shortest, quickest route into and out of the city.

In short, summer’s end brought to a close the lazy, drifting vagaries of summer living I tried so vainly to hang on to.  Coming back to the real world always provided a jolt to my entire system.  It was like going from childhood to adulthood all over again!  Once was enough!

“You know, I never wanted to be the type of person who wishes his life away,” I commented to my wife, “always wishing for something to be different than it is.  But, in a sense, I guess I used to do just that.”

“Me, too,” my wife said wistfully.  “For me, the year was divided into two seasons, summer and not-summer. And not-summer was not good!”

“Remember we’d take the girls on one last camping trip up north?” I said.  “My cutoffs and hat would be in my bag, my shaving-kit left behind.  It was always one final fling in the glorious realm of summer.”

“I loved it,” my wife said, staring into the past.  “Hiking, swimming, paddling, exploring, picking berries, roasting marshmallows, singing our hearts out by the campfire, sleeping the sleep of the innocent in those old sleeping-bags—it was like being children all over again.”

“Even now,” I said, “when every day is like a Saturday, I still pretend summer will never end, that I’ll never have to grow up and give it up.  It still seems there’s always so much left to do.”

“At least we have Florida now,” my wife smiled.  “Year-round summer! Before the fall ever arrives, I’m already planning what I’ll pack.”

During the course of our happy reminiscing, I managed to forget my annoyance with the supercilious woman in the elevator.  But by chance, we happened to ride the elevator again yesterday, going down this time.  As she stepped aboard, I could tell she recognized me as the confused old fart from a week ago—but this time, it was I who spoke first.

“Before you ask, I’m ready for Ar’geddon!” I smiled.

“Our what?” she said, head cocked.

“Ar’geddon!” I repeated.  “I’m ready to go!”

The same pitying look as last time spread across her face, the same condescending smile.  “Sir, you mean Arma-geddon.  You’re mispronouncing the word.” She shook her head disdainfully, appalled by my lack of acuity. 

Waiting a beat to spring the trap I’d plotted, I said very quietly, “Whatever!  It’s not the end of the world!”

We rode the rest of the way in icy stillness, a long, silent fall from the eighteenth floor to the parking garage.

No!

The weekly prompt from my Florida writers’ group was to write a piece where one of the characters in the story is ‘forced to say No’. This is my offering, and I hope it will bring back fond memories for those of you were parents—

“No!” he declares vehemently.  “I will not say No to them!”

“No, you won’t say No?” she replies incredulously.  “That doesn’t make sense!  It’s a double-negative.  Surely you mean Yes, you won’t say No.”

“No, I don’t mean Yes!” he says, exasperated.  “And yes, I mean No!  Are you trying to tell me what I think?  And did you just call me Shirley?”

“No, I didn’t call you Shirley,” she says wearily.  “The word was surely!  And no, I’m not telling you what to think!  But are you honestly telling me you won’t say No to them?  Are you afraid of them?  Are you worried they’ll laugh at you?”

“Yes, no, and no,” he says.

“Well, if you’re not worried about what they’ll think or do when you tell them, just say No and get it over with.  They’re our children, not your boss!”

“Yes they are, and no I won’t!” he snaps.  “Are you trying to force me to say No?”

She raises her arms skyward, rolls her eyes dramatically.  “No, I’m not trying to force you to say No!  But yes, I’m trying to convince you to say No!  Is that so hard to understand?”

“No,” he says.  “But, since I’m determined to say Yes, stop trying to talk me into saying No!”

They’ve been sitting at the kitchen table for an hour, the supper dishes still in front of them, the remains of dinner crusted and cold.  The children are watching TV.

“So you think you know what’s best?” she says, jabbing a finger in his direction.  “You think I’m stupid?  You think you’re smarter than me?”

“Yes, no, and no once again,” he says.  “And by the way, that should be ‘smarter than I’, not ‘smarter than me’!”

His correction is met with a venomous glare.  “No, I don’t believe this!” she says icily.  “Here I am, trying to help you make a difficult decision, and you think you can do that…better than I?”

“Okay,” he says, trying a different tack, “You think I should tell them No instead of Yes, right?  Can you not see that Yes is a better answer than No?”

“Yes, I do think you should tell them No,” she says, still miffed.  “And no, I guess I can’t understand why Yes is a better answer than No.  Can you explain it to me like I’m a three-year-old?”

“Yes, I can,” he says, resisting the urge to toss out the obvious wisecrack.  “But you should have said ‘as if I’m…’, not like I’m…’!”

