life

Green Tent

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Two weeks ago, I went camping. I pitched a glowing green tent shaped like an igloo in a forest clearing. Inside, hung from a criss-crossed pole at the top was an old lantern running on white gas, burning with a mesh style baby sock. The light was very bright. White hot slashes poured between the flammable walls. The structure from outside looked like a radiating green snow globe, possibly shaken by a very large man with green clothing and a deep voice, shouting, “Ho, ho, ho.” I wasn’t sure if I should use the light in the tent, the fumes and heat very combustible in a small confined area.

Under the raging light was my sleeping arrangement, a single green cot. I went outside and sitting around the campfire were two people. One was a dude decked out in green camo. He wore a floppy fisherman hat with randomly attached  hooks and lures. One device was bright neon orange. A fish would spot it miles away.  He was a good fisherman, I heard. He always stuck to the rules. Catch and release.

Next to him sat a girl dressed in white, red and brown camo. She kept moving away from the fire. I watched steam rising from her clothes.   She was medium height, with streaky pink hair tied up at the back. She had a camo-tattoo around her ankle, matching her clothes. She wore a large mason jar smile, showing many bright white teeth. They glowed like bright white light.  Good for midnight bladder jaunts to the bush, I thought.

She asked to come in the tent, and I said sure. I brought a blue sleeping bag with me, but I couldn’t find it. I searched the tent and then went outside to look around the campsite, but it was nowhere. I was so sure I’d brought it. Streaky hair girl got on the cot. I did the same. It was very tight and we couldn’t move. We snuggled and tried to get warm. I tried to cover us, but the only means were the bags the cot and tent were stored in.  I considered lighting the lamp, but I was afraid we’d go up in a fireball. Death by fire or by ice, I’m not sure what is better.

It was a restless night.  We couldn’t get comfortable or warm on the small cot with no coverings except leftover bags. Finally, the sun rose. The tent quickly became an oven – nature’s extremes. We were starting to suffocate, so we got out of the tent. Fisher guy was still there sitting around the fire. He’d fallen asleep in a chair before the fire. I asked him how he slept. He said like a baby with blue lips and toes.

I finally found my sleeping bag. I handed it to pink hair girl, but she said she was  going fishing. I said, good luck I hope you catch something. She smiled with those bright white teeth. I tried to remember where my sunglasses were.

Panel Wagon

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I was driving a very small car, fire engine red with white trim. It was so low to the ground, I felt as though my ass were dragging across the ground, derriere road rash. It wasn’t light out yet, gray light just forming on the horizon. I drove to the institution early so I could get a good parking spot. The lot got very full, very fast. I was in a rush, so I had to wash my hair in the back seat of my tiny car. Luckily the car came with a shower nozzle, the kind you find in a kitchen, thin flexible metallic hose with a black nozzle. You just press the button, and water scoots out. I’m glad I had the option. Clean hair is so important.

After I washed my hair, my friend came and tapped on the window. I couldn’t see her face because her shaggy dirty blonde hair covered her facial features. She wore a large beige cable knit sweater, reminding me of a rug with a zipper up the front. She was going to take my car and drive it to an unknown location. She got in and dropped me off at the institution door, but it was too early. I told her I’d wait until the doors opened, but she insisted and drove back to the parking lot. I said, you’ll never get a parking spot. She wasn’t worried.

When we got back, the lot was full. Another little car was driving into the space we vacated. Only little cars were permitted in the lot. So many little cars in one place, you’d think a clown convention was happening. We drove around and around but couldn’t find a spot.

My friend was getting frustrated. I asked her if she wanted to come for dinner. She was very appreciative.  She said sure. She’d come back and pick me up at four. I walked to the steel institution doors. They opened.

She arrived right on time at four. We drove to my house. I was living in another car, a station wagon with the same wood panels adorning so many basements in shag carpet time. My house had no wheels. It was parked in an abandoned lot with a large park flowing outside the back window. The wagon had a portable stove on the back.

