Different Sausage, Same Casing

Doug Ford is no Mike Harris.  There are similarities of course.  Both dislike public education and public services of all types. Both wear a suit the way a sausage wears a casing.  Both believe that there is no answer too simple for a complex question. Both believe that the world is a better place from inside a van, preferably one with a big screen TV,  protected by the OPP.     With that said, people should take comfort that Ford is not Harris.

Harris built his party in a painstaking manner, moving from one church basement to the next legion hall across Ontario, consolidating power.  As a result, Harris had a cabinet and caucus that was beholden to him.  While Harris had future sexual harassers and former garbage collectors for caucus members at least they were his sexual harassers and his garbage collectors. 

Ford is a snake oil salesmen (with all due respect to the snake oil industry) who took over a fractured party through slander and trickery, taking advantage of a sex scandal involving that beige suit of a man, Patrick Brown.  The contrast to Harris here is important.   Harris owned his party.  Ford stole his.  Harris never feared about loyalty; after all, his Tories would always dance with the one who brought them.  But Doug, Doug cannot trust his gang.  Can there be any better proof of this than Doug forcing his stolen seals to clap on cue? He is a man so insecure that he sees a threat in Randy Hillier, a man whose greatest claim to fame is pulling his own tractor.

Ford is largely hated by his caucus; they look at him the way you look at your Uncle when he shows up unannounced.  They support him in a Joe Pesce  Good Fellas way; twitchy, very twitchy.  Ford won the leadership on the strength of people who think the cancerous rays of wind turbines can seep through their tinfoil hats.  He won because he courted the vote of devout home schooled virgins.  Not that being a devout home schooled virgin is a bad thing, but it just might not qualify you to be the next Minister of Education once this barely educated one is fired.

Harris earned his reputation as a person any amount of money could buy.  Harris was not born to the manor of corruption, unlike Ford, he worked for his entrance into that big house.   Whether it was selling the 407 for a current trip between Hamilton and Oakville or being Frank Stronach's personal chute greaser, Harris worked hard to feather his own nest and ensure that he and his friends and family would be the most alright of all the Jacks.  Ford had that type of largesse bestowed upon him.  After being born on third base, Doug doesn't have the interest to run for home.  He's in it for the revenge, not the ideology.

Unlike Harris, Doug has made mistakes early in his first big war with teachers.  Where Harris was calculating, Dougie lets personal feelings interfere.  His battle against the parents of autistic children is a revenge hit.  Harris never attacked a student, preferring to portray them as perpetual victims, no less insulting than Ford's approach but much more effective. Harris softened the ground for months with a marching barrage of commercials and rallied his base to go after the very people who helped raise their kids. Ford stumbled into the first battle in this round by taking student cell phones away.

There is hope here for teachers, students, in fact all citizens. Ford is no Harris.   Ford is a hit and run con and makes for a much easier opponent.  All we have to do is hold our ground and wait for the wheels to inevitably fall off his fat ass van.

Eulogy of Geoff Sharron

What If?

I can imagine you taking some pleasure in seeing a former English teacher at the front of a large room, a large crowd, and at a loss for words.  There are of course no words because our language is a poor instrument to capture the grief and sorrow and heartache we all feel.

So perhaps you will indulge me for a moment, allowing me to go back to literature and I hope Teresa will forgive me for bringing Ernest Hemingway into this.  

I don’t suppose many of you have read “Big Two Hearted River” by Hemingway.  But that is of no importance, after all I spent 30 years speaking to people who had not done the required reading so this will only be uncomfortable for you.  As a matter of fact, as I look out over this gathering today many of you are the very people who did not do the reading back then.

Set in the aftermath of world war one, our protagonist, Nick, arrives on a burnt out area north of lake Superior.  Nick has been dropped by the train in the middle of what was the small mill town of Seney.  There is nothing left of Seney except ash, the river and grasshoppers.  

I think of this story now because Nick takes simple pleasure in simple, beautiful things.  In many ways Nick and Geoffrey are kindred spirits.

