TRUTH AND RECONCILIATION COMMISSION: A NATIONAL MEETING WE SHOULD BE AWARE OF

I have previously written on this subject and feel that it is time to renew it once again in Wrights Lane.  The Truth and Reconciliation Commission of Canada will host its fourth National Event in Saskatoon at Prairieland Park next month, June 21-24. This is an opportunity for all Canadians, both Aboriginal and non-Aboriginal, to learn more about and bear witness to the 150-year legacy of the residential school system.

Over the course of a century and a half and several generations, 150,000 Inuit, Métis and First Nations children were placed in Indian residential schools in an attempt to assimilate Aboriginal peoples. The Truth and Reconciliation Commission (TRC) was established as a result of the 2007 Indian Residential Schools Settlement Agreement. Its mandate is to inform all Canadians about what happened in residential schools, and guide and inspire a process of reconciliation and renewed relationships based on mutual understanding and respect.

As parties to the agreement, and to their credit, the Anglican, United, Roman Catholic, and Presbyterian churches are actively supporting the work of the TRC.  Worship services in my St. Andrew's Presbyterian church in Southampton which neighbors the Saugeen First Nations Reserve, will be devoted to the healing and reconciliation process for the next couple of Sundays leading up to the meeting in Saskatoon.

This National Event will help to unveil the unique experiences of residential school survivors from Saskatchewan in particular. Survivors, both direct and inter-generational, former school staff and others affected by the schools have been invited to come forward and provide private and/or public statements about the impact of residential schools on their lives, that of their families and of their communities.

All members of the public are invited to observe the proceedings as witnesses. The role of a witness is to observe or account for the significance of the event. Bearing witness to the thought provoking statements of residential school survivors and others helps to validate the survivor experience and brings us on a path towards reconciliation.

A number of churches and the Canadian government were involved in the residential school system for Aboriginal children, and therefore it is critical for all of us (churches and the Canadian public in general) to be aware of, if not involved in, the process of truth-telling, healing, and reconciliation which is the aim of the TRC.

Besides schools in Saskatchewan, churches operated the Birtle school in Winnipeg, Manitoba, and the Cecilia Jeffrey school near Kenora in Ontario. These schools, which had opened in 1883 and 1902 respectively, continued to operate until the 1970s.

In September 2007, while the Settlement Agreement was being put into action, the Liberal government brought forward a motion to issue a formal apology for the treatment of children in these schools. The motion passed unanimously. On June 11, 2008, the House of Commons gathered in a solemn ceremony to publicly apologize for the government’s involvement in the residential school system and to acknowledge the widespread impact this system has had among Aboriginal peoples.

The federal government's apology was met with a range of responses. Some people felt that it marked a new era of positive federal government -- Aboriginal relations based on mutual respect, while others felt that the apology was merely symbolic and doubted that it would change the government’s relationship with Aboriginal peoples.

Although the apologies and acknowledgements made by governments and churches are important steps forward in the healing process, Aboriginal leaders have said that such gestures are not enough without supportive action.  Hence, communities and residential school survivor societies are undertaking healing initiatives, both traditional and non-traditional, and providing opportunities for survivors to talk about their experiences and move forward to heal and to create a positive future for themselves, their families, and their communities.

The four-day gathering in Saskatoon will be a major step toward healing and reconciliation, as were the previous three national meetings, but I will be surprised if we read much about it on the front pages of newspapers here in Ontario.  Our national media can, and should be, a major player in the process too.

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In my next Wrights Lane post I will talk about another important initiative in the form of the 5th Annual Symposium, Claiming the Promise. A Retrospective On African Canadian History, which will take place in Chatham, June 14 to 16.  This event is part of "The Promised Land Project", a multi-disciplinary research undertaking funded by the Social Science and Humanities Research Council's Community University Research Alliance.  The focus of the PLP has been to study the role and evolution of early black settlements in the Chatham-Kent area of Southwestern Ontario which includes my hometown of Dresden.  It is another story that deserves wider circulation and the attention of all of us.   

THE PERILS OF LAWN MOWER OWNERSHIP

The starter switch on my three-year-old Tecumseh lawn mower broke down this spring, prompting me to pay a hasty visit to our local lawn and garden centre for necessary repairs. With my grass growing by leaps and bounds, I was greatly relieved  to receive a call the next day from the resident small engine repair guy telling me that the mower was ready for pick up.

When I arrived at the shop, I was greeted at the counter by a rather gruff, slender, no nonsense type of man about my same age.  The tell-tale grease on his hands indicated to me that he was "the guy".

"When you were in yesterday you said that you were having starter problems, but I found a number of other things that needed attention too.  For one thing there was old gas and oil in the engine, so it would not have started even if the starter was working properly.  The blade was also completely worn out...I just couldn't let it go out of the shop that way," he explained with demonstrative concern and nobility.

"You really don't like that mower very much do you?" he continued, thinking perhaps to catch me off guard..  I readily agreed, with tongue-in-cheek, that "yes, the only thing I hate more than the mower itself is having to use the damn thing."

"Well, if you don't take better care of it, you won't have it for very long," he snapped back, ignoring the humor in my remark.

Feeling suddenly very negligent, I sheepishly left the shop taking the mower and  scolding with me, leaving behind a cheque for $85.40 in repairs.

I didn't ask for an itemized invoice, but I assumed the scolding was free of charge.