I poured some wine. We drank and she admired my Swedish shelving. They’re Olof Palmes’.  We sat in the front seat drank wine and ate steak and potatoes and green beans. After dinner, we jumped over the front seats and sat in the back and listened to the radio. A song came on about a guy who was in love with his best friend’s girlfriend. I said I hadn’t heard the song in a long time. She said the guy was an asshole. Who does that?

We pulled the seats back and laid down in the wagon area, watching the trees and the grass sway in the park. We drank the rest of our wine. We talked until the park was only shadows. She said, it’s getting late. I have to work in the morning. After she went home, I got out and lit the wagon on fire. I walked down a dark road, wishing I hadn’t given her my car.

Burning Down the House

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The greatest  gift to give a teenager (so they say) is teaching them how to cook. The obvious benefit is an option from throwing bad food in a microwave.  Another is precious time away from a screen and spending gleeful hours with a potential filled young person. You can make a difference. Ok, so I got that off a parenting website, “Teenage Monsters.”

Anyway, my niece came over a while back and together we made carbonara and Caesar salad  with homemade bread. The only problem with the carbonara is while cooking the pancetta, it got very smoky in the house. Our fire alarm started screaming like a banshee. Now we have a security system, meaning when the alarm goes off, we usually get a call from the company and if they can’t reach us, hotline to emergency services.

Weirdly,  I didn’t get a call or notice on my phone.  We kept looking out the window while waving towels over the alarm – not sure if the fire department was called or not. All our doors and windows were open, even though it was below freezing.  Every fan blasting on max. Then we heard sirens blaring with lights a- flashing.  The big red trucks stopped in front of our house. Curtains open, nosy eyes, chins a-wagging with,  Hey look they have an alarm system, the idiots.

My niece ever the brave one,  ran for cover shouting: “Don’t tell them I’m here.”  “What?” I said. “They’re firemen, not cops. And you watch too much TV.”  Ok this has potential for learning lesson number two, but before I could take her outside she ran, tail between her legs,  flying  down the  basement stairs.

Left alone, I went outside in my slippers and wool socks and explained to the very understanding firemen:

“Sorry, we were making carbonara and cooking the bacon (not sure they’d know pancetta), but then boom too much smoke. I musta missed the call from our security company. I am really sorry.”

“You used bacon? Not they way I make it.  I use pancetta,” said the fireman, smirking.

“Yea, next time I’ll use pancetta. Maybe that’s the problem.”

“Dinner was saved?” asked the fireman.

“Yep.”

“Then all is good. You’re safe and so is dinner. That’s all that matters.”

“Again, I’m so sorry.”

“Not a problem,” said the very understanding high-res man, “better a nice chat on the sidewalk then pulling bodies out.” (Ok he didn’t really say that, but)

I turned and walked  back into our pancetta lingering freezing cold house.  I checked my phone. The alarm company called but I didn’t hear the ring (curse you fruit company). I want to go over to the firehall and cook them dinner with my niece out of appreciation.

A few weeks later, however,  I got a letter from the fire department. Your first alarm is free. After that five hundred bucks for the second call and then a thousand for the third. My first thought, Do I really need an alarm? Second thought, maybe we’ll order carbonara and I’ll teach my niece how to pay with my credit card. Oh wait, that’s a lesson she knows very well.

Navy Ship

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Last night I was on this Navy ship. All military metal with haze gray walls. We are about to get torpedoed by a submarine. I ask the captain why are they shooting at us? He says they don’t trust us. They want to shoot before we do. They want the advantage. Fear. Too much fear.

I go to the bottom deck and look out a portal window,  brass frame with rivets like bullet ends. I  watch the torpedoes come charging towards the ship. Long copper cylinders with thick turbulent white water following. The missiles hit, but I feel nothing.

