Truths and Half Truths

Faith

Today, I was over at my daughter's new house helping out with the settling in process.  Part of that is - of course - changing things that are not quite to your taste.  So, for example, if you are staring at an ornate fake crystal chandelier, and aren't expecting Liberace to drop by, you might want to replace it with something a little more subdued.  And for that, you might call Dad, if Dad is the kind of guy who has, over the years, learned how to do stuff like replace electrical fixtures.

I actually don't mind doing stuff like that.  I know my way around circuits and such, but I am  - let's be honest - a bit lazy.  So, I went down into her basement and opened the circuit box and saw that none of the circuits had been labelled (how hard is that to do?  For Chrisssake, it takes like one second with a Sharpie.  Jaysus). 

Well, my options were 1) spend a half hour flicking circuits over and having a person upstairs yell "Nope, that was the hall!  Nope, that was the back bedroom!".; or 2) Go back upstairs and just be really careful when I replaced the fixture.

I chose 2.

I was on a ladder, wrapping the lead from the new fixture around the hot wires, when my older daughter said "Did you shut the power off?"

I mumbled something about the switch being off, of course, what am I, crazy?  (Which is totally NOT the same thing.  The switch can be off, but you touch two hot leads, you'll end up on your ass across the room going "Whoa ... anybody else smell burnt toast?")

My younger daughter immediately sniffed out my ruse.  She said to her Mom, "Could you get your cell phone out?"

"OK, what do you need?"

"I need you to dial 9 and 1, and we'll just wait for Dad to come off the ladder at 100 MPH before you punch the other 1."

"Fine, Christ, I'll go figure out the damn circuit breakers."

And More Passages ...

... this time with my older daughter, Erin.  Erin is having an exciting year, what with this last May and this happening in July. 

(side note:  I love that my daughter has registered for gifts at Canadian Tire .  It removes any doubt as to her DNA.  For her entire life, she has seen me dash to the mailbox and pore over the weekly flyers like some perv leafing through the latest issue of Jugs 'n' Booties, which, if it isn't a title for a girlie magazine it totally should be.  In latter years when the new flyer has arrived, the girls have taken to rolling their eyes and saying "Oh, don't even bother trying to talk to him - he's all wrapped up in his tool porn." )

But before all the matrimonial goodness, Erin and (I have to get better at doing this:) my *coughfutureson-in-lawcough* are moving from their apartment in the centre of the city out to a house they bought in the country.  A house that is approximately 1/4 of a mile from where I'm sitting.  (Coincidence?  Erin swears it is.  OK.)

And that big event is today.

So, today I hop in a rented van and go with them to supervise the move into their first new home.  (What?  Of course I'll supervise.  When I was in my 20s, I would help friends move.  I have done my time.  I am a Mover Emeritus.  They're lucky to have my advice.  They're young and their backs are strong.  I'm the brains of this operation.)

They just pulled up and we're waiting for her sister to get changed from her pyjamas and be ready to go.  I don't remember ever seeing Erin this excited.  If it seems extra bright in your part of the world, you can thank the spill-off from this tiny Island, where Erin's face is pretty much lighting things up.

Remember the most excited you've ever been?  Yeah, triple it.

Time and Rope

Lest Fools Should Fail

True wisdom knows
it must comprise
Some nonsense
as a compromise,
lest fools should fail
to find it wise.

            

-  Piet Hein

My good friend Mary wrote a post today about proverbs she is dying to use one day, and asks if her readers have any they've been wanting to actually drop into a conversation. 

I think we all do that - either before or after important conversations, we think through what we either should have said or could say.  And of course we either didn't or won't because we're just not that clever.  Ah, to be Winston Churchill or Oscar Wilde or Benjamin Disraeli or - well, any character in a sitcom ... and have the right words tumble from our mouths as if spilled by God.

We've all experienced what Diderot called "L'Esprit de L'Escalier" - "Stairwell Wisdom".  Wishing our minds and our mouths had not betrayed us at the precise moment we needed them most.  Walking away going, "God!  I should have just said ...", and knowing that never, ever in your life will circumstances align themselves so precisely that the clever retort you came up with in the car on the way home will ever see the light of day.

