Truths and Half Truths

Second Last First Day

Allie:   "Got your camera?"

Me:     (blank stare)

Allie:   "Your camera.  You know - click-click?"

Me:     "I know what a camera is.  Why do I need it?"

Allie:    "First day of school."

Me:      "Ahhh.  Right.  OK, meet you out there."

22 years of pictures from the first day of school.  Always on the doorstep - although the doorsteps have changed twice.  Always dressed nicely (first impressions are lasting!); always carrying a backpack; and always with a bright smile filled with anticipation and excitement.

Two more years and Allison will graduate with a degree in Education.  She'll go on to teach English in Middle School, most likely.

So, like her sister, she'll have many more First Days of School.

This is the second last one for me.

For a while.

Anne's Birthday

Saturday we took a short drive through the hills near our home, heading for the North Shore of Prince Edward Island.

Prince Edward Island is small - 120 miles long, 40 miles wide at its thickest point, but far less than that in most places.  It's a tiny crescent nestled in the Gulf of St. Lawrence, just above where Nova Scotia and New Brunswick meet.

The North Shore is essentially 120 miles of the most incredible white sand beaches and dune systems you'll ever find.  But beyond being a summer playground for thousands upon thousands of families, the North Shore is also home to Anne of Green Gables.

Some of you have read the book by Lucy Maud Montgomery - the story of a tiny red-headed waif who is adopted by a farmer and his sister and comes to live on this Island.  If you haven't, you should; beyond being a lovely children's story, it's a very literate and articulate view of a society that existed around the turn of the last century.

As you will see if you visit the link above (and I wish you would), the Island's substantial tourism industry is largely built on two elements:  golf (this place was recently named Canada's Number One Golf Destination) and Anne of Green Gables. 

Anne is an icon here.  There is a musical based on the book that has been playing to sold-out audiences every summer since (wait for it) 1965.  I would have been 11 years old then (spare yourself the cypherin' - I'm 52). 

There are Anne of Green Gables gift shops selling all manner of Anne tchotchkes, Anne of Green Gables tea rooms, and Anne of Green Gables cottages.  Think Graceland, and replace Elvis with a red-headed girl in pigtails.  That's what she means to Island tourism.

Much of the Anne idolatry comes from Japan - Anne of Green Gables was the first English novel translated into Japanese, and it became a school text.  Millions of Japanese girls - living in a society that repressed their freedom and individuality - had their imagination swept away by this spirited, outspoken character, and "Red-Haired Anne"  became their heroine.  It is not at all uncommon to see a Japanese girl - sometimes a teenager, but often young or even middle-aged women - sitting on the lawn of Green Gables House in Cavendish, quietly weeping, overcome by the experience.

Not far from Cavendish, you'll find Avonlea Village, a "recreation" of the fictional village from the Anne stories.  It's a great family attraction, offering lots for younger kids to do, including pig races, barnyard animals, activities, concerts, and what is essentially a day-long musical play performed by characters from the novel. 

The actors stay in character throughout the day - if a kid tells Gilbert Blythe that she took a car from Maine to get there, he is baffled - he's heard of train travel and steamboats, but " ... what is this "car" you speak of?  Must be something new - we never hear tell of 'em here. " They perform in concerts, pose for endless pictures with arms wrapped around kids from all over, and generally try to make the day a rewarding and memorable experience for the families who come to visit.

The past few summers Allison has been working up at Avonlea, often playing the part of Josie Pye, Anne's nemesis.  She loves playing the malevolent Josie, although (true fact) she does get kicked a lot by kids who don't like her being mean to Anne.

But last week, the actor who played Anne all summer went back to University in Ontario, so there was a new red-head in town ...

... and how lucky were we that - as it turned out - Anne was celebrating a birthday the day we went to Avonlea.

And what a coincidence:  later that night, we had a family dinner to celebrate Allison's birthday, too! 22 years old and she plays a 14 year-old.  No wonder she still gets carded at pubs.

I Really Can Dress Myself

Me:  So ...?

Allie:  Really?

Me:  What?

Allie:  Shorts?

Me:  It's summer.

Allie:  You're not going to the beach.

Me:  Still.

Allie:  Sports jacket.  Minimum.

Me:  Really?

Allie:  He's an important guy.

Me:  So ... the golf shirt?

Allie:  Are you golfing?

Me:  No.  It's a meeting in his office.

Allie:  So ...

Me:  So, no golf shirt?

Allie:  I can't believe you need help with this.  What are you, 12?

Me:  Well, it's an important meeting.  A lot riding on it.  A whole new life.

Allie:  So your first thought was:  bare, hairy legs is the way to go.

Me:  Well, it's summer.