“Are you correcting me again?” she sputters indignantly, sitting back in her chair.  “You think I don’t know how to speak the Queen’s English?”

“Yes and yes,” he replies smugly.  “And it’s the King’s English now, remember?  The Queen is dead.”

It is all she can do not to hurl one of the supper plates at him.  “Yes, I remember she died,” she says acidly.  “And yes, I know it was over a year ago.  But no, I still do not understand why you can’t simply tell the children No.  You still haven’t explained it to me…you know, as if I’m a three-year-old.”

He remains silent, seemingly at a loss for words.

“You do know I’m a functioning adult, right?” she says.  “A mother of two children?  Or do you think I actually am a three-year-old?”

“Yes, yes, and no,” he says.

“So, explain it to me then!” she demands, pounding one fist on the table, rattling the cutlery.  “Why won’t you say No to them?”

“Okay,” he says, “I want to say Yes, not No, because I don’t want to hurt their feelings.  I don’t want them to think Daddy is the bad guy.”

“That’s cray-cray!” she says, spreading both arms wide.  “Sometimes Daddy has to be the bad guy, as you put it.  It’s important that they learn that we’re in control, not them!  You get that, don’t you?”

“Yes, but I still want to say Yes, not No!  And I won’t be forced into saying No!”

As she throws up her hands in frustration yet again, the children come tumbling into the kitchen, the burning question bursting from their lips.  “Daddy!  Daddy, can we stay up late to watch the vampire movie?  You said you’d tell us after supper.”

He looks at his wife, who smiles sweetly, eyes narrowed.  “What’s it going to be?” she whispers so only he can hear.  “Is it Yes or No?”

He stands up, knowing the moment is at hand.  Without warning, he spins and heads for the kitchen door.  Just as he disappears from sight, he calls back, “Ask your mother.”

A Crowd of Stars

The youngest of my brothers-in-law died recently, following a long period of worsening, physical incapacity and illness.  He was the second of my generation to go, my younger brother having passed three years ago, and I suspect his death brought the spectre of the end-times somewhat closer to us all.

In addition to my sister, he left behind four children, three of whom are married, giving him three grandsons and two wee granddaughters.  At his private interment, his daughter and three sons spoke of him as a loving and beloved father, and there is no greater tribute I can imagine.  Eighteen of us exchanged reflections and prayers that day, spoken to each other and to him, designed to bring a sense of closure and peace to us all.  We were saddened, of course, by his passing, but relieved that his suffering was ended.

He was married to my sister for forty-five years, a loving union that brought credit upon them both.  I still remember dancing at their wedding, when none of us—so young and brash and full of piss-and-vinegar—could have imagined this day coming.  But it has now for him, as it must someday for all of us.

Deliberate and intentional in word and deed, especially as he grew older, my brother-in-law was rarely intemperate or harsh in his dealings with others.  A man of deep faith, he was loving and giving, and forgiving of others’ shortcomings.  Throughout his tribulations, he was confident that, as he approached the final crossing, he would meet his saviour on the other side.  I hope he has.

In her remarks, my sister said something I thought perfectly summed up his life and faith—from Matthew 25:23, “Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things…enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

My wife shared many of those same understandings about what is to come with him, and I remember them engaged in deep conversation over the years, communicating their ideas and beliefs, their hopes for the hereafter.  By contrast, given my differing views, the exchanges I had with him tended to be temporal more than spiritual, though always sincere and affectionate.  He had a way of thinking before he spoke, and I constantly found myself leaning in to be sure not to miss what he might have to say.

The day after he passed, I wrote the following note to my sister—

When we get old, as some of us have, we think differently about death than when we were younger.  I won’t say we ever look forward to it, but we perhaps stop fearing it.

We think of death as a companion on our journey through life—way back in the throng at the beginning, but gaining on us as we begin slowing down.

We think of death, not as a spectre that will end things, but as an usher who will open the next door and allow us in.

Just as life ushered us in at the beginning of our journey through the here and now, death ushers us into the beginning of our next journey.  None of us knows what that journey will look like, but faith sustains us.

When I think of him now, and where he is, I think of these lines, adapted from the poem High Flight, by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.—

Oh!  he has slipped the surly bonds of earth
And dances the skies on laughter-silvered wings…
He has topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace…
Put out his hand and touched the face of God.