You will never witness your adversary's jaw drop, his mouth trying in vain to form words but unable to, defeated by the blinding force of your wit.  You'll never know what it's like to deliver the perfect line, let it sit in the stunned silence, then turn on your heel and walk at a measured pace, head high, towards the door as one by one all the people around begin to applaud - slowly at first, but building into a crescendo until you turn the doorknob, walk out into the stairwell, let the door close silently behind you, then jump into the air, pumping your fist and going "YEAH!" (which would have been so not cool to let people see you do).

Most of us don't have brains that work that quickly.  So we're better off to have a bunch of general-purpose proverbs on hand that - should the occasion arise - we can toss into a conversation to make ourselves seem - well, if not wise, at least relatively well-read.

The problem is, most proverbs have slid into the realm of the banal and hackneyed.  You're not going to sound too clever if you caution someone that "A stitch in time saves nine!" or "Better safe than sorry!"

On the other hand, you start to sound pretty damn pompous if you casually throw around crap like  "Well, as Diderot said ..."  because really, who knows who Diderot is, and it becomes painfully clear that you've either spent too much time memorizing the words written by a relatively obscure French philosopher/encyclopaedist in his Paradoxe sur le Comédien ... or that you spend way too much time Googling relevant quotes for some pissy little blog entry.

So the trick is, finding a proverb or maxim that sounds smart, isn't overused, and is also relatively homespun.  And actually, I have one, which you can only steal if we are unlikely to end up in the same conversation.

I first had this said to me by my good friend Dr. Walter Learning, an ancient and wise icon of Canadian theatre.  (I should note that Walter is not a real doctor, in the sense that if your appendix ruptures on a mid-Atlantic flight and he's your only alternative, you're pretty much fucked.  He will, however, make your final hours a little more bearable, unless you mention golf, in which case you can expect to spend your last moments on Earth bored to tears.  Walter is a Doctor of Philosophy, which means he feels perfectly qualified to spend all his time dispensing philosophic thoughts without a prescription.)

I can actually attribute two wisdoms to Walter, one of which changed my life.  The life-changing wisdom happened when I was casting about for something to do after walking away from a relatively stable career at CBC Radio.  I'd been in Toronto for the weekend, seeing a couple of shows with my pal Davey, and I got back to a phone call from Walter.

"What plays did you see?" he asked.

I mentioned a brilliant one-man show, part of a series that is very well known in Canadian theatre.  We'd seen it in a packed, 800-seat theatre.

"What did you think of it?" he asked.  I hesitated.

"Wait," he said.  "I'll tell you what you thought of it.  You thought it was interesting and entertaining and well-written and funny and well-performed and a good night at the theatre, but you also thought 'Hey ... you know what?  That's not so special.  I can do that ...!'

He was right.  I'd enjoyed the show, but doing a one-man show felt like something that pretty much dropped into my wheelhouse.  If this guy was making kabillions of dollars doing this, why couldn't I?

"Want to know the big difference?" Walt asked.  Of course I did.

"The difference is ... he fucking DID it."

Exactly.  I was talking about doing something; this guy had actually fucking DONE it.  Well.  Didn't that light a fire under my ass?  So if you're looking for pithy and wise, that's pretty good right there.  But it isn't all Walt has given me over the years.

A long time ago, we were out on the golf course, and I suppose it's just possible I may have said something a tad derogatory about the game he was having that day.  It's possible, in fact, that I set up a line, he walked through the door, and I delivered the closer so perfectly it poleaxed him and left everyone else howling with laughter. It .. could have happened this way.  Just saying it's conceivable.

Walter drew himself up, gathered the shreds of his dignity around him, shot me a calm, measured look with a half-smile and said "My son ... we have a saying in Newfoundland.  "Time is longer than rope."  Think on that."  And he carried on with his game.

"Time is longer than rope."  I pondered it. 

In those circumstances, it was definitely a gentle threat, a warning along the lines of "Revenge is a dish best tasted cold."  But since then I've attributed a rainbow of meanings to those five words.