I take the elevator to the main deck. Inside is an empty linen cart, the kind they use in hospitals. I enter an enclosed area.  No doors, only military gray walls and the steel elevator door. I want to go behind the walls because that’s where the injured people are. I want to help, but I can’t get beyond the walls.  I can hear doctors and nurses operating on people – horrible sounds of confusion and anxiety, metal on metal, clanging. I feel useless. I have no control.

Two people come out from the surgery area. They walk through the wall. One injured sailor has no issues. He says they let him go. Another guy comes out with a serious eye injury. He has a patch over it, the fabric spotted with blood stains. I help him back through the wall, but it blocks me.

I take the released guy to the top deck. I ask him what’s going on in there. He says, many injuries from the attack, but the medical staff are doing a great job.  I ask him if he has any injuries. He says, they thought he had a brain issue, but they let him go after he spent several hours in a dark room.  He watched Gandhi videos.  He gets off the elevator and says thanks for the chat.

I take the elevator down to the main deck. I notice a “B” button on the elevator. I press it but it doesn’t turn green, it goes red. I keep pressing but the light doesn’t change.  I can’t go down any further, even though I did before the attack. I wait on the main floor waiting to see if anyone needs a ride on the elevator. A useless job, I know, but it’s something.

The guy with the eye injury shows up again. He says he doesn’t belong here. He wants to go outside. I say it’s not a good idea to wander on the top deck especially if you can’t see. He says he can see just fine. The waves are very high, I explain. And the water is freezing. You’d die of hypothermia. He touches his eye. A nurse comes through the wall and pulls the bad eye guy back into the operating area.

I take the elevator up. I want some fresh air. I get off the elevator. A sign I didn’t see before  says, “Open Air” with an arrow pointing up. I turn the handle, but it doesn’t move. I go to the elevator and press the down button, but it’s red. I press the button, rapidly, violently as many times as I can as if I were at a cross walk signal. A nurse comes out and takes me beyond the wall.

Apple Sucks

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“De phone, de phone has arrived.”  The fruit company announces. We leave early, thinking maybe grab some lunch and then a movie after I pick up my new phone. I bought it online the night before, so all I have to do is walk in and pick it up. I get to the fruit store and say, “I know I’m early, but can I grab my phone?” As I open the email and actually read the stupid thing, I notice at the bottom: “Please bring photo ID.” Well, shiver me timbers. I didn’t read the whole email, surprise, surprise. Now, in my defence it was about the twentieth email they sent me. “Shit,” I say to the nice fruit representative, “I have a photo of my ID on my old fruit phone.  Nope. Government ID only, sorry,” she says with a half-jerked smile. Yep gotta watch tiny retail people with a little bit of power and a rule. They will shit all over you and who wouldn’t when your wage doesn’t cover rent.

I phone my car passenger and explain the situation. I walk with the pace of an Olympian to the car.  Then Mr. Impatient gets a golden idea, “Well. I can probably drive home, grab my wallet and be back before my passenger even gets down the stairs to the underground parking.” You sad sorry moron. When will you learn? I get in the car, fly out of the garage and zoom down the causeway.  I get a call, “Hey where are you?” “Yea, sorry I’m halfway home. Meet me at the fruit store in twenty.”  The line dies. I can feel the  sardonic smirk down the highway between us. I get half-way home when I remember, I don’t have my keys, so I can’t get into the house without throwing the barbeque through the window.

I call back, but before I even speak, “You don’t have your keys, numbskull. You gave them to me this morning. Remember? I don’t want the pocket bulge you said. ” “That’s right, I say.” Passenger says,  “Ok, meet me in front of the drugstore. No better yet, meet me in in front of the bank.” “Ok,” I say, but am I really listening? I get to the drug store. I call. “Where are you?” “In front of the bank like I told you.” “Oh shit.” I scoot around the drug store and drive over to the bank. I see the passenger’s  head, shaking with disgust and then while sliding into the car, “Do you want me to drive? You seem a little tense.”

We drive home, get my wallet, and go back into the phone store. I gingerly put my Government ID on the counter. We wait. Dude tries to sell me shit I don’t need. Thanks. I walk out of the store new phone in pocket, bulging like square fruit in a round tree.