With that note, I also included one of my favourite poems, When You Are Old, by William Butler Yeats, the greatest of the Irish poets.  I imagine it as the song my brother-in-law might be singing now to my sister from wherever in this vast universe he finds himself, and I hope it comforts them both—

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

The Gun

The August prompt from my Florida writers’ group is to use a “hook” within the first few lines to draw readers/listeners in to the story.  This is my offering—

I discovered the gun in the drawer of my husband’s bedside table this morning.  I’d been looking for the bottle of Xanax he’d borrowed from me last night, and I found it lying beside the gun.

To say I was shocked would be an understatement.  I sat down numbly on the bed, staring vacantly at the gun, wondering why on earth my husband would have such a thing.

It looked huge—an ugly, metallic-sheened obscenity lying there like a wide, upper-case L, one arm shorter than the other, a curled stem sticking from between its two arms like an erect, male appendage.  The shorter arm was pebbled with three shallow curves on its inside edge, obviously the arm someone would use to hold the gun and point it.  The longer arm was straight, with a round, black hole at its end.

Loath to touch it at first, I eventually gave in and picked it up between thumb and forefinger.  It was heavy, and oily to the touch, almost reptilian.  After a moment, I clasped it in my other hand and pointed it at my reflection in the mirror on the back of the bedroom door opposite.

The sight frightened me to the point I cried out and dropped the gun on the carpet.  It landed with a soft thud, then lay at my feet, pointing back at me.  Gingerly, I stirred it with my toe to point it away.

Why does Frank have this…this thing in his drawer?  What’s he afraid of?  And why didn’t he tell me he has it?

The gun was still on the carpet when I came back upstairs after lunch.  I knew I couldn’t just leave it there, but I had no idea what to do with it.  Without knowing why Frank even had the thing, I couldn’t put it back where I’d found it.

What if he’s planning to use it on me?

Sitting on the bed again, I swallowed a Xanax from the bottle still lying in Frank’s drawer, then tossed the bottle to my side of the bed.  As I did, a light went on in my anxious brain.  I picked up the gun carefully, walked around to my bedside table, and put it in my own drawer.  The pill bottle followed it, and I closed the drawer firmly.

There!  Problem solved!

Downstairs again, I couldn’t stop asking myself why Frank had the gun in the first place.  We’ve had our share of arguments over the years like any married couple, maybe more in the past few months.  But there’s never been anything leading either one of us to contemplate violence.

What am I missing?  Is there something different lately?  Is he tired of me?  Is there someone else?

Dinner was unusually silent, mostly because I replied to Frank’s conversation in monosyllables.  By dessert, he’d stopped trying, and he scurried off to his den afterwards to watch a game.  I busied myself reading in the living room.  Or tried to.

Why is he so quiet?  What’s he planning?

The old grandfather clock in the vestibule was chiming eleven as I climbed the stairs, dreading entering the bedroom, not knowing what might be waiting for me.  Frank had headed up half an hour ago, so if he had something planned, he’d had time to get ready.  I wondered if he’d found the gun in my drawer.

He was lying in bed reading when I came in.  “I took another Xanax from your bottle,” he said sleepily.  “Had a rough day.”

I slowly got undressed before visiting the bathroom, not understanding how he hadn’t found the gun when he got the pill from my drawer. 

Maybe he did!  Maybe he’s got it under the covers…

When I came back from the bathroom, his light was off.  I carefully crawled in beside him, lay quietly for several minutes until I could no longer hold it in.  “Frank?  Are you still awake?”

“I am now,” he mumbled.

“Frank, why do you have a gun in your drawer?”

“A what?”

“A gun!  Why is there a gun in your drawer?”

“What are you on about?” he said, his voice sharper now.  “I don’t have a gun!”

“I found it this morning,” I said, my own voice rising.  “Don’t tell me you don’t have a gun!  It’s right here in my drawer now.”

Rolling over, Frank opened one eye.  “Have you been taking your meds?  You’re talking crazy!”

“Crazy?  Crazy?  Okay, then what’s this?”

I slid out of bed, yanked open my drawer, pulled out the gun.  Pointing its ugly snout at him, I said, “This is a gun, Frank!  And I found it in your drawer this morning.”

He stared at me in disbelief for a moment, then rolled his back to me again.  “You’re delusional, Emma.  Take your pill and let me get some sleep.”

Infuriated by his nonchalance and denial, I took a deep breath, closed one eye, and pulled the trigger.  The gun jerked violently in my hand, hurting me, and the loud Bang! deafened me.  And then…and then…

I wakened in a cold sweat.  Frantic, I turned to my husband, but he was snoring peacefully beside me.  And despite my frenzied search in the darkened room, there was no gun to be found. 