Nick is in a harsh and barren place but stares wondrously at the trout nosing the river bottom, holding themselves in place in the current.  He thinks back to a time a good friend taught him to make coffee over a fire and he experiences joy as he wades into the cold stream and feels his pants stick to his legs.  He is happy.  He is at peace.

I start with literature because it is a place where we can talk of everything and nothing all at the same time.  I hope you get a chance to read that story in the next few weeks.

I know that you have stared at the ceiling these past 10 days.  You have tossed and turned, faced the wall and then back again.  You have woken just before the time you normally do, only to remember the pain of it all.  In those times, you have probably been asking the same question.  The same big question that I have been asking.  That Bruce and Teresa and Thomas and James have been asking.  

What if?

Geoffrey asked of me on Christmas Eve. What if.  He looked down on me, not metaphorically mind you but literally, he had to looked down on me since he was 10 I believe and said, “Dan, what if” his big voice and that barely contained laugh following “Dan, what if Kyle Dubas the young  general manager of our beloved Maple Leafs, spent his brilliance on solving world hunger rather than on managing a hockey team?  

What if indeed? 

What if Geoff had not taken that last run?  What if he took the route his good friend Daniel took.  If you’re asking those questions than why not follow your logic to its natural conclusions.  Ask all the what ifs.  

What if Geoff had not had such a beautiful and caring family, a father who took him on a canoe trip when he was five.  A mother, brave and strong enough to let her son go West and make his way.  What if they had not done that?  Then his friend couldn’t write:

Geoff is everything one can ask for in a friend.  He showed and taught me so much, and my life is richer from his friendship.

What if Geoff hadn’t paddled with his two brothers, camped with them, honed his great skills on the mountain with them?  If he hadn’t done these things, you would not be able to write on his Facebook wall 

Geoff was a very kind person, who always made the people around him feel happy and safe. His memory will never cease to put a smile on my face. 

Do you see where our question has lead us? 

Teresa let him go; her magical son.  Challenged him intellectually every step of the way.  Bruce, in his quiet and calm way, taught him to become the young man we all wish was here today.  James, jousting with his older brother, nudging him.  Looking up to him.  Thomas, quiet Thomas, picking up Geoff’s guitar.  Skiing on Geoff’s tips, pushing him to be better.   

Maybe we would not be in such pain today if we hadn’t gone on those countless canoe trips and epic ski trips.  Maybe all those discussion around great food and bad cards lead us here.  

Maybe if we hadn’t blurred the line, till it no longer existed between friends and family, we wouldn’t be here now.  

Maybe Geoff could have grown up to be meek and mild.  Bland and boring.  A man unwilling to take a risk.  But we didn’t do that, did we?  Geoff didn’t become that.

Geoff became a man of substance.  A thoughtful, kind, gentle, caring compassionate, passionate, talented man.  A loyal friend.  A big brother  to James and Thomas and dare I say it, to our Kevin and Claire.  He became the man that we all loved.

But these questions sting me like nettles.   What if he skied in the centre of the run?  What if he didn’t push edges?  What if he had taken the typical road, the one well travelled?  

Well, he wouldn’t have been our Geoff, our love, would he?

I use to text Geoff during Leaf games and I started this when he moved out West and the Leafs were so bad.  I texted a lot of people back then during games and you know Geoff was the only one to text me back.  “Ya” he’d write “we suck Dan.”  It was like we were watching the game together, even though we were separated by thousands of kilometers. What if he hadn’t answered me?  What if I hadn’t texted him in the first place?  Well I wouldn’t have the joy of that memory and his presence right now.   

But I am tired of these questions now.  I am sure you are too.  What you want is answers.  What I want is an answer.  Of course the answers I have are flawed and do not pass the careful scrutiny of the reasonable mind.  

What has come to me is Frankle’s idea that you and I have assumed this burden of grief.  We have taken it on like a heavy pack; much like the one Nick in Hemingway's tale lifts and strides to his beautiful river.