GAME SHOW IMAGINATION HAS ITS LIMITS

Rosanne lives vicariously through her television game shows -- The Price Is Right, Let's Make a Deal, etc., etc.  When she is otherwise occupied, which is very rare, she even tapes them for later viewing.

She cheerleads the contestants from her reclining lift chair, applauding the winners and shedding tears for the losers.

This morning I heard her excitedly exclaim, "I picked the right one!...I picked the right one!"  "What did you pick," I asked from the other room?

"The number," she proclaimed, adding "and I won a car!"

"Oh, good," I said, trying to mock her enthusiasm..."When can we pick it up?"

"Don't be silly," came her suddenly sober reply.

IS TIME BECOMING JUST ANOTHER APP?

My grandfathers' 100-year-old pocket watches and my wristwatch needing a new battery.  Are they all going the way of the sundail?

Several months ago my wristwatch stopped running.  All it needs is a $10 battery but I have procrastinated on getting a replacement and you know what?...After the first day without it on my wrist, I haven't really missed it.

I was thinking about that earlier today and realized that time just might be running out for "clocks" that we wear.  I spend a lot of time on my computer and it has a digital time display.  My smart phone tells me the time as does our several television sets.  Every room in our house has a digital clock of some kind.  Our kitchen actually has three time-telling devices, including the stove and microwave.  I turn on the ignition in my car and there it is -- the time of day flashing on the controls panel.

It is interesting to note that The Beloit College Mindset List, a much-cited annual index of the rapid pace of cultural drift in the digital age, observes that members of the college class of  2014 are so unfamiliar with the wristwatch that "they've never recognized that pointing to their wrists was a request for the time of day."

Westerners have long been keenly interested in horology, as David Landes, an economic historian, points out in Revolution in Time, a landmark study on the development of timekeeping technology.  "It wasn't the advent of clocks that forced us to fret over the hours; our obsession with time was fully in force when monks first began to say their matins, keeping track of the hours out of strict religious obligations."  By the 18th century, secular time had acquired the pressure of routine that would rule its modern mode.

Generations have indentured themselves to the clock's efficient mastery, welcoming centuries of development of chrono-mechanical technology.  The miniaturization of the clock into the watch was key to early globalization's navigational and communication infrastructure.  The watch was not just jewelry, but a marker of the early 20th century's obsession with making sure that everything -- from steamships and railways to infantry charges -- ran on time.

Now, in turning to mobile electronic devices and the networked time they keep, perhaps a retooling of the unsegmented sense of time makes a degree of sense.  In the 1900s, we told time using a device dedicated to the simple display of the hour, minute and second.  Not so with the watch's networked offspring.  Hundreds of time-related apps (an acronym or abbreviation for "applications, as in software") are available for the iPhone, from old-fashioned clock emulators to kitchen timers or tools to help keep meetings from running overtime.

The advancement has been incredible.  A San Francisco web company has created an iPhone mapping app that lets the user overlay historical photographs of places onto the iPhone's camera view, combining past and present in a single picture.  Everywhere on-line, time comes loose from its moorings:  Google combines books from all eras into one big book, YouTube brings motion pictures from the early 20th century into dialogue with today's viral videos.

Such displays of time on mobile devices go beyond the ticktock of the grandfather clock and the insistent pulse of the wristwatch, no longer pointing at one moment but indicating all the hours at once.  Our lives, too, are more fluid now; our careers move in fits and starts; our childhoods and twilight years are of indeterminate length.  For those of us in today's world it is experience -- of tools, of society, of kids growing up -- that ultimately governs our perception of time.  All of which gives application to the smart phone's broad spectrum of time.

There is a very real possibility of the watch as we know it slowly going the way of the sundial, the factory whistle, and other quaint measures.  Time, as they say, marches on...And it may well eventually become just one temporal computation among many.

I suppose that I'll eventually replace the battery in my watch, but it does not now have the urgency it would once have in my life.  I've got nothing but time.  I'm engulfed in it.

GOD'S PROVIDENTIAL CARE SUSTAINS ME

Mention "providential care" to the average person today and they will more than likely think that you are talking about the health care system in the great Province of Ontario. There is a failure to understand that there is only one true providential care in the world today and it is the one inherent in our Christian faith. In essence, we ARE talking about "health" in this case, but it is the kind of health that God has in store for us, should we be of a mind to embrace it.

We really do not know how God works providentially to make things come out the way He wants them to. We know from the Old Testament, however, that He works in "providential ways" -- that is, ways in which He provides for His people. We know from Joseph’s statement in Genesis 50:20 (“But as for you, ye thought evil against me; but God meant it unto good, to bring to pass, as it is this day, to save much people alive.”) that God can sometimes work in ways that are well beyond our understanding and not immediately recognized as being in keeping with His "providential" care. 

"God's eye" or "God's eyes" are symbolic of God's providential care. He is a guiding spirit and gives us counsel while constantly being watchful over us. He is unquestionably aware of our daily activities, our personal circumstances, of what we set our minds to do, and all He asks of us in return is to include Him in our plans and to commit those plans to Him so that He can cause them to succeed and bring us breakthrough and deliverance in our times of need. Proverbs 16:3 says to, "Roll your works upon the Lord [commit and trust them wholly to Him; He will cause your thoughts to become agreeable to His will, and] so shall your plans be established and succeed."