When I awaken again, it’s almost ten o’clock.  The sun is streaming its narrow beams around the edges of the shades, still pulled down, and I see dust motes floating lazily in its warmth.  Frank has dressed and gone to work.  I lie there for a few minutes, reliving the dream.

Thank God that’s all it was!  Imagine if it had been real!

As I’m washing my hands in the bathroom, I wince at a tinge of pain in my right palm, and I see that it’s lightly bruised.  After dressing, I remember to take my pill before heading downstairs.  On the way out of the bedroom, I hesitate a few moments at the door.

Don’t be stupid!  There’s nothing there!  Forget it!

 Nevertheless, I decide to check, and to my horror, I discover the gun in the drawer of Frank’s bedside table.

By Their Works

It is said, by their works shall we know them.  And increasingly, we do.

They rise among us, predominantly—but by no means exclusively—white, male, overweight, bewhiskered, rural, racist, ostensibly-straight, conservative, angry, and occasionally violent.  They are frequently accompanied by others who don’t fit this profile exactly, but who express the same rage, the same fear, the same desire to take Canada back.

It’s unclear where they want to take us back to, but I suspect it might be back to the ‘50s—a decade most of them are too young to have lived through—a time when, in their fevered imaginations, men were men, women knew their place, children spoke only when spoken to, and nobody—including elected governments—told anybody else what to do.

Redneck heaven, to borrow a phrase.

According to the messages these folks spew unrelentingly on social media, marriage back then was between one man and one woman—born male and female, respectively.  Every child lived in a nuclear family.  Racialized and Indigenous people were not part of the established fabric, nor for the longest time were women, the poor, Jews, immigrants, or differently-abled people.

And it goes without saying, the LGBTQIA+ community was non-existent.

Previous decades have seen lots of protests in support of many causes—the ‘60s and ‘70s come to mind for this old-timer, but every era has known them.  Most of those were peaceful, yet often effective; some involved civil disobedience; still others degenerated into violence, with consequences visited upon those who violated the law.  The majority were mounted in the name of advancing more liberal, progressive movements—universal suffrage, socialized medicine, civil rights, end-the-war, the women’s-lib movement, and Indigenous reconciliation, to name but a few.

And that marks a major difference with today’s oft-inchoate protests, striving noisily to take us back to ‘the good old days’.  Today’s aggrieved zealots behave as if our country always belonged exclusively to them—more accurately, their predecessors—and not to everyone who inhabited it then, and does so to this day.

Populists, bigots, and white-supremacists have ever been part of Canada’s demographic, of course, and many of us, I suspect, knew some of them back in the day.  As a child born in the ‘40s, growing up in the ‘50s, I well remember the use of such loathsome slurs as kike, wop, dyke, fag, nigger, Paki, d-p, and others even more vile.  As I was part of the white middle-class, they were never used against me, but more than a few of my white schoolmates hurled them—perhaps unwittingly, parroting their elders, but hurtfully, nonetheless—at those on the receiving end.

Another difference between those long-ago times and today is the opportunity the bigots now have to spread their hateful rhetoric.  Social media, for all the benefit it has brought to much of society, has enabled the haters and ragers to amplify their message across the internet.  In their posts, we find no trace of the civility that once characterized public discourse, even among those whose political ideologies and points of view conflicted.

When did it start to be okay, I wonder, to ignore the fundamental tenets of good manners?  Of respect for other people?  Of common sense?  Perhaps it’s cantankerous of me to bewail their passing, or maybe I’m being overly pernickety in complaining about it.  After all, as I’ve previously written, some folks consider me an unrepentant curmudgeon.  Perchance, I am.  Still, was respectful consideration for others not always a hallmark of civilized behaviour? 

Today’s unruly mob weeps and wails loudly, profanely, about their loss of freedom, even as they enjoy the freedom to assemble and protest it.  To me, it’s as though they believe this coveted freedom means unfettered license to do whatever they wish, unencumbered by the rule of law.  Thus arises anarchy.

In Canada, citizens elect a federal Parliament every four years or so; then, with the ritual approval of the Governor-General, that Parliament chooses a government based on votes of confidence among elected members.  The Prime Minister is the elected leader of the party chosen by Parliament to govern.  Occasionally, one party wins a majority of seats in a given election, and thereby becomes the governing party by default.