I go home. So many passwords to renew and new fruit wants to use my face for ID. Nah, Apple doesn’t suck – you do.

Lest We Forget

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I woke up this morning, looked out the window to silence and cold. Where are the school buses and the people going to work? And then I slapped myself in the head. How could I?

 I pulled a cup of warm java to my lips and read about a dude getting gunned down in the street, “bullets riddled his back and he fell into the street.”  A little too harsh first thing in the morning, so let’s read something else.  I open my other book and was faced with a dude jumping off a cliff in alcohol induced frivolity. Divers found his body stuck in three feet of mud.  The idea of death brought me to  soldiers sitting in stinking,  wet and cold mud trenches. Then to other heroes blowing on their fingers to keep the cold off as they sat in a frozen fox hole surrounded by newly fallen snow. Warm fingers equal  warm triggers.  And the fear. Not knowing if today was your last day on earth.

The reading passages weren’t  a coincidence. Someone was knocking on my dull brain reminding me of the  many men  who died for our democracy, for our freedom. Deaths that allow me to sit in a comfortable chair, sip a warm beverage and read whatever I like.  I was walking with my niece  in the mall a few days ago. I bought a poppy from a vet and put money into his bucket. An action I should’ve done weeks ago.  As we walked away,  she asked, “Why did you give him money? It’s not like anyone cares.” Ok, so after the shock,  I picked my jaw up off the floor and said, “How’s your German? Because no victory in the war and you’re speaking German. And the colour of your eyes? Ah, the work camp for you.”

I’m also a bit worried because this year I kept forgetting. In the past, this memorable day was an occasion  – go to a service, walk around the row of crosses. (I just looked at my watch and missed the 11/11/11.  I’ll get the last 11 – 11 minutes. I stop.   A moment of silence, just in time.)  This year the occasion nearly slipped by. It took me a few minutes in this morning to remember it was Remembrance Day. It took me so long to get my poppy on, just a few days ago. In fact, yesterday, when I walked to my car I saw my poppy had fallen off. It lay in the snow almost buried. Again, not a coincidence.

Yes, I almost forgot it was Remembrance Day, leading me to another thought. My mother-in-law is ninety-three years old. She was a teenager during the Nazi occupation of Belgium. Using her age as a guide, how many World War Two vets are left?  With my blank out memory and my young niece’s who cares attitude, how long will it be before the Wars and the men who died for freedom are forgotten. It’ll be a very sad day when  “Lest we Forget” becomes a reality.

The Mall Walk

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Let me describe the weather. It’s brutally cold. So cold cat’s ears fall off. So cold that in thirty minutes your nose turns black if left naked. So cold our city hit number nine on the list of coldest places on the planet. Right up there with the frozen Northern tundra and Vostok Station, Antarctica. Polar bear and penguin weather. And what do you do on frigid days? You walk the mall, but  you must go early. Before the teen hoards wake up and hound their mothers to zip outside, risk frostbite while warming the mini-van and drive them to the mall.

We got there early. The stores weren’t even open and parking was only a twenty-five metre Olympic sprint to the main door. The mall does retain a special magic in early morning especially during the holidays. Lovely to look at the empty Santa workshop (without lines of snot dripping adolescent munchkins)  or enjoy Valentine hearts plastered everywhere like a kindergarten classroom. Even the security dudes don’t give you a second thought because they’re more interested in their morning cup of java.

Today however, I was shocked. After we walked around (5438 steps to be precise) I looked into the food court after ordering my ham and eggs and my jaw smacked the short-lived clean floor below me. Look! A retired dude. Oh my, a happy group of retired women.  Another group of grey haired men.  Look a retired couple. Oh shit that’s us. But we don’t look like the others hanging around the vaccinated eating area, right? I zip to a mirror. Hard to tell in toque and mask. Phew!