The word "thoughts" in the Greek speaks of our intentions, inventions, calculations of the mind and imaginations. The power of imagination includes the ability to see with insight and foresight. "Insight" is the ability to apprehend the true nature of a thing, especially through intuitive understanding or penetrating mental vision or discernment; the faculty of seeing into inner character or underlying truth. "Foresight" is the ability and power of prevision or knowledge gained through looking forward; a view of the future so to speak. Proverbs 29:18 says, "Where there is no vision [no redemptive revelation of God], the people perish; but he who keeps the law [of God, which includes that of man]--blessed (happy, fortunate, and enviable) is he."

If our vision is blocked or distorted, we lack not only the ability to "see" and to perceive with intelligence, but we also miss out on seeing God in the ecstatic state of worship. Our very spirits were meant to live in a place of ecstasy with God forever in that heavenly place. When our minds are aligned, we see what God sees. We see clearly. We see through God's eyes and we see His providential care, and our hope is restored for the future.

That, in a nutshell it what keeps me alive -- and living as I do.  I call it the good old-fashioned "faith of our fathers", literally.  My parents raised me to trust in the love of our Heavenly Father and to obey His biblical Commandments, and there has been life-long comfort in that for me. I look to God's blessings in life, and they are countless, to sustain me.  It is as simple as that. I look for no profound insights. I ask no special favors of Him, because I know that God's providential care will provide for me in all times and in all ways.  Beauty in all things coupled with God-granted peace and tranquility sufficient to commune with the nature that surrounds all of us, is sustenance enough for my inner-self.

My "faith" is what sustains me!  I pray that my vision never fails and that I have foresight sufficient to follow Christ's example, given my human foibles, shortcomings and failings. I have to continually work at it. I must be forever vigilant, trusting and thankful for all that I "see" and for all that has and will sustain me to the end of this worldly journey.

REGARDLESS OF FORM, CONFESSION IS GOOD FOR THE SOUL AND THE RIGHT THING TO DO

Confession is the acknowledgment of sin or of one's wrong-doing and most commonly is practiced in a number of faith traditions. Pleading guilty to a crime in a court of law is also a form of confession.


They say that "confession is good for the soul" and most of us who have confessed in one form or another over the years can attest to the accuracy of that saying.  Confession coupled with forgiveness enables us to start afresh in life, free of the burden of guilt.  It is fair to say that confession is a very personal concession that can be enacted in a religious/church setting or one-on-one, as in person-to-person.


As mere humans, we have a history of doing wrong and we generally are the first to know when we have erred in word, deed or action.  It is not always easy to admit that we were wrong or misguided and it is doubly difficult to confess to a wronged party(s) and to ask forgiveness.


We often hear the term self-confession being used and there are those who will allude to a certain redundancy.  To me "self-confessed" is an adjective, not a noun, and simply describes an open confession that one makes on one's own without being prodded or interrogated.  It is completely self-motivated and to my way of thinking is most honorable and commendable.


Here is a little exercise that we all can engage in from time to time in the privacy of our own space.  You can either speak the words aloud or you can say them to yourself...Trust me, someone will be listening.  You might be surprised.  The main thing is that you will be acknowledging weaknesses and wrong-doings of everyday living and in the process putting the unpleasantness of associated stress and guilt behind you.  You can substitute the word "we" for "I", it is entirely up to you.  And remember, you do not have to be a particularly religious person.  All you need is a soul, and a heart -- and the ability to know right from wrong as you perceive it.  A degree of honesty doesn't hurt either.


For what it is worth, here is a free-for-nothing confessional template that you can tuck into your pocket.


"Too often we know full well what we should be doing, but we turn away and do the complete opposite.  We make mistakes. We are rebellious.  We are selfish and arrogant.  At times, we feel small and insignificant, so we pity ourselves; or we feel big and arrogant and we puff ourselves up in false pride.


"We close our ears and eyes to the needs of those around us.  We want to hold too tightly to the things of this world, forgetting that we have been given them so that we might help others.


"We engage in conflict and give in to the impulse to get even or to gain the upper hand.  When hurt, we hurt back.  We put conditions on love and forgiveness when we have the capacity for compassion and understanding.


"Down deep, we seek the grace of true repentance so that we may not only confess our wrong-doings in this manner, but also to lament and forsake them with our whole hearts and in the end bear the fruit of righteousness for the balance of our journey."


Is something else laying heavily on your heart?  If so, you can throw that in too, just for good measure.  Take ownership of the words as you release them to the universe!  As I say, it can't hurt.  Think about it, if you will.

TOOTH FAIRY KEEPING UP WITH INFLATION

My daughter Cindy posted the following comment on her Facebook page:

"Madi (almost seven-year-old Madison) lost her first front tooth so the Tooth Fairy made a visit last night and she's had to keep up with inflation.  I told Madi that her tooth must have been very special because when the Tooth Fairy visited me when I was a girl her age I only got quarters and dimes. Madi said, 'I guess 'cause that was the olden days Mom.'  Well, this Tooth Fairy suddenly feels very old."

Welcome to the club Cindy.  Don't feel bad!...Your ancient dad only got nickles and dimes from the Tooth Fairy when he was shedding his baby teeth.  Now, those were truly the olden days.

OTHER WEB SITES I'VE BEEN WORKING ON

Wright's Lane has taken a back seat recently to several other web site interests that I have been developing and facilitating.  If interested, you can check them out.