Allie:  Still.  Bare, hairy legs.

Me:  Good point.  Shirt?

Allie:  Always best.

Me:  But, a shirt shirt.

Allie:  As opposed to a watermelon shirt, yes.

Me:  You know what I mean.  A shirt with, like, buttons.

Allie:  Seriously.  12.

Me:  Fine, a shirt.  Tie?

Allie:  You could.

Me:  But do I have to?

Allie:  It's summer.  I'll give you this one.

Me:  So, no tie.  Score.  Now, as far as shoes ...

Allie:  Don't even think it.

Me:  They're fashionable.  People are wearing them.

Allie:  Dorks are wearing them.

Me:  Fine.  Whatever.  Shoes. 

Allie:  Swear to God.  12.

Me:  Pants?

Allie:  Again, always a good first impression.

Me:  Not always.

Allie:  Ew.  Just ew.

Me:  Fine.  Which pants?

Allie:  Are all your pants wool?

Me:  I wear pants in the winter.  In the summer ...

Allie: ... bare, hairy legs.  Fine.  These ones.

Me:   OK, good.

Allie:  Are we done?

Me:  Ball cap?

Allie:  We're done.

The Wedding Album

... is on the right.  Enjoy.  I did.

So, It Went OK, I Guess ...

Still inundated by family, still being hosts, but since you're curious, yeah, it went just fine ...

She wasn't too terribly homely ...

People said we didn't look all that bad coming down the aisle together ...

And (note the footwear) she was able to maintain her grace and elegance throughout the evening, even when the dance started ...

I will, at some point, get a raft of pictures up and onto an album on the sidebar.  But not today.  Today I am still surrounded by family and friends, there is still beer in the keg, there are still stories to be told, and the celebration continues.  I'll be back when I can ...

This Vehicle Stops For Real Life

While I'm enjoying telling the story of my mom and dad and how they came together, I need to pause for a bit as present day love takes precedence over the past.  To be more specific:

    My daughter is getting married this weekend.

    OK, let me try that again: (ahem) My daughter is getting married this weekend.

    Nope.  Still not registering.  I can say the words, I can write them out, I can sing them, shout them from the rooftop, or tap them out in Morse Code but they still don’t seem to be catching hold in my brain.

My daughter?  Is getting married?  This weekend?

    Even with the different punctuation, it’s more than my brain can handle.

    For one thing, it is physically impossible for me to have a daughter who is old enough to be getting married.  That would make me ... well, old.  And I’m a lot of things, but old?  No way.

    Besides, it is patently ridiculous to suggest that a young girl I can clearly remember having to gently push across the threshold of her nursery school on the first day could be considered of marriageable age.  I mean, we do have laws in this country.

    Okay, she’s not in nursery school any more, obviously, but it was just a few months ago that I dropped her off for her first day of middle school.  She didn’t want to take the bus and I was up early in the morning anyway, so what the hell.  As I dropped her off, I expected her to leap out of the still-rolling car to avoid the humiliation of actually being seen with her father because “ ... Omigod he is sooooo embarrassing!”

    Instead, she leaned over and gave me a kiss.  Right there, in the car, in front of all her friends.  And it occurs to me even as I write this that never once has she ever bailed out of giving me a kiss goodbye, no matter what she was doing or how many cool friends were around, waiting to tease her.  There’s incontrovertible evidence that she’s a little girl, right there.

    The point I am making is,  these memories are far too clear for them to be more than a quarter of a century old.  They must be far more recent.  Ergo, I couldn't possibly have a daughter getting married this weekend.  Thank you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury. 

    I will now go and weep the bitter tears of a father for whom everything is happening just a bit too quickly.

    When she was a baby, I thought we'd never get that damn kid out of diapers.  Then she was barely walking when all of a sudden whoooosh it was her first day of kindergarten.  But elementary school dragged on and on until I realized she'd somehow made it into junior high when I wasn't looking.

    It was only a week or so later that I was helping her pick her high school electives - and then of course she had to decide what her major was going to be in University and  that was only a month ago.  So don't even try to tell me she's getting married.  Not buyin'.

Maybe it's just a dream.  That's it.  I'll wake up and she'll be bringing in a handful of dandelions to put in a vase for Mom.  Or she'll be rushing out the front door to find the bird that hit the picture window, and making a little nest in a Kleenex box and bringing the damn thing in to me and asking me to make it better. 

Or maybe I'll wake up to find her climbing that stupid tree that I've told her to stay out of a million times, then calling me outside to see how high she's gotten and making my knees go weak when I look up at her.

Well ... I can still look up at her, but now she's standing right beside me.  And my knees still go weak, but ... well, she's always had that effect on me anyway. 