For citizens either enamored of, or disappointed by, the actions of the PM and governing party, there is a means of re-electing or turfing the incumbents—the next election.  Responsible civil engagement and voting are the tools.  Increasingly, however, today’s fervid protesters crowding the nation’s public venues revert to intimidation, bullying, and threats of violence to overturn the will of the majority, to impose their values and beliefs on everyone.

If they win, democracy—imperfect though it may be—loses.

By their works, we shall know them.

I Dreamed…

A recent prompt from my Florida writers’ group was to use the phrase, “I dreamed last night…”. This was my submission—

A reminder to those who receive my complete posts in your email, rather than just a link—if you click on the title, you’ll be able to read the post in its proper format on my actual website, rather than in the body of your email.

I dreamed last night of a universe vast,
Extending the future from some unknown past,
Throbbing, emitting, exploding in heat,
Its energy vibrant, its fate incomplete
As onward it rushed, this dream in my head
Rendering me rapturous, there in my bed.

I dreamed last night.  And I wondered if I
Might perhaps be a part of that darkened sky,
From genesis unto eternity,
Unceasing, undying, the infinite me---
My spirit indwelled with life, and a mind
Pushing e’er forward from a past left behind,
Seeking out answers as questions unfold,
Traversing the nothingness, fearless and bold.
I dreamed last night I was mounted astride
A life-force impelling its own suicide.
For how could I, a mere mortal, defend
A beginning without eventual end?
How could we persons, predestined to die
Believe in a universe beyond the sky?

I dreamed last night.  When I wakened again
To face the day’s dawning, the truth appeared plain.
There’s no need for proof of life after death,
For we do not die after our final breath.
We’re integral to that miasmic cloud,
That cosmos of energy, bursting and loud.
We’ll live evermore, just not in this state--- 
We need but to trust, let our faith not abate.

Yes, I dreamed last night of a universe vast,
Informing our future through present and past,
Accepting us gladly, just as we are,
Propelling us forward from near and afar.
Mortality ends, but life still goes on,
And we shall be part of it, unto anon.

But He Didn’t!

The Gulf Coast Writers Association in southwest Florida recently announced the winners of their 2023 writing contest. I’m pleased to say I won First Place in the fiction section with this piece, But He Didn’t!

The GCWA provides a forum for fellowship, education, and information for writers, and its well-regarded contest draws a wide-range of authors.   Based in Fort Myers, the organization attracts members from throughout Southwest Florida, including published as well as unpublished writers, and professional editors, agents, and publicists.  The literary genres run the gamut from poetry, adult fiction and nonfiction, to children’s and young adult, historical fiction, romance, mystery/thriller, memoir, essays, and screenplay.  Members include full-time writers, as well as corporate professionals, teachers, and business owners, all still working or retired. GCWA’s website is https://gulfwriters.org/ 

I hope you’ll enjoy But He Didn’t!

* * * * * * * * *

After the wife died, I started talkin’ to myself.  Not ‘cause I’m some crazy coot who’s lost the cream-fillin’ outta his Twinkie, but just so’s the house wouldn’t be so quiet.

I got in the habit when I’d hike myself onto the barstool in the rec room downstairs an’ see myself in the mirror.  I’d pour a shot, raise it high, an’ say, “Here’s lookin’ at you, kid!”

Not that I was a kid.  I was in my early-sixties when the wife died, an’ my reflection looked every bit of that.  For the longest time, I was the only one doin’ the talkin’, but at some point the guy in the mirror joined in. Lookin’ back, I think it was when I told him the wife had always been a nagger, but now I sorta missed her constant yammerin’.  “She’d rattle on an’ on,” I said, “but that was okay ‘cause if I got mad, she’d know to shut up.”

Mine, too.  Had a nasty mouth when she set her mind to it, but every now an’ then, I’d drop the hammer.

His voice sounded like mine, maybe flatter on account of it was bouncin’ offa the mirror.  The more we talked, the better we got to know each other; an’ the better we got to know each other, the more we talked.  Turns out, he was retired, like me, an’ we told each other funny stories ‘bout the jobs we worked, an’ the jerk-off bosses we had.

“I sometimes miss the job,” I said after a long swallow.  “But not the bosses!”

Me, too!  I actually punched one out after he got on my case for somethin’.  Got fired, but it was worth it!

He told me his name was Michael—which is my name, too, what the wife used to yell in capital letters every time she got teed off.  I told him I’d call him Mike.

Both of us enjoyed our drinkin’ time, which started around four in the afternoons.  Mike was left-handed, which I noticed when we poured our shots, an’ whenever we raised our glasses. 