*See www.pipersglen.ca

The Links at Piper's Glen Golf Club offers a unique course layout that is a throwback to the original "golf links' found in historic Scotland, reputed to be the birthplace of the grand old game.  The course is a pleasure to play for golfers of any skill level -- challenging yet providing a relaxing, picturesque backdrop.  Fairways that test accuracy, water hazards and Scottish bunkers all add to an unparalleled golfing experience.

 *See http://standrewssouthampton.blogspot.com

The congregation of St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church in Southampton, ON. traces its origins to 1851 when services of worship were conducted in a log cabin church for Presbyterian settlers to the first harbor on Lake Huron shores.  The congregation today is small but extremely active with an outstanding musical ministry, as evidence several special concerts in the month of April.

THANK GOD I AM NOT ALONE...!

Here's a priceless video on "Age-Activated Attention Deficit Disorder" that I can totally relate to.  Maybe some of my readers will too.  Click
http://www.youtube.com/watch_popup?v=6oHBG3ABUJU&vq=medium

MUCH OF OUR GARBAGE WILL OUTLIVE US

I do not know the source of this material on decomposition of garbage,  neither can I confirm accuracy,  but I get the message.  How about you?


Banana Peel- 3-4 weeks
Orange peels- 6 months
Apple Core- 2 months
Paper Bag- 1 month
Cardboard- 2 months

Milk Cartons- 5 years
Newspaper- 6 weeks
Paper Towel- 2-4 weeks
Cotton Glove- 3 months
Tinned Steel Can- 50 years
Aluminum Can- 200-500 years
Disposable Diapers- 550 years
Plastic Bags- 20-1000 years

Glass- 1-2 million years
Cigarette Butts- 10-12 years
Leather shoes- 25-40 years
Rubber-Boot Sole- 50-80 years
Plastic containers- 50-80 years
Monofilament Fishing Line- 600 years
Foamed Plastic Cups- 50 years

Wool Sock- 1-5 years
Plywood- 1-3 years
Plastic Bottles- 450 years

WRITING IS COSTING TIME THAT I CAN ILL AFFORD

People who are much better at mathematics than I have figured out that there are precisely 8766.1536 hours in a year.  By my own rough calculations, in the past three years I have spent an average of 3,000 of those hours per year at the computer writing entries (almost 600 posts) for my various web sites and other  publications (including two books) and projects that I voluntarily contribute to.  That works out to a little better than one-third of my time, or in total a whole year out of the past three.

In all, we're talking about a staggering chunk of my life during which I have neglected a number of normal routine responsibilities, not to mention untold hours of lost sleep -- some nights never going to bed until sun-up because I cannot put subject matter and thoughts on hold.  I have been strangely driven by what possibly has been a delusional, self-created sense of commitment to an unknown ghost audience.

Of course, there is no monetary value connected to any of my web sites and I have yet to break even (and probably never will) on two self-published books.  In retrospect, a price has been paid and that is neither healthy nor fair from a marital standpoint, particularly in a household with health care needs. Certain things domestically and personally have not had my full attention as I poured out my heart and soul over the computer keyboard for hours on end.

What has been gained then, in three years of literary musings?  I have derived personal satisfaction in writing about subjects that interest and inspire me.  I have also gained a few new friends and some faithful web site followers.  On the down-side I have ruffled a few feathers and left myself open to criticism.  In the hope that others might learn from my experience, I have exposed myself in some very personal areas that would normally be taboo for most writers.  Emotional intensity, at times, has been my worst enemy only to be matched recently by the increasing cynicism, irritation and intolerance that seems to come with age and from being around the block a time or three.

I now find myself involved in a personal tug-of-war, pitting on one end of the rope an in-born need to express myself in writing and on the other end the necessity of giving in to the acknowledgement of certain life priorities.  In all honesty, I feel a not-too-subtle change coming over me which I am compelled to give in to.  Values and standards change with the passage of years and so do our interests and motivations.  We gradually move from one phase to another, often without realizing it.

In many respects I have exhausted myself -- physically, mentally and creatively --and I am having to learn to come to grips with that.  I've had a good kick at the can and I'm now prepared to leave it to brighter and younger minds to "save the world".  I need not regret what I am leaving behind or unfinished.  What I DO need to do now, however, is to be openly willing to accept what most assuredly is coming my way...and having the good grace to accept it.

As I have written this post, lyrics from Kenny Rogers' The Gambler -- "...You have to know when to hold them and know when to fold them" -- have been running through my mind.  That pretty well sums things up.

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POST SCRIPT:  Before I had a chance to re-read this item and publish it, an anxious voice from an adjoining room interjected unceremoniously: "Dick, what's keeping you?  It's already two hours past supper time.  I have to eat something and my medication is past due.  Lucy also needs to be fed!"  That jolt of reality reminded me that I bought some frozen food from M&Ms earlier this afternoon and it is still sitting on the kitchen table.  Before being overcome with the sudden impulse to pursue this subject at the expense of everything else, I only intended to leave it unrefrigerated for a few minutes.

See what I mean!