At its heart, I think this maxim is a call for patience - that Time is longer (more powerful) than anything man can devise (rope).  So - to me, at least - it speaks to the need to accept bad circumstances for a while in the sure and certain knowledge that Time will defeat them.  Time need not act alone in this, but nothing - no good, no evil, no right, no wrong, no trivial matter, no critical decision - can withstand the inexorable pressure of the slow rotation of the earth on its axis and its journey round the sun.

I have used this proverb in circumstances where a friend's despair over a situation grew oppressive.  I find it calms me to say it, to remind myself that as crappy as things can get - and they can get crappy indeed - nothing we are experiencing can withstand Time. 

In many ways, I'm an arrested adolescent.  But in at least one regard, I've grown more mature, and that is in how patient I can be. 

I really do believe that time is longer than rope, and knowing it is so makes me a happier person.

Hey, Everybody - I Got Wood!

This morning - and in fact, for the last couple of months, every morning - I woke up with no wood.

This was distressing to me, and I have to say my wife has not been happy, either.  Over the years, we've both come to depend on me having wood to help us both fight off the chilly winter nights.  But last year, when the time came to measure my wood, I came up short.

I get cranky when I can't get wood - I'm not used to it.  So the last few months have been hard, hard, hard.

But all that's over today, because this afternoon a really nice guy came to the house and slipped me all the wood I can handle.

He was great - he drove up in a truck and knocked on the door.  He was a rugged looking fellow, as you'd expect, but he sure knew his wood.  When I showed him the tight space he'd have to fit his wood in, he didn't hesitate for a second.

"I can do that," he said, and sure enough, he came around back and slipped it in easily.  It's no nice when they can do that without damaging the whole area.

And I mean ... this wasn't just a stick.  This was a whole lot of wood, folks.  It was cut.  Nice girth.   Perfect length.  All of it Hard.  I've never seen its equal.

Well, of course, it's one thing for me to have someone slip me some wood - quite another to know what to do with it.  And boy, I have learned over the years how to handle wood.  Of course, I'm gonna spend the next while all bent over and I may walk funny, but I can tell you, it's worth it.

I love getting wood, and if I could,  I'd share it with you.  Maybe later I'll post a picture.

Wait ... did I say something ...?  What?

*************  UPDATE  ***************

I often get asked if I could share pictures of my wood, so here are a couple :

Now, I grant you, in these pictures my wood is not very impressive.  But this is early on in the process, right after delivering one load.  Maybe once the other five have been delivered, you'll have a little more respect.

One of the problems with getting wood, of course, it the number of times you have to handle it.  Any time you get wood, you can look forward to hours and hours of work, and I have to say after a while that gets hard on the back.  Sometimes my wife will help me, but she gets sore pretty quickly and certainly isn't much good after the first load or two.

So, basically I find when I get wood, I have to deal with it myself.  It's OK.  I'm used to it.  And I've figured out a few things that make life a little easier.  For years when I was handling wood I never wore gloves.  My hands would get all chafed and red and sore.  So now I use some thick work gloves.

Laura also points out an issue, that being getting wood wet.  Of course, a little moisture is good for wood - prevents cracking, for one thing.  But you don't want to get it too wet, so I cover it with a tarp (basically, because when you have as much wood as I have, nothing else is big enough).

I will say there have been some cryptic comments - not sure where you guys are taking this simple, straightforward discussion of a common event in rural life.  But let me just say that if you're looking for wood innuendo, Laura, I'm your man.

On Love

What Love Is Like

Love is like
a pineapple,
sweet and
undefinable.

         - Piet Hein

Be that as it may,  since time out of mind, people have been trying to capture the meaning, the essence of "love".  And it's possible to come close, as with this definition:

Love  n.