There is meaning in it.  We take on burden, because Geoff chose to live his life in a deliberate and wondrous way, just like Nick in the story.   By assuming this heavy burden, you allowed that wondrous, beautiful man, our Geoffrey, to live his life that deliberate and unique way.  There is meaning and beauty in that if we can just find the strength to see it.

Let’s flip the “what if’s” on their heads.  Come with me for a moment.

What if you are standing on top of a beautiful mountain, staring at a daunting run, your heart pounding, what if you just think of Geoff for a moment.  What if you talk to him a little bit; “hey Geoff, I’m going for it.”  Or what if you follow the swirl your paddle makes as you push for home and in that moment you see Geoff in the reflection of the water.  Or what if, after a great day on the river or the lake, when you are sitting around the fire with your friends, your family, you just look into that fire and give a little nod to Geoff. He will nod back.

What if, when you hear someone pick up a guitar and strum some chords, you think of Geoff in the notes.  

What if you do these things, some of these things, all of these things in your own way.  You would not be much different from Hemingway’s Nick or much different from our beautiful Geoff.  You would see the beauty in simple, peaceful things.  But more importantly, you may be closer to Geoff than you ever have been before.  He would be right there with you.

If we take on this burden, he will not be gone and we will not be alone.

Christmas 2018 Story: Gum Boots and Mistletoe

Gum Boots and Mistletoe

Christmas 2018

By

Dan de Souza

The planters are gone now, it being mid-December, and the first dusting of snow has arrived late, extending his season, keeping his Christmas at bay.

He is pulled to the trees by money and they have pushed him away from her.   And now he stands here, on a plot of land, a “block”  his boots covered in mud from the early spring, vegetation from fall that was late in arriving, and snow from this first spit of winter.  If it would only snow a little more, just enough to cover the tops of my boots, he thinks, I could call it a season.  “I could call it a season and get in that truck and ....” His words disappear into his beard.

“I could call it a season”, he says out loud.  “I am done with this”, he mutters to the dog as he yanks the mistletoe out of the ground.   The irony is not lost on him; the irony of mistletoe.   The last contract of the season meant “the eradication of mistletoe.”  Mistletoe.  The kissing plant.

Who knew it was a parasite?  “That’s right”, he says aloud, this time to his spade, “a parasite that steals the water and nutrients from its host plant.  Phoradendron leucarpum, the kissing plant is a killer!  Not just of these trees,” he says sweeping his hand across the block as if delivering a lecture, “but can and has killed young lovers.  Kissing under the mistletoe,” he continues, now delivering the lecture to her Labrador Retriever sniffing in the dirt to his left, “Kissing under the mistletoe is fine, if you find parasites lust inducing.”  The dog never looks up, having heard this lecture several times since he bid on the contract and found himself on a vast block of young trees being choked by it. “You can kiss under it, but don’t EAT THE BERRIES.”

This time the dog looks at him, one ear cocked, head turned to the side.

“Yes, I may be losing it” he says more to his boots this time than to the dog.  Where had the seasons gone?  Yesterday he had been planting in shirt sleeves but the same boots.  He’d felt the sun ironing his shirt on his back and saw his sweat drip down his glasses from the drenched bandanna strapped to his brow.  Fall came with that usual coolness and rain. The day she left it had really rained.

He looks up from his spade, towards the tent, where her truck use to be.  It was understandable really, he rubs his chin, steps further into the mistletoe.  She hadn’t planned on this contract.  “I didn’t tell her about it.  Fair is fair.  She was right to leave.  Not her fault.”  Snow is falling harder now.  Really the first snow of the year, if it only could be the last he thinks.  “Would be great if it snowed like hell tonight, don’t ya think.”  The dog’s nose is turned on, disengaging her ears.  “DON’T YA THINK?” he yells at her tail as she bounds into deeper brush.

“They’re not completely parasitic you know.”  This time there is no one to hear him. His words fall between the broken and amputated trees of the cut block.  Even the little trees he is trying to save are oblivious to him.  “They do produce some energy on their own, you know, some photosynthesis occurs but then they just become parasites.”