AN EASTER GIFT FOR MY READERS: "O Sacred Head, Now Wounded" is a Christian Passion hymn based on a Latin text written during the Middle Ages. Paul Gerhardt wrote a German version O Haupt voll Blut und Wunden. Contents [hide] 1 Text 1.1 Original Latin 1.2 German translation 1.3 English translation 2 Melody 3 Lyrics (J.W. Alexander's version, 1830) 4 References 5 External links [edit]Text [edit]Original Latin The hymn is based on a long medieval Latin poem, Salve mundi salutare, with stanzas addressing the various parts of Christ's body hanging on the Cross. The last part of the poem, from which the hymn is taken, is addressed to Christ's head, and begins "Salve caput cruentatum." The poem is often attributed to Bernard of Clairvaux (1091-1153), but is now attributed to the Medieval poet Arnulf of Louvain (died 1250). I hope that by listening to this tape you will feel a special emotion and blessing.

AN ARTIST WHO IS JUST "A CUT" ABOVE

Bobbi Switzer moves with the grace of a dancer as she wields her chain saw and creates her sculptures.

Bobbi Switzer creating another art piece

Switzer and her daughter, Nova, recently demonstrated their art form at the Maple Syrup Festival held at Saugeen Bluffs in Bruce County.

Switzer creates carvings from her own artistic imaginings but also takes commissions for special creations.  From blocks of wood, she creates carvings and has often been commissioned to turn trunks of trees into special lifelike pieces of art.

Today, from her farm at Cherry Hill, Switzer and now her daughter, Nova, continue to create artwork that is currently being sold in galleries through Ontario.  The work is amazing and is starting to show up on properties across the county.

"We attend many events such as this," said Bobbi Switzer, "I'll soon be competing in an international event against some of the world's best carvers and we have been invited to demonstrate the art of carving in many shows throughout the Province.

Bobbi carves as daughter Nova watches intently.

With thanks to the Saugeen Times

GAS BUYERS: HERE'S AN IDEA FOR YOU

THIS IS NOT A 'DON'T BUY' GAS FOR ONE DAY, BUT IT WILL SHOW YOU HOW WE CAN GET GAS BACK DOWN TO $1.00 PER LITRE.

The motivation is that of a retired Coca Cola executive and one of his former engineer buddies from Haliburton. If you are tired of gas prices going up AND they will continue to rise this summer, take time to read further.

Phillip Hollsworth offered this good idea.  It makes MUCH MORE SENSE than the "don't buy gas on a certain day" campaign that went around last April or May!  The oil companies just laughed at that because they knew we wouldn't continue to "hurt" ourselves by refusing to buy gas.  It was more of an inconvenience to us than it was a problem for them. BUT, whoever thought of this idea, has come up with a plan that can really work. Please read on.

"By now you're probably thinking gasoline priced at about $.99 is super cheap. Me too!" said Hollsworth.  "It is currently $1.28 at SUNOCO and ESSO for regular unleaded in Hamilton and Ottawa and climbing every week.  Now that the oil companies and the OPEC nations have conditioned us to think that the cost of a gallon of gas is CHEAP at $.87 to .99, we need to take aggressive action to teach them that BUYERS control the marketplace, not sellers.  With the price of gasoline going up more each day, we consumers need to take action. "

"The only way we are going to see the price of gas come down is if we hit someone in the pocketbook by not purchasing their gas! And, we can do that WITHOUT hurting ourselves. How? Since we all rely on our cars, we can't just stop buying gas. But we CAN have an impact on gas prices if we all act together to force a price war", he added.

Here's the idea: For the rest of this year, DON'T purchase ANY gasoline from the two biggest companies (which now are one), SUNOCO (PETRO CANADA) and ESSO.  If they are not selling any gas, they will be inclined to reduce their prices. If they reduce their prices, the other companies will have to follow suit.

Hey, if you think that this simple idea has merit, talk about it with your friends and act on it whenever it is convenient for you.  It will at least make you feel good that you are making your own personal statement and if enough of us "buyers" do the same thing, who knows...

WHO: Healthy ageing -- adding life to years

COPING WITH LOSS DURING THE HOLIDAYS: EMBRACE TRADITION, RELEASE EXPECTATIONS

With the approach of Easter, I was thinking about how religious holidays in particular bring back memories of the loved ones we have lost over the years.  Along with the natural joy of the occasions, a great deal of sentiment is attached to the celebration of Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas.  Personally, I have to rationalize Mothers and Fathers Days too, for crying out loud.  Some of that sentiment is not altogether without mixed emotions.

I know a lot of people who struggle with their emotions at these times of year.  It has to be difficult especially for those who have lost close friends and relatives and certain happy times are gone forever.  Likewise for those dealing with serious health problems or the loss of employment and financial woes, it is equally difficult to capture the true spirit of the season.

So what can they do?  What can any of us do?

To answer that question I turn to Janice Badger Nelson, a hospice nurse RN, wife, mother, volunteer and writer.

"I don't blame people who have mixed feelings about coping with special occasions.  The holidays are tough enough without the awful and tragic realities of life," she writes.  "I am so grateful for the privilege I have to take care of so many during difficult periods in their lives.  They have taught me so much and I am forever grateful,"  To honor those of whom she speaks, Janice shares those lessons...  "Death has so much to teach us about life," she contends.

On the subject of death affecting one's ability to celebrate special dates and occasions, she offers the following:

"The only thing we can do is to get through each day as best we can.  Some will decide to bow out (of observing the day) and just stay home for a quiet meal.  Others will go to church or attend family get togethers, stealing themselves for the inevitable question, "So, how are you doing?"  Most people dread that question.  It is funny how most people only ask that of folks they know have had a rough time.  If you have won a million dollars in a lottery, no one really wants to know about that.  And when you verbalize your woes, many chime in with their own,"

So, what is the best thing to do?  Drop out of society for a period?  Still participate but sit quietly, maybe leave early?  Get inebriated?