Then another slap to the head. Look it’s all the retired people who can’t afford to go to Phoenix or Palm Springs. We are included although even if we had the cash I’m not so sure we’d go with all the restrictions and the global virus disaster. Nope we are happy sitting here in minus thirty-seven freezing our asses off and bingeing Netflix. Who am I kidding? Time to grab the little dog and …

Now would I rather be walking among the California palms or skidding on ice patches? Would I rather be sipping a local California Chardonnay or sitting in front of my TV watching the allied attack on Italy? Would I rather be sucking air cold enough to freeze my lungs solid or constantly worried that I might not make it home. I don’t know but there’s always next year, right? (Didn’t I say this last year?) Hopefully the decision in twelve months will be, do I wear my mask because it’s retro cool?

Side story

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Free picture: book, eyeglasses, geography, product ...So I’m reading this article and it’s about a women who spent time in Paris jotting down notes and observations about people who get on and off the bus – a woman runs to catch a bus and finally does at an intersection- Why was she late? Where was she going? What is her side story? Or about this guy who’s rapidly texting. Is he breaking up with someone or is he making dinner plans? We don’t know. We make side stories about our observations. Sometimes good. Sometimes naught.

A kid runs to catch a train in New York. He has a basketball under his arm and as he stands in the doorway, the door bops back and forth unable to close. The passengers look at the kid in anger. “Just let the fucking door close,” they say with darting, laser eyes. About thirty seconds later a woman hobbling with her cane comes up to the door and smiles at the boy. He lets her pass and then walks on the train. The door closes and the train moves on. Now without the side story – his grandmother, aunt or whomever with mobility problems perceive the kid as a nuisance. Without our sense of compassion, he’s just a little puke slowing the train down.

I was thinking on my run this morning, that before we make horrible judgments about people we should find out or at least consider what is causing people to react in certain ways. The homeless guy asking for change is not a drug addict or a thief who’s too lazy to get a job. Maybe he’s incapable of working because of a physical or mental disability. Maybe he‘s living on the streets even though he has a part time job because he can’t afford rent and the rules at the shelter do not coordinate with his job needs so he’s forced to live on the streets.

Just as this was passing through my endorphin riddled brain this morning,  I passed a guy, saying, “Good Morning,” as I do everyone. A little further on, my brain said, “You know this dude.” I’m sure I’ve see him before, but a long long time ago. The last time I saw him he wasn’t in good shape. He was suffering from a few rounds of cancer therapy. I did my turn and I was going to engage him on the way back. “Hey aren’t you that guy who had two large dogs? I haven’t seen you here for ages, literally years. You’re looking really good.” Yep I had the whole conversation mapped out in my head. By the time I made my way around the pond, he was gone. I lost a golden opportunity.

Now, I’m left to my imagination. Two years ago he flew down to Mexico and met up with a faith healer. The man was magical, sending his cancer into remission and the last few years he’s been working at his old job as dispatcher for a delivery company. He loves the work, but it’s very busy especially now as it’s leading up to Christmas. He has two children who live in the city and he sees them quite regularly. The dogs are fine but old and they don’t want to walk any more. Plus he’s getting to old to manage them on his walks.

Of course I made this up. I have no idea what his side story is, but rather than think negatively, I choose an optimistic side story. And like mama says, “If you haven’t got anything nice to say, shut the fuck up.” Mama has a way with words.

The pot is boiling and overflowing

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Pot Boiling Over On Home Stove - Time Lapse Stock Footage ...

Here we go more flippin’ insanity. David Amess out for a nice afternoon with his constituents in a church of all places is stabbed and killed. Murdered because he was a politician. The nefarious act also brought back the horrible death of Jo Cox another MP murdered for her views on Brexit in 2016 (not to mention the fifty journalists killed in 2020) . What the hell?