1. A deep, tender, ineffable feeling of affection and solicitude toward a person, such as that arising from kinship, recognition of attractive qualities, or a sense of underlying oneness.
2. A feeling of intense desire and attraction toward a person with whom one is disposed to make a pair; the emotion of sex and romance.
3. 1. Sexual passion.
   2. Sexual intercourse.
   3. A love affair.
4. An intense emotional attachment, as for a pet or treasured object.
5. A person who is the object of deep or intense affection or attraction; beloved. Often used as a term of endearment.
6. An expression of one's affection: Send him my love.
7. 1. A strong predilection or enthusiasm: a love of language.
   2. The object of such an enthusiasm: The outdoors is her greatest love.

Dry as a popcorn fart, that, and while seemingly comprehensive, it doesn't quite get there.  For one thing, there's the obvious cop-out, using the word "ineffable" which is really just "inexpressible", or "yeah, we're struggling with this, too."  And I just don't think it allows for broad enough scope.

I tend to open the iris right up when it comes to "love".   I don't think it needs several sub-categories.  "Well, there's the love you feel for your husband; and then the love you feel for your kids; and of course the love you feel for your Mom; and let's not forget ..." and on and on.

I don't think so. 

I think "love" is pass/fail.  I love you or I don't.  I don't love you a "little bit", and I don't love someone else a "little bit more".

I think a wise person navigates his or her way carefully until there is that moment when love is there.  And once it's there, I don't think it's like a faucet, where you turn it on just a hair and let it trickle out.  You love or you do not love.

That leaves lots of room for other emotions.  I have many friends whom I do not love but whom I really like - men and women.  Of course, I also have some people - fewer, to be sure, but more than I think is good - whom I loathe.  Their position in my universe (should they care one iota) is not irretrievable - I have had people whom I have first loathed and come to quite like.   But for now, we'll put them on the left end of the Bell Curve.  And in the middle, the vast majority of humanity - the group I could characterize as "I don't really know you enough to like or dislike you, but I'll make an effort to at least be cordial and polite".

So there is a sliding scale for me - for all of us - to a point.  But (and this may be just for me) it ends right at "love".  That's the top rung on the ladder.  There is no compound definition for me - I don't love friends in a "friendly" way or my daughters in a "fatherly" way or my wife in a "husbandly" way.  I just ... love them.

Now, how I behave - how I express my love - is surely tied to the differences in those relationships.  My friend Gord, whom I love, is more likely to see that expressed as a willingness to go an extra mile to do him a favour.  My daughters see my love expressed for them in any number of ways, including advice, hugs, getting misty-eyed for them, lecturing them on safety, and of course unmercifully teasing them.  And as for how I express my love to my wife, mind your own damn business.

I don't distinguish between friends from my daily activities and people I have come to know through letters or e-mails or travels to other countries.  Where you are, what your circumstances are, and even how you feel about me aren't really relevant in my deliberations.  I love you or I do not.

I could no more love one person more than another than I could choose which of my children I love more.  I honestly believe that.  "Love" is a 100% thing.  All or nothing at all.  And the good news is, if I love you, I don't have any way of scaling that back to "like" - so it's for life.  You're stuck with me.

That's how I see love.  This is how William Shakespeare saw it:

SONNET 116
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no! it is an ever-fixed mark
That looks on tempests and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth's unknown, although his height be taken.
Love's not Time's fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle's compass come:
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.

Now .. how do you see it? 

Passages ...

This past Saturday, Allison Susan Ling graduated from the University of Prince Edward Island.  The Chancellor conferred upon her the degree of Bachelor of Arts (Honours) in English " ... with all the rights and privileges pertaining thereto.".   

(This, she claims, entitles her to correct other peoples' spelling and grammar.  I hope she does not become too drunk with that power - people who are always correcting other peoples' spelling and grammar quickly become tiresome.)

As you can see from the picture, it was a day of sober contemplation and quiet reflection for Allison.

Incidently, as long as I'm in full-on proud braggart mode, let me just mention that she was presented with the W.B.Yeats Award, which is given each year to an English major or honours student with a minimum grade average of 80% who has contributed significantly to the intellectual and social life of the Department.  The award, of course is named for a famous poetry guy, Yeats (in some countries, this is pronounced "Keats"). 