"I guess the best thing to do is what feels right," Janice suggests.  "...Not for your mother or sister or friends.  So what if they will be disappointed?  They will surely get over it, but don't expect them to understand because they won't."
Everyone experiences their reality differently," she adds.

"Allow yourself to indulge in your own whims and tell others that this is how you best cope with the unfortunate event that has occurred.  Ask them to forgive you, but explain this is how you are protecting your heart.  Perhaps they will understand if you put it that way."

We all want happiness on Easter, Thanksgiving and Christmas.  We want free, light-hearted spirits.  We want them for ourselves, our loved ones, our kids.  We have a picture in our minds of how they should look and feel.  Of how everyone should act.  But they rarely turn out that way and many times we find ourselves sadly disappointed.  Janice advocates embracing tradition, but letting go of expectations.  "Or create new tradition -- one that allows you to include a relative that is no longer here, or one that celebrates new beginnings.  Let go of the expectations of others and create something new for yourself."

Special holidays are fraught with much emotion and memories.  There is also much associated work and preparation, much of it joyful, but it doesn't always come easy.  So, if you feel sad this Easter, embrace the sadness. Don't pretend it does not exist.  And if people do ask the inevitable question, "How are you doing?" love yourself enough to answer honestly...And let it go at that.

Be thankful for your life and show it.  You can be "catching" in a good way.

Grief can't be shared. Everyone carries it alone, his own burden, his own way. ~~~Anne Morrow Lindbergh

To spare oneself from grief at all cost can be achieved only at the price of total detachment, which excludes the ability to experience happiness. ~~~Erich Fromm


I still miss those I loved who are no longer with me but I find I am grateful for having loved them. The gratitude has finally conquered the loss. ~~~Rita Mae Brown 

GETTING IT RIGHT: THE ORIGINS OF HOCKEY BOOT INVENTOR GEORGE EDWIN TACKABERRY

The following is a revision of a post that I published on Wrights Lane in September of 2009.  At that time I indicated to readers that I planned to further research George Edwin Tackaberry's family connection to my hometown of Dresden, ON.  In due course, however, I hit an informational road block and the story has remained as I first presented it.


Like a bolt out of the blue earlier this week, I received a surprise email from a  Joan Beckley of  Toronto, introducing herself as the granddaughter of the famous hockey skate inventor.  Among other things, Joan listed a number of inaccuracies in my original story, the most startling of which was the fact that her grandfather apparently did not learn the shoemaker trade as an apprentice in Dresden.  In fact he and his young family were moved from the Dresden area by their widowed mother when George was only about five or six years of age.


I have carefully rewritten my original story to include the new information as provided by Joan.  As a result, Dresden now relinquishes a large portion of its claim to Tackaberry fame in favor of the town of Clifford, ON. where our boy George, as it turned out, eventually learned the shoemaker trade as a teenager working for a German immigrant by the name of Conrad Miller.


With thanks to Joan Beckley, here is the altered story with apologies to my readers for the inadvertent misleading information first published by me.  At least the record is now as accurate as it ever will be -- I hope.  The Manitoba Historical Society and CCM/Bauer corporations (primary sources for my original story) have also been advised of the new information.  The revised post follows.

"Tacks" were worn by hockey's best players
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Most every kid who ever laced up a pair of hockey skates and batted a puck around an ice pad in the last 100 years has aspired to someday owning a pair of "Tacks'.  For the benefit of the uninitiated, Tacks were the best hockey skates that money could buy and all the pros wore them.
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Much to my surprise, and others from my hometown of Dresden, there is a significant piece of information hidden away in a collection of biographical profiles compiled by the Manitoba Historical Society. The world-famous skate was the work of Brandon shoemaker, George Edwin Tackaberry, who just happened to have been born on a Dresden area farm in 1874.  Who knew?

Here's the story, previously unknown.


The Tackaberry family lived on acreage in Camden Gore, five or six miles north of Dresden.  The senior Tackaberry, Benjamin, died in an unfortunate mishap in 1878 when his team of horses apparently cut a corner too sharply and dumped him into a ditch full of water.  The load fell on him and he drowned.  Benjamin was laid to rest in the Dresden Cemetery. As granddaughter Joan Beckley puts it, this left his wife, "poor old Jane Moore with 8.5 children."  Young  George was only four-years-old at the time, having been born on the 6th of May, 1874.


After the posthumous child (Benjamin Jr.) was born in 1879, Jane sold the farm and moved her brood back to the Lansdown area to be closer to family members.  She would eventually marry her widower brother-in-law  A number of undetermined years later, George moved in with the Horton family (possibly relatives), on their Lakelet farm near Clifford where he eventually learned the shoe making trade while working as an apprentice for Conrad Miller.  He married the former Helen Weir in August 1897 in Clifford and soon thereafter moved permanently out west where he went to work in the Zink Brothers shoe shop in Brandon, Manitoba.

According to reports still not completely confirmed to his granddaughter's satisfaction, George lived next door to "Bad Joe" Henry Hall a professional hockey player who, in an "over-the-fence" conversation one day in 1904, complained about his hockey boots.  Hall was known for his rough and tumble style of play and was apparently very hard on his equipment, particularly his skates.  He asked the young shoemaker, who specialized in making orthopaedic shoes for the disabled, if he could make him a pair of hockey boots that would last the season without collapsing. 