Our politicians and journalists are icons for the preservation and enhancement democracy no matter what political colours they fly, but how safe are they? Out for a walk and boom.  Where did  our sense of decency, compromise and respect go? We live in a society where the discussion of ideas is good for everyone, right? Maybe we’ve always hated diverse values. Blue caveman hits orange caveman over the head because he used too much flint (or the sacred flint).  What? Can’t we have opposing political or religious beliefs anymore? Are we still living in caves, without Starbucks for millennia?

Perhaps the biggest loss in these assaults is the attack on our future. Who in their right mind is going to hold political office with a literal gun to the back of their head?  So much for bright youthful ideas and people running across the political stage with hope and enthusiasm. “Hey young fella, you wanna be in government?” “Are you nuts? ” Say hello to the same old white guys running government with a pack of secret service guys running behind them in cheap black suits. What happens when the old white guys move or pass on? We certainly won’t get the best and brightest young minds.

What is the cause of this horror? Hello unregulated social media. The only interest these guys have is money. Hey you want to get your anger out? Excellent, I have a place just for you. Join a group on a platform where you can vent your anger. Get a few more to join.  The platform doesn’t care about any misinformation ravaging  these groups like cancer nor do we give a shit about the fallout. We love it because more anger means more people joining these radical groups and that spells PROFIT. We need money. Our corporation can’t possibly exist on eighty-five billion dollars a year. My goodness, anything under sixty billion is like poverty. How can I possibly orbit the earth in my billion dollar space vehicle if I don’t have an astronomical cash flow?

On the positive side,  this may result in good. If the senseless loss of life gets people screaming and if enough people get pissed off at these money gouging enterprises, something will get done. It’s time to shout until our lungs burst.

Earl’s Spicy Cajun Sandwich with Cheddar

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Aged cheddar, lettuce, tomatoes, on a toasted bun

The next stop on the Spicy Chicken trail is Earls, a sit down restaurant chain popular in Canada with a few American locations in Illinois, Colorado and Florida among other spots.

This time out, I had the pleasure of dining with a co-worker who has many “conditions.” One time we went to a lake for a day picnic.  We get to this beautiful oasis in the middle of the prairies and as we’re driving around she  notices there’s not a tree or sparkle of shade anywhere. The look on her face. I’d say she went as white as a ghost, but that’s her natural appearance.  As she stepped out of the car, I swore I heard her skin sizzle like a raw slab of meat on a barbecue. Five minutes later we headed back to the city. Air conditioner on full blast. We never went on another picnic.

We get to Earl’s and after moving to three different tables – “I’m freezing. Is this under the air conditioner?”  “Oh my God will those children please shut up.” “I can’t see the fire exit. What if there’s a fire?” We finally find a seat. Our pleasant server comes over and takes our order. My friend asks for water and lemon, no ice. She’s got enough ice running through her veins. The server returns.

“I said no ice. Gawd. Do you understand English?” I have to lower my head. I can’t look at the poor server who doesn’t deserve this.

“Can’t you be a bit more pleasant?” I ask. I look over and watch the the waitress stir her new drink with a freshly sanitized finger. If not for the pandemic, I know what she would have done. I don’t blame her.

Our food arrives. I have the Spicy Cajun Sandwich with cheddar. My friend has a Caesar salad and a very soggy margarita pizza. As we are leaving she says, “I hope you didn’t tip her very well.” I tipped her thirty percent for the trauma she had to deal with. Loss of work due to the pandemic and shitty customers, servers should get an automatic fifty.

Now on to the Spicy Chicken Sandwich. Liking dining with my ex-friend, it was a horrible experience. Firstly who puts cheddar with cajun? A terrible combination. The meat was very very dry and covered in so much breading, I thought I was licking the floor of a sawmill. And way, way too much bun (I also wondered if the bun wasn’t left over from the last pandemic shut down three months ago). The meat was as hidden as a turkey at Thanksgiving and the spice as scared as a bleached skinned woman at a scorching beach.

Well the good thing is I won’t go back to this restaurant for awhile. Not only was the sandwich horrible, but I need many many months before the memory of my friend dissipates from server memory.