He always arrived when I did, an’ got up to leave every time I headed back upstairs.  I always turned at the stairs for one final glance in the mirror, an’ we’d wave.  Mike was real good company, an’ I didn’t feel so alone anymore.

“I got two kids,” I told him one day.  “But I ain’t seen neither of ‘em since the wife died.  It’s like they blame me for her dyin’.”

That’s exac’ly like my kids!  You think I ever hear from ‘em?  Not a freakin’ word!  I used to call ‘em, but never once heard anythin’ back!

Sometimes we’d sit quiet for the longest time, nursin’ our drinks, thinkin’ our own thoughts.  Neither of us ever offered to buy a round ‘cause we always had our own bottle. 

We had other stuff in common, too.  He was fightin’ with the IRS, like me, over back taxes.  He liked the Rollin’ Stones, an’ we both thought the Beatles were fairies.  He loved the Red Sox, but neither of us could afford tickets to Fenway.  We both still saluted the flag an’ stood up for the anthem, but neither of us went to church anymore.

“I gave that crap up after the wife died,” I said.  “Between the church an’ the undertaker, I shelled out more’n a thousand bucks for her funeral!  Nothin’ but bloodsuckers, all of ‘em!”

You got that right!  I had the wife cremated, an’ I still hadda fork out for a casket.  An’ all’s I got at the end of the whole thing was a little cardboard box, sealed up tight, s’posed to have her ashes inside.  How do I know if it does or not?  I sure as hell ain’t gonna open it!

“I got the same thing,” I said.  “Plus, my kids got twisted in a knot over the whole cremation thing.  Said their mother should be buried whole, like she wanted.  I hung tough, though, an’ still got stiffed for the dough.”

The only thing I regret is the wife an’ me had a fight the day she died.  Real shame!

“What were you fightin’ ‘bout?”

Nothin’ really.  When I came into the kitchen, she started yappin’ at me, so I told her to stifle herself.  She said somethin’ back, wavin’ her wooden spoon in my face, an’ a piece of whatever she was cookin’ landed on my cheek.  Hurt like hell!  So, without thinkin’, I hit her.  Not hard, but she staggered back, caught her foot in the floor-mat, an’ fell backwards.  Hit her head on the countertop when she went down.  I heard the crunch, an’ then she just lay there.

“Holy crap!  Was she dead?” I asked.

Stone dead, just that quick.

“So…you killed her?” I said.

No, don’t be stupid!  Wasn’t me that killed her, it was the granite countertop. 

“Yeah, but you hit her…”

I know, but by mistake.  She tripped on the floor-mat! 

“So, what’d you do?” I asked.  I was completely…memorized, or whatever the word is.

 I called 9-1-1, told ‘em my wife was on the kitchen floor, said I couldn’t wake her up.  I started bawlin’ my eyes out, was still doin’ that when the ambulance arrived.

“What’d you tell ‘em?” I asked.

Told ‘em I’d been sleepin’ while she was cookin’ dinner, woke up when I could smell the food burnin’, found her on the floor.

“An’ they believed you?”

Yeah, no reason not to.  I hadda talk to the cops a coupla times, but everythin’ I told ‘em added up, so they called it…death by missed adventure…somethin’ like that.

I poured myself another shot, as did Mike.  “Yeah, but still…”

The whole house stunk like burnt food, an’ that’s what I said woke me up, so that prob’ly helped.

“Lucky you,” I said, takin’ another swallow, watchin’ him do the same.  Like I said, we both liked our drink.

Yeah, but I never could get those pots clean.  Hadda throw ‘em all out. 

I didn’t sleep much that night, thinkin’ ‘bout what Mike had told me.  I ‘preciated that he trusted me, but I couldn’t shake the idea that what he did was wrong.  I mean, it’s one thing to do somethin’ bad, even like an accident, but it’s a whole other thing to cover it up.  I think they call that rationin’…some word like that.

Anyways, I didn’t go downstairs for a drink the next day, but while I was gettin’ my supper ready—baked beans on toast an’ a slice of fried ham—I thought some more ‘bout what he’d said.  An’ because I wasn’t payin’ attention, my toast got burnt an’ the beans stuck to the bottom of the pot.  I pictured myself in Mike’s kitchen on account of the smell, got sick to my stomach, an’ couldn’t finish my supper.  Couldn’t get the burnt beans offa the bottom of the pot, neither, so the whole thing went in the trash.