Had I the heavens' embroidered cloths,
Enwrought with golden and silver light,
The blue and the dim and the dark cloths
Of night and light and the half light,
I would spread the cloths under your feet:
But I, being poor, have only my dreams;
I have spread my dreams under your feet;
Tread softly because you tread on my dreams.

-  W.B. Yeats

High Praise Indeed

*** Spoiler Alert ***   If you are a fan of "The Office" and have last night's show sitting on your TIVO or VCR, just waiting for you to see it, STOP READING right now and go click one of the links to the right and visit any of the exceedingly brilliant blogs I visit every day.  Come back after you've watched the show so you can nod your head and marvel at my wisdom and perspicacity.  Then go to dictionary.com and look up "perspicacity". 

Really.  It's a word.

                                                  *******

Last night's season finale for "The Office" contained some of the most elegant, brilliant comedic and dramatic writing I've ever seen on television or anywhere else.  This is not just the best show on television, now.  I think it just might be one of the best shows EVER on television. 

I know.  That's sort of over-the-sky praise.  And my Dad, who  waited for both Wayne Gretzky and Bobby Orr to pass the ten-year mark in their careers before grudgingly conceding they might be "great players" (and is STILL reserving judgement on Tiger Woods "until we see how he does in the long run"), would not approve of such gushing after a series has only been on the air for two years.

Sorry, Dad.  I think it may be just that good.

Here's what I said a short while ago about The Office, and I only repeat it to make a point about this week's show:

It is ... a charming, tender story of an ill-fated (possibly?  probably? maybe?) inter-office romance.  In fact, I'd argue that it's more about the two supporting characters and watching their souls try to connect than it is about the office itself and the boss-employee relationships.  I find The Office to be utterly sweet, utterly positive, hilariously funny, and brilliantly written.

Now ... in last night's finale, the romance between Jim and Pam took centre stage.  I've been sort of terrified that the writers might do anything with this, because we can all rattle off shows where the second the couple got together, things went south - Moonlighting, Cheers (although Sam and Diane got together, then broke up, then together, then not ... so a tough call) and Friends (after a while, the Ross/Rachel thing was just frustrating).

For non-viewers who, for whatever reason (and I can't think of one) are still listening to me blather on about a show they don't watch: Pam and Jim work in the office of a paper company.  Pam is engaged to a guy in the warehouse.  Jim loves Pam.  They play and laugh and flirt and brush against one another and it's just delicious to watch, especially if you've worked in office settings.  Where I've heard that kind of thing might happen.

ANYWAY ...

One of the things I love about this show is how they are able to surprise me even when I am braced for a surprise.   That is not easy to do.  I'm neither a stupid man, nor am I totally unfamiliar with storytelling techniques.  I don't get smoked often.  Certainly not time and time again in a five minute stretch.

So last night, on an office Casino Night, Jim ended up out in the parking lot with an attractive superior (Jan) who was frustrated about (doesn't matter here), and you just knew these two were going to hook up in desperation and all sorts of things could happen - discovery by someone else in The Office ... horrendous awkwardness ... discovery by Pam and some sort of repercussions on their friendship/romance ... I was ready for anything ....

... except nothing, which is what happened.  Jan simply asked Jim if he was still going to transfer to another branch (an earlier decision by Jim to escape the pain of unrequited love) and Jim said "Yes".  Had he told anyone?  No.  Aren't there people who should know?  Well, maybe one.  Okay, I see where this is going ...

So he takes Pam aside after her fiancee abandons her at the party, and you're ready for a scene where he says he's leaving and she either gets angry or cries or .. what?  I'm ready ... you can't surprise me ...

... and instead of even mentioning the transfer, he says to her "I love you.  I need you to know that."  DAMN you, writers,  I wasn't expecting that.

OK, but now he's said it, she'll acknowledge she loves him?  She'll cry over her predicament?  She'll ... what?

Get angry?  DAMN.  Again, not expecting that ...

So he goes back inside and she retreats to another room and we see her on the phone, saying "Mom ... he's my best friend ... this will ruin everything ..." and Jim comes into the room ... he's obviously going to plead his case, or tell her about his move and say goodbye ... or ...