And this weekend, unless someone fixes the tear in the Space/Time Continuum, she’ll take me by the arm and support me as I walk her down the aisle because I know my knees will be too weak for that.

I need to go and lay down, close my eyes, get some perspective on all this.  But now I'm afraid to do that. 

I mean, you can see why. 

Look what happened the last time I closed my eyes for a bit.

                     *****************************************************************

So, I promise to come back to the story.  I'm just not sure whether I'll be able to do much this weekend.  You'll be the first to know.

Suit. Me Fine.

So, as promised:

I think I clean up pretty good.  You're entitled to your own views on that.  But people asked, so ... here are the pics.

Looking Gooood

Today, Allison and I are going out shopping for a new suit for me.  I am taking her with me because I know she does not like to be embarrassed, so she will see to it that whatever suit we buy will not be hideous and that I will look as good as I can look on my daughter's wedding day.

I cannot buy a suit by myself, because I am emotionally malleable when it comes to my appearance.  I am a blank slate.  I cannot think of myself in terms of "attractive" or "good-looking", or "sexy".  In fact, typing those words in association with a discussion of how I look makes me exceedingly uncomfortable to the point where I fidget and use any possible ruse to change the topic.  (Even if I am the one who actually introduced the topic.)

It's not that I am particularly humble.  I'm absolutely not.  There are things in my life or career that I will absolutely bore you to tears bragging about, things of which I am proud to bursting and unafraid to proclaim that pride to the world.

But how I look?  Not among them.

I have always considered myself homely and chunky.  And for about 32 years, I carried 70 extra pounds or so.  That helped in the "Who could like my looks?" department.

I've felt badly for people who - through what I cannot help but see as kindness or questionable judgment - have tried to convince me otherwise.  It can be frustrating, saying nice things to someone and have them reject it at the rim as forcefully as I tend to do that.  I think something in me believes that after a while, they'll stop saying it and I won't have to deal with either a crazy person or someone who feels that kind of pity for me.  How screwed up is it that telling me I look good or sexy makes me feel pitied and pathetic?

Look, this is not a plea for a bunch of comments saying "No, really, you're not hideous".  It's just a little essay about how I feel when I look in the mirror.  Were I to look at you, I would see a different person than you see in your mirror. 

That ass you keep cringing about?  To me, it's perfect.  Yer skinny ankles?  I love 'em.  That hump on your back?  Well, now that you point it out I see it, but I'll never see it as clearly as you do - because you're looking at the brush strokes and I'm standing back here looking at the whole beautiful painting.

(It does not escape my attention that I am saying to you precisely what people say to me, and getting every bit as frustrated by your eyerolling, deflection, and arguing.  But in your case, you're wrong about how you look and, of course, in my case, I'm right.)

So, I'll take Allie with me and we'll go to the suit store and she'll work as an antidote to the salesman who will say, with a perfectly straight face, "Yes, that looks great on you," while trying not to throw up in his mouth just a little. 

And maybe when we have something and it's been tailored and I've put it on and been reassured sufficiently, I'll take a picture of myself in it.  And maybe I'll put it up here.  And then you can all say lovely things about how I look ...

... and make me completely miserable.

Sound like a plan?

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

We're back, and we have found a suit.  It is an elegant, subtle, grey-blue pinstripe that Allie says matches my eyes and makes me look taller.  Ish.

I am a hard person to fit into a suit, because I have a sort of barrel chest and broad shoulders, with a shortish body.  That's not terribly odd, but I've lost enough weight in my waist that the proportions are not quite standard.  When they ask my size, I always say "44 Stumpy".

But here's the thing:  the pants that go with a 44 jacket have a waist size of 38.  And when you say "Can I have this, but with a 36 pant, they say "Ohhh, no, we're forbidden to do that."

Well, bite me arse.  I worked hard to get down to a 34/36, and I'm not going to take 38 waist pants, because it's not just the waist that's bigger.  They're looser .. everywhere.  If you get my drift.  And tailoring them to look perfect costs money and gets awfully picky.

So, shhhh.  When the salesperson was off finding me a tie or whatever, I grabbed the pants out of a somewhat mortified Allison's hand, found an identical suit in size 42, and made a quick switch.  When I tried the ensemble on, everything fit perfectly.  As I walked away, Allie had to agree with the switch move.

I believe the exact words from my 21 year old daughter's mouth were:  "Ohh ...  those pants do wonderful things to your tushy."    Then:  "OK, I'm pretty sure that's inappropriate."

We'll see if I still love the suit once it's been tailored, or if my love alters when it alterations finds.  But for now, I'm thinking it might look ... OK.

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.