I was on my barstool the next afternoon, though, got there just as Mike did.  We poured ourselves a shot, like usual, an’ raised our glasses.  After a good, long sip, I said, “You’re gonna hate me, Mike, but before I came downstairs, I called the cops, told ‘em what you told me ‘bout how your wife died.  They’ll prob’ly be gettin’ here soon.”

Why’d you do that?  I thought I could trust you.

“Yeah, I’m real sorry,” I said, takin’ another sip.  “But after you told me what you did, I figured I couldn’t live with knowin’ what really happened.  You shoulda kept it buried inside your head, y’know?  But once it was out there, I figured I hadda do somethin’, right?  So, I told the cops everythin’.”

We stared at each other without talkin’ for awhile, an’ then I saw two policemen enter the rec room, move up behind Mike, put his hands in cuffs behind his back.  I got up to leave when he did, feelin’ like they were leadin’ me away, too.

Like always, I paused at the bottom of the stairs, peered over my shoulder at the mirror, saw my friend lookin’ back at me, a cop on each side of him.  “Sorry, Mike,” I said sadly.  “I enjoyed knowin’ you.”

I’m not Mike, you poor sod!  You are!  I’m just your reflection!  You’re the one who killed your wife!

“Don’t be crazy!” I cried.  “You’re the killer!”  But even as I spoke,  my wrists were chafin’ from the cuffs, my shoulders hurtin’ under the grasp of the two big cops.  As they manhandled me out of view of Mike, I shouted desperately, vainly, “You’re not my reflection!  You killed your wife!”

But he didn’t.

Cogito, Ergo Sum

Cogito, ergo sum—I think, therefore I am. 

So opined René Descartes in 1637, in his famous work, Discourse on Method, demonstrating what he regarded as the first step in the acquisition of knowledge.

Of course, we don’t know that he was right, but because enough of us have come to believe his posit, it is almost universally accepted.  Left unanswered is the question as to whether other living organisms are sentient, whether they also can think.

Some people believe they can—that creatures such as elephants, whales, and dogs are capable of thought—and they cite observed actions by these animals as proof of their belief.  But what of other animals, or fish, and what of plants and rocks?  To my knowledge, no one has as yet been able to prove (or disprove) the thesis that any lifeform other than human is capable of thought.

Regardless, it does seem likely that no form of life on our planet has attained the same level of high-order thinking that the human species has.  And if any have, they have hidden it from us remarkably well.  With physical brains somewhere between the largest and smallest in size among all living creatures, we humans appear to have outstripped them all in our capacity to think rationally.

The capacity to think is what allows many of us to read widely, listen to diverse sources of information, and weigh the relative merits of differing schools of thought before deciding on a course of action—critical thinking.  Alas, it is also what allows us to read narrowly (if at all), listen carelessly, and reject schools of thought that do not reflect our own preconceived notions.

Either way, thinking broadly or narrowly allows us to form opinions.  And those opinions, whether supported by evidence or not, often morph into staunch beliefs if we don’t continue to think about them, to test them against emerging information.  And inference plays a big role in that.

For example, if I waken one morning to the sound of thunder, and if I see flashes of lightning illuminating the drawn curtains of my bedroom, I might well infer that it’s raining outside.  But I have no proof of that until I actually see (or feel, or smell, or taste) the tangible rain.  I might throw open the curtains to discover there is no rain falling, despite the harbingers of storm; merely hearing and seeing those from inside my room would have drawn me into a false conclusion, yet one I believed until faced with proof of the opposite.

It points out the danger of choosing to believe everything we think, at least before we have evidence to support (or deny) our premises.  As sentient beings, we are compelled to seek answers to the baffling phenomena we observe around us, to find reasons why situations unfold as they do, to explain the arcane mysteries that bedevil us—like where we came from and where we’re going.

Our world is replete with examples of how we have gone about this—in religion, science, engineering, medicine, music, literature, and so many other fields.  The list of human accomplishments over the millennia is long and laudable.  Errors have been made along the way, and corrections applied, but the steady march of knowledge-acquisition has been relentless.

Many of our ancestors, for instance, once believed (and some still do) that the earth was flat, that any who got too close to the edge would topple off the edge, fall into the void, and be lost forever.  We know now, of course, that belief was untrue.  As an amusing aside, the Flat Earth Society still boasts today in its brochures of having chapters of believers around the globe!

Still other folks believed once upon a time that our planet was at the centre of the known universe, that the moon and sun revolved around us; those people’s skills of observation, primitive by today’s standards, and their earnest thinking about those observations, led them to that conclusion. Yet, it was also not true.