... or kiss her tenderly.  DAMN.  And she's already said he's just a friend to her, that she can't do this, she's engaged, so obviously now she has to ...

... melt into the kiss.  DAMN.  Fade to black.  See you next season.

Okay.  I give up.  What an amazing show.

Small Miracles

I believe it's not fair to ask God for big miracles if we're not prepared to do our part in creating small ones. 

Here is a chance to do something meaningful for someone you do not know, will never meet, might not like if you did meet him (who's to know?) and who will never have a chance to thank you.

You will gain nothing from this, and only a very tiny number of people will know about or acknowledge your kindness.  It is a gift from you to God.

I can think of no better reason to do it.

And Further In The Vein of "Things You Might Expect To Hate But Which Turn Out Surprisingly Awesome ..."

... there is Dolly Parton singing - wait for it - wait for it - no seriously, don't get all antsy, this is worth waiting for, and you'll go "Oh, come on, seriously?" and all I can say is "If you think someone hangs around the music business for forty years and doesn't have chops, you don't know shit about the music business." - are you ready ...?

Stairway to Heaven.  Yes.  That Stairway to Heaven.  Yes.  That Dolly Parton.

Go click on the link about halfway down this page.  Then come back and explain to me how my taste in music is up my ass.

In Which My Chicks Take Me To A Flick

With their mother away on a week-long business trip, my daughters decided to take me to the movies tonight.  There was only one hitch:  I didn't get to pick the movie.

I approached the night with some trepidation, because my girls often go to the movies together - both boyfriends work some weekend nights - and their range of movie selections skews heavily toward the White Oleander/The Notebook/Fried Green Tomatoes/Beaches end of the spectrum.  In other words, this had potential to be an estro-fest, a total chick flick, and if I wanted to go with them, I was just going to have to grit my teeth and adopt the same kind of attitude that gets me through those trips to the drug store to buy paper goods.

Well, fine.  I love their company, and what else would I be doing anyway, so I went along.  The movie:  Stick It.  It's the story of a teenage girl, a rock n rollin' rebel who is forced to return to the intense, disciplined world of competitive gymnastics she had quit two years earlier. 

Mini Rant:  The world of competitive gymnastics (like the world of figure skating) generally creeps me out.  My girls were never encouraged to take part in gymnastics because it is run by a money-hungry machine that tends to feast on the broken dreams of pushy stage parents.  It devours prepubescent children, physically abuses them, and spits them out the other end with underdeveloped social skills, psychological issues, and permanent, sometimes debilitating injuries.  Other than that, of course, it's a great sport.

So I did not go in predisposed to appreciate this movie.  I kinda rolled my eyes and thought "What the hell ... I'm with my girls, it's two hours I didn't have plans for, and worst case I can nod off in the dark."

I don't know when I've enjoyed a movie more in the past couple of years.

I'm not saying this is The Godfather or Casablanca or that it will be prominently mentioned for the Oscars or the Golden Globes.  But dammit, it was a good story, well told, with engaging performances, a strong point of view, and a moral compass without being old-fashioned or preachy. 

It had some moments where you laughed with glee as these kids stuck it to The Man, some brilliant cinematography, and some real, honest-to-God surprises and twists.  The characters - in fact, the entire package -  intitially felt cliched, but layer was quickly added upon layer and by the midway point all the characters were rich and distinct and fresh and well developed and the story was carrying everything along effortlessly and without the whole "Oh, and of course, here's the part where this always happens in these movies  ..." predictablilty.

When i saw Jeff Bridges' name in the opening credits, I assumed he was slumming and had taken a part just for the money.  I'm pretty sure now he read the script, liked it,  and saw it had potential to be the kind of quality project he's usually associated with.

I'd give it 4 1/2 out of 5 Stars.  It's a terrific, fun, night at the movies. If you have teeange girls, this is a great movie to take them to, if only to keep them away from Tom Cruise movies.  This is empowering for girls, a lot of laughs for everybody, and Scientology-free.

And gymnasts (at least, the adult ones in this movie)?  Not hard on the eyes.  Just sayin'.