The dog is nowhere near.

*         *         *

A cut block is a desolate place.  It is a swamp without water; a jigsaw puzzle shaken and thrown.  She has worked cut blocks for as long as he.  “He promised this year, he said we would leave together.” Her fingers drum the steering wheel.  She looks at the empty bench seat of the truck, where the dog sat first, then him.

“They both snored, remember?  Do you remember what that tent sounded like?  How about the way it smelled...not that you’re a bed of roses,” she says to her eyes in the rear view mirror.  “No.  No bed of roses. “  The radio cut out a half marathon back and there is nothing to keep her mind occupied but the dried creek bed that serves as their road.  The truck bucks and sways. “I won’t get there before dark.”

“I didn’t ask much...you know that” her eyes in the mirror again.  “Talk to me.  Tell me what the plan is.  Tell me what we are doing.  Tell me what is happening here. “  The reflection never answers.  Her eyes just stare back, the brows forming a triangle over her nose.  “But, it’s not all his fault.”  She finds it hard to hold on to the wheel as the road gets tighter and tighter.  “He told me it would be tougher.  Tougher than last summer, than the one before. He didn’t lie about it. But God, the time.  How much time?  How long?  And for God Sakes, he kept the dog….”.  She glances in the mirror and can see her eyes getting wet.  She doesn’t want to cry; hates to cry.

She looks down at her thumb extended on the steering wheel.  It’s cracked, peeling.  The nail on her first finger is missing a section down to the cuticle.  She glances again to the mirror and sees, really for the first time, that she is getting old...not older...old.  “He kept the god damn dog.  Who keeps your dog?”  Again there is no answer from the mirror.  “I’m just going to get the dog.  Get the dog.  Get the hell out.  Who can spend Christmas without their dog?  Am I right?  I’m right! “ The truck lurches from side to side and in that moment she sees her eyes staring back at her.

*          *         *

“She usually comes back by now.”  He has been looking for an hour and no sign of the dog. His head light disappears into the darkness within a meter of his face and his voice, buffeted by the wind doesn’t travel much further.  “She can’t hear me and I can’t see her.”  His voice sounds more tired, older and alone than it has ever seemed.

Mistletoe snares him.  His boots are wrapped in the stuff.  He’s called and called.  Yelled and yelled for the dog to come back.  Just come back.  “I am NOT going back into that tent until I find you.  Until you are back!”  He is too old for this.  Too old to feel tears come down his cheeks and freeze in his beard.  Too old to be alone just before Christmas with a dog, her dog, lost on this “GODDAMN CUT BLOCK”. His voice echoes back at him. “CUT BLOCK”

He doesn’t see her lights hit his camp.  Couldn’t have seen them because he is face down on the block, mistletoe having tripped him in the dark.  Face down in the very mistletoe he is supposed to be eradicating.  It seems to be progressing, wrapping itself around him, like he is some sort of Gulliver and it a Lilliputian rope.  The parasite is winning.  Face down, the lights from her truck go over top of him and capture his tent for a moment.

“Hey” she yells from the truck’s open window. “Hey, where are you guys?” .  She opens the door, doesn’t have time to close it and steps on to the block, moving toward their, his tent.  “Anyone home?” she cries into the wind, “Hello?”

He hears her voice but it seems like a dream, a dream he has had many times since she left.  In the dream he hears her voice but can’t find her, just like he loses everything, has lost everything.  “Hey, hey, I’m over here.”  He is standing now and can see her near their tent, not far from her truck.  She is wearing the plaid shirt he gave her in the spring and the tuque she knit herself.  He can feel his cheeks under his beard, moving up to his eyes.  He feels himself smiling, and he hasn’t felt that in a very, very long time.  “Hey!”  he cries again and this time she turns.

“I can’t find her he says” having run across the block.  “I saw her at dusk, I was just going to knock off for the day and she headed over toward the east of the block.  What time is it?  I’ve been looking for hours.”  He hears his voice crack slightly when he says it.  When the hell are you going to grow up, he thinks.