"Tacks", circa 1930, with signature
enforced heel and toe.

George picked up the challenge and carefully measured Hall's feet.  The two then went to work designing a new boot made of kangaroo hide because of its resistance to moisture and stretching.  They also lowered the top of the boot nearly two inches and added a snugly fitting reinforced heel and toe and a much improved arch support and sole to accommodate the attachment of a blade.  


He continued working for Zink Bros until at least 1917.  By 1919 he appears to have begun working out of his home and in 1921 he opened his own business.


"Bad Joe" was so pleased with his new skates that other players soon began trying out the new design.  Among the first were Lester Patrick of New York Rangers and Art Ross of the Boston Bruins.  Eventually George was swamped with orders and the reputation of his high quality "Tacks" spread across the country.

George apparently also made skate boots for all seven of his sons and one of those pairs is in the Hockey Hall of Fame in Toronto.

When George passed away in 1937, the Canadian Cycle and Motor Company (CCM) acquired the Tackaberry trade name and his many innovative techniques.  The Tackaberry boot with its CCM Pro-Line blade was eventually worn by virtually every player in the National Hockey League and thousands of others who just wanted the best hockey skate on the market.  I could never justify a pair of Tacks...The best I could manage was a Bauer Rocket Richard model skate which was about $100.00 cheaper than a pair of Tacks in the early 1950s.

George's accomplishments, oddly enough, influenced a Toronto area life-style publication, The Tackaberry Times, to adopt his name as a symbol of an era when trips to town were an event, neighbours depended on each other, and a frozen pond was a community's skating rink and gathering place.

In an obituary, the Brandon Sun newspaper described George as "a man of ability and resourcefulness, an outstanding figure in the community."  Bad Joe Hall, a victim of the influenza epidemic of 1919, died at a very young 36 years-of-age and was inducted into the Hockey Hall of Fame in 1961.

George's wife, Helen, received a small royalty from CCM for each pair of Tacks sold, until her death, July, 1954.  Joan Beckley refers to the royalty paid her grandmother as "a pittance" for the rights to the Tackabery name.   "Tacks" were CCM's signature skate until late 2006 when they were replaced with the "Vector" line, and now the "U+".

According to Joan, two of George's older sisters eventually returned to Kent County where they married and lived out their lives. 

NOW THAT'S MY KIND OF "MATURE WOMAN"

Here's one that is too priceless to keep to myself.  It seems that a (let's say) mature lady was pulled over for speeding on a busy highway.


Older Woman: Is there a problem, Officer?


Traffic Cop: Yes ma'am, I'm afraid you were speeding.

Older Woman: Oh, I see.

Traffic Cop: Can I see your license please?

Older Woman: Well, I would give it to you but I don't have one.

Traffic Cop: Don't have one?

Older Woman: No. I lost it four years ago for drunk driving.

Traffic Cop: I see...Can I see your vehicle registration papers please.

Older Woman: I can't do that.

Traffic Cop: Why not?

Older Woman: I stole this car.

Traffic Cop: Stole it?

Older Woman: Yes, and I killed and hacked up the owner.

Traffic Cop: You what!?

Older Woman: His body parts are in plastic bags in the trunk if you want to see

The traffic cop looks at the woman and slowly backs away to his car while calling for back up. Within minutes five police cars circle the car. A senior officer slowly approaches the car, clasping his half drawn gun.

Officer 2: Ma'am, could you step out of your vehicle please!

The woman steps out of her vehicle.

Older woman: Is there a problem sir?

Officer 2: My colleague here tells me that you have stolen this car and murdered the owner.

Older Woman: Murdered the owner? Are you serious?!

Officer 2: Yes, could you please open the trunk of your car.

The woman opens the trunk, revealing nothing but an empty trunk.

Officer 2: Is this your car, ma'am?

Older Woman: Yes, here are the registration papers.

The traffic cop is quite stunned.

Officer 2: My colleague claims that you do not have a driving license.

The woman digs into her handbag and pulls out a clutch purse and hands it to the officer.

The officer examines the license with an expression of disbelief.

Officer 2: Thank you ma'am, but I am puzzled, as I was told by my officer here that you didn't have a license, that you stole this car, and that you murdered and hacked up the owner!

Older Woman: Bet the lying fool told you I was speeding, too. 

THE DIVINE SEED THAT IS PLANTED IN ALL OF US

I fully expect that I will lose 50 per cent of the readers of this post when they realize the subject matter.  I urge you, however, to stick it out.  You will not be subjected to hell and brimstone, neither will anything be rammed down your throat, because that is not my style.  I do promise, however, very real common ordinary food for soulful thinking and in the end, some good news, if you are of a mind to accept it.

My take on human nature is that the average person does not want to feel flawed and imperfect, or that they were born into sin.  Any religion that preys on human frailty is, in itself, flawed and ill-conceived.  Perhaps it is the subtle assumption of guilt and the need for renewal through redemption that is chasing people away from churches today.  Today's generation looks for "feel good", upbeat spiritual motivation that they can understand and relate to, otherwise there is no interest.  There are simply too many other-worldly ways and distractions to feed personal needs and appetites nowadays.