Nevertheless, despite our many errors and missteps along the way, our capacity to think rationally—and to forever question our thinking—has allowed us to advance our collective knowledge.  A key factor in continuing that progress is to avoid investing complete faith in any one thesis, regardless of its appeal at any given time; we must retain an appropriate level of skepticism in order to keep from falling into the acceptance of rigid dogma and blind ideology. 

As George Carlin is reputed to have said, “Question everything!”

Another key is to continue testing theses to reinforce their viability, to find evidence of their truth (or falsity).  But at the same time, we must remember that an absence of evidence of truth in the moment does not mean the same thing as evidence of an absence of truth.  In other words, just because we don’t have the facts to prove the legitimacy of a thesis right now does not mean that thesis is untrue; it may mean simply that we haven’t as yet discovered the facts to validate it.

The advance of knowledge is, to paraphrase Hemingway, a movable feast.

An exception to prove the truth of any thesis can always be found, of course—something that demonstrates the general truth of a thing by seeming to contradict it.  For instance: most of the teachers in that elementary school are female, and the one male teacher on staff is the exception that proves the rule.  The thesis is factual.

We also know the true merit of any pudding is put to the test in the eating.  But with one person’s taste being different from another’s, whose opinion is to be accepted as the truth?  Any decision there must be regarded as opinion, not fact.

It is interesting to note that Descartes did not write, Cogito, credo quod cogitare, ergo non est recta—I think, I believe what I think, therefore it is right.  Apparently, he understood that because we think something, even to the point of believing it, that does not necessarily make it true.

He also wrote, Non satis est habere bonum mentem; Pelagus res est ut bene—It is not enough to have a good mind; the main thing is to use it well.

Quaestio, semper quaestio—question, always question!

Platitudes and Attitudes

Platitudes are trite, banal, or hackneyed statements, timeworn clichés people use because they allow us to sound like we know what we’re talking about, sometimes providing us a polite way to avoid difficult conversations.

Most of them are overused phrases or expressions that have lost their originality and power.  But because they’re expressed in a formulaic manner, their meaning is usually recognizable instantly.

While all of us probably resort to using clichés at one time or another, there are those among us for whom platitudes are the standard form of conversation.  We would be likely to hear phrases such as the following when we encounter these folks: it is what it is; it’s a no-brainer; it ain’t rocket science; time will tell; that’s life; or everything happens for a reason.

Such glib folks might themselves be described in cliché-form: all hat, no cattle; the blind leading the blind; or ignorance is bliss.

Beyond the simplistic ones, I find some platitudes to be downright cringy: all you need is love; love makes the world go round; if it’s meant to happen, it will; patience is a virtue; no pain, no gain; or good things come to those who wait.

I do enjoy many platitudes, though, if for no other reason than they give me the opportunity to counter them with snappy, little rejoinders of my own, reflecting attitudes perhaps better left undisturbed.  For example—

God helps those who help themselves; okay, but I hope God also helps those who get caught helping themselves!

Practice makes perfect; yeah, but only if it’s perfect practice!

Don’t criticize a man ‘til you’ve walked a mile in his shoes; right, because by then you’ll be a mile away and have his shoes!

What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger; except if it doesn’t!

You’ll find love when you’re not looking for it; maybe, but good luck with that if love isn’t also looking for you!

Absence makes the heart grow fond; perhaps, but fond of whom?

Stop and smell the roses; great idea, unless bees are gathering rose-pollen where you stick your nose in!

Better late than never; unless, that is, you weren’t invited in the first place!

One person’s trash is another person’s treasure; sure it is, if it’s not already a rotting pile of garbage!

He’s at his wit’s end; or on the other hand, he may just be halfway there!

It’s not what you know that matters, it’s who you know; perhaps, unless you don’t know anyone important!

Curiosity killed the cat; true, but satisfaction brought…well, you know!

There’s always light at the end of the tunnel; there is, but it might be an oncoming freight-train!

Beauty is only skin-deep; that’s alright, I’m thick-skinned!

Two heads are better than one; fine, as long as they aren’t attached to the same torso!

There’s someone for everyone; and you would know this…how?

It is better to be by yourself than engaged in bad company; in that case, please excuse me!

Ah, those last two are a tad unkind, I must admit, but they tickle my funny-bone, anyway.  It has been said by someone far wiser than I that an idle mind is the devil’s workshop.  So, to foil that maleficent demon, I often occupy my idle mind with such trivial pursuits as this, and then write them down. 

I hope you have enjoyed some of the results.