She turns towards him at that sound.  She’s heard that crack in his voice before...when she was heading to her truck weeks ago.  “Let’s keep calling” and takes his planting hand in hers.  She can feel the calluses of months of labour and squeezes it harder than she should.

They search for a long time.  They retrace their steps from the first time they walked this block.  The first time he told her that they would have to get rid of all of the mistletoe and then they could go home.  They walk east, then along the north edge calling for the dog the entire time.  Whistling and clapping, along the west border until they reach the southern end of the block near the tent and the truck.  She sees from the distance that she has left the door open, the security light a dim beacon.

“I’m sorry” he says as they reach the truck.  “I’m sorry for everything.  I should have told you about it.  I should’ve talked to you and now I lost your dog. I am so sorry”.  His voice is barely a whisper, words swallowed in beard.  She has let go of his hand and is striding toward the open truck.

There she is, forming a perfect dog ball in the middle of the bench seat.  “She’s here.” she says more to herself at first and then turns to him.  “She’s here, right where she always sits.” He reaches the truck and places his left hand on the open door as she leans against the door frame.

“I’m really sorry.  I feel terrible. I’m so tired” he says.  She leans into him, the door open and protecting them from a northern wind.

“You have mistletoe on your toque” she says, and moves her chin up to  him.

“It’s a parasite you know. It’s called Phoradendron.  You don’t want to eat the berries”  Her kiss stops the lecture.

“Merry Christmas, let’s go home.”

Until Dad Shows Up

Dad needs to have a better year.

Another Father's Day is done.  We sit here in my backyard, ice melting in our scotch glasses as they rest on the arm of our Muskoka chairs and you and I get to reflect on how we did as fathers this year. 

I know you did well.  Your kids are doing great and I love the pics your kids posted. I really like the one you posted of your Dad.  I miss that guy. 

I had a good year too.  My Dad is still with me and I am so lucky to able to say that.  My kids have made me proud but that has more to do with their Mom than it does with me.

But I don't know.  I think we could have done better.  I keep getting this nagging feeling.  Do you feel it?  I do. I don't want to call too much attention to it but I feel like collectively, it wasn't the best year for "Dad" the brand.  I think as a group, we may be dropping the ball a bit.  Let me explain.

Have you ever had a kid grab on to you, or jump up into your lap at a party because they thought you were their Dad?  The kid might be sleepy or distracted, sees the legs, the Dad jeans, and then just climbs right up.  Sometimes the kid is shocked and gets down immediately but sometimes the kid shrugs and just snuggles in figuring, that, well, you look like a Dad and you will look after me.

Funny, as many times as I have seen that happen, I've never seen a man, whether he is young or old, whether he is a father or not, whether he is in mid conversation or sitting quietly in the corner, reject the kid.  The sleepy kid climbs up.  We look around for the "real" Dad and if he isn't there, then OK kid, you stay right there, safe and sound until your Dad comes back. 

You had a good year and so did your kids. I did too but I don't know, Dads as a group, we've failed.

If we hadn't, one of us would've helped the kid in the picture.

Filling Spaces

We enter the rink, our glasses fogging immediately as cold parking lot meets warm lobby.  I ignore it, bump my way along the corridor with my hockey bag slung over my shoulder but I know, even if I can't see him, that Dad has taken out his handkerchief (who carries a handkerchief?) and he is rubbing his glasses in small, meticulous circles until all the fog has been removed.

I kick at the dressing room door, squeeze past the goalies spread eagle on the floor having their pads strapped on.  "Watch it" someone yells.  I'm looking through a pin hole of clearing in my right lens. "Who plans a practice for Christmas Eve?"another yells across the room.  "Our coaches aren't even here."

I drop my bag, push my way on to the bench and try to concentrate on getting ready.  I can hear my Dad outside the room.  He is laughing with someone, maybe one of the other volunteers.  I imagine him standing with his hands on his hips, pants tucked inside galoshes.

A fresh sheet of ice, still glistening with water in the corners from the Zamboni, is something of a holy thing.  That first step, the glide, the cold air in your lungs and on this day, the strange sound of Christmas carols playing as I glide behind the net.  My legs feel good and strong.  The puck feels like it's glued to my stick.  I gain speed as I begin my second lap. It's on my third tour around, now skating backward, that I see him heading towards the door.

He is making his way towards the ice.  He's wearing his tweed cap, dress pants and a wool car coat.  He's wearing the leather gloves mom put in his stocking last year.  She gave me my first stick.  She taught me how to skate.  She came to every game.  He gave me glasses.

He is jostled by my teammates as they spill on to the ice. He smiles at them and I can feel my face starting to burn.  They are on the ice now.  I hear the clicking of pucks on sticks and the stop starts of them getting ready to practice.

"Hey, who's the old man?" one says as he glides past me.  I concentrate on my stick handling.  "Jesus, he can't even skate." says another.  I grip the stick tighter, the puck squirts off and I lose it.  I power past him.  He's made his way from the door to the corner, his right hand rests on the dasher board and his left is on his hip.  His ankles are buckled in towards each other, the blades of his skates at impossible angles.

Jerry, our star, is skating laps at the end where Dad is clinging to the boards.  Jerry is looping, swooping past him.  He's crossing over and spinning faster and faster near him.  His circles are getting smaller and tighter.  I stop behind the other net and begin to examine it for not existent holes, watching my Dad being corralled by Jerry's circles.  I look up again, just as Jerry hockey stops in front of Dad, spraying him with snow, covering his dress pants.  Snow fills one of his lenses.  I look down again, my fingers poking through the mesh, my cheeks burning.  I look up.

Jerry has a grin on his face.  He taps the ice with his stick, says something to Dad over his shoulder as he skates away.  Some metallic Christmas carol is playing and I watch Dad try to clear his glasses without letting go of the boards.  I want to sprint down the end of the ice.  I want to ram my shoulder into Jerry's chest.  I want him to get off the ice.

I finish checking the net for holes and slowly skate to centre where I "take a knee" with my teammates.  One of the other father's has blown the whistle. He's wearing the latest Under Armour pants, good skates that have been well used and he has a stick that has been expertly taped.  I can see my Dad trying to make his way from the boards to centre ice where we are.  He gets as far as the face-off dot before we are told to split up for warm ups.  My group heads to the other end and I skate backwards to watch Dad surrounded and then passed by Jerry and his boys.

The drill begins, each of us receiving a puck from the corner and then cutting in on the goalie.  As I finish my shot and make the turn towards the other end I can see that he has retreated to just behind the net, over to the right, just below the red line.

Jerry receives a puck from the corner. He rushes the net and raises his back foot, placing all of his weight into the shot.  It's wide but on target, slamming into the boards just to the right of my Dad.  I slow down, gliding towards his end.  They're all doing it. Pucks slam left and right of my Dad. He is trying to smile and hold on to the boards and I can see that his right lens is fogged.  He's breathing hard.  I move towards them but just glide.  I don't skate or pounce or hit.  I just move towards them, though them and slowly past them to where he is pinned behind the red line.  A final puck knifes between us, banging against the boards, causing us both to flinch.

Very slowly I hold out my arm and Dad, older than he has ever been, rests his hand in the crux of my elbow.  With one good push we both glide towards the door, past the players lined up for the drill, past the Dad with his expertly taped stick.

When we pull into the driveway, the tires make a crunching noise on the cold snow.  The Christmas lights he has put up, droop from the eaves trough.  One of them is burnt out.  He goes in ahead of me, leaving me in the passenger seat as winter begins to reclaim the space. I see my breath on every exhale.  My cheeks are wet and beginning to freeze.

I open the car door and see him through the kitchen window trying to figure out how to make hot chocolate.  I place my hand on the door, pushing towards him just as he moves towards me, trying to fill the space that she has left.