Don't get me wrong.  I am a traditionalist!  I love the scriptures.  I cling to the old rugged cross and the faith of our fathers.  Gospel tunes and hymns are my favorite form of music.  I gravitate to musty old worship sanctuaries that agitate my allergies, give me a tickle in my throat and contribute to dry-eye syndrome.  I seek amazing grace...I am also a dying breed.  Along with a mere several dozen graying 60-plus faithful, I attend Sunday morning worship services in an elaborate, historic old Presbyterian church that sits on a million-dollar property in the heart of town.  I have been welcomed into a small close-knit church family, all of whom I am convinced are in touch with their inward divinity in the twilight of their lives, even though they may not think of it that way.

My children, grandchildren and their friends, do not follow in my footsteps.  Church for the average young person today is a place to get married (maybe), have children christened and baptized (maybe) and in the end, to be buried from (maybe). For them, there is nothing in between.  Church attendance, it would seem, bores them silly.

I cannot help but think that churches today would be well-advised to place more emphasis on incarnation -- the Divine within all of us.  That should not be an altogether novel concept.  A religion that is in tune with the current times, building up and bringing out the goodness within people is what is relevant today.   Everything else falls into place after the inherent divinity within is realized and understood.

I am all for Christian humility but not to the degree that it lends itself to a manifestation of a congregational inferiority complex due to human inability to be Christlike in all we think, say and do.  I honestly believe that the seed of God is planted in everyone and that is what young people in particular should be hearing today.  There is a desperate need for them to understand the importance of nurturing that seed.  In fact, if churches are to survive deeper into the current century, they must focus on ministries that appeal to the young parents of today, helping them get the most out of the God-given goodness that most assuredly exists within them.

A religion journalist who I greatly admire, once said that one of the wonderful things about covering religion over the years was coming to know and see God's likeness in people of every persuasion in the world.   "What's more, if I were asked for my basic sense of identity or place in the cosmos, it would be first and foremost as a human being, a dweller on planet Earth, and not as a Christian anyway," he stated.  "I am a uncomfortable Christian, perhaps, but a Christian all the same.  As the old country and western song has it: 'Everybody's got to be somewhere,' -- religiously speaking -- for me, it is within Christianity."

I understand what he was saying.  The core truths that are in the Bible and that speak to us, are not true because they are in the Bible.  They are in the Bible because they are true.  They reflect the deepest wisdom of the ages.  Properly understood, they are the foundation of human life itself.

Granted, there is much in the Bible that is confusing, contradictory, at times even immoral.  Indeed, it has been misinterpreted, or wrongly applied to justify gross evils from war to genocide, from slavery to misogyny, from self-mutilation to hatreds of minorities.  But, most of this has flowed from human stupidity in insisting upon literalistic meanings where 99 percent of it all is metaphor and imagery.  Some of it quite dated, of course.

Yet it speaks to us more powerfully than any other voice in all of literature, in all of human culture or learning.  It tells us the astonishing good news of who we really are, of where we originally came from, and where our ultimate destiny lies.  And best of all, it does exactly the same for every single individual who becomes a member of the human family.

Let's finally take a look at what the majority of Christians will recognize as a fundamental passage for the faith.  It is read every Christmas and it comes in the opening lines of John's Gospel.  It says that in the beginning was the Word (Logos) and this word was with God and indeed was part of God.  It explains further that this Logos was the true light that shines within every person coming into the world and adds further that the Logos "was made flesh" -- i.e. incarnate.

To win the masses, however, the church chose to apply this to just one role model -- Jesus, overlooking the fact that the heart of all religion is incarnation -- the aforementioned divine within; not just in one person above all others, but "enfleshed" in all homo sapiens, as written in the scriptures.

It bears repeating.  We all come from God.  We all carry the seed of the divine within and we eventually return to God.  That's the "good news" that should be reinforced and welcomed by young and old alike today.

It is how we learn to embrace and to utilize our divinity along the way that really matters.  In this our churches can, and must, play a vital role.  A real do-or-die marketing challenge if ever there was one.

CONFESSIONS OF A NOSTALGIST WHO HAD CRUSHES ON OLDER HOMETOWN GIRLS

Be honest now, we have all been kids, as far-fetched as it may seem to most of us now. We grew up as very impressionable young beings with dreams, fantasies and developing hormones that we really did not understand at the time. It was a wonderful period in our lives when the world promised to be our oyster and anything was possible if we believed and worked hard enough to attain it.

This is why I enjoy my exchanges with Margaret Rigsby and a few others on the Dresden Virtual History Group web site who remember growing up in the 1940s. With utmost respect, retired school teacher Margaret will no doubt be upset with me for revealing that as a 10 or 11-year-old, I had a crush on her (then a teenager). There, the cat is finally out of the bag. Come on, surely I am not the only one who ever fancied an older girl or boy! There was a bit of irony in one of my posts recently when I teased Margaret for not inviting me on walks with her parents along the old railway tracks in Dresden about 65 years ago.

I had crushes on other older girls too -- Pauline Elgie and Jeannie Simmons to name a few others. They were in high school and I was still in public school. Pauline and Jeannie were good friends and I used to sit with them in the stands at junior and senior baseball games. One day we were talking about the popular comic strip "Dick Tracy" and we began enacting certain characters. "I'll be B.O. Plenty," Pauline said, "...and I'll be Gravel Gertie," offered Jeannie. "Okay then, I'll be Sparkle," I chimed in. (Sparkle was the daughter(?) of B.O. and Gertie.) 

From that point on, Pauline and Jeannie called me "Sparkle" and I loved it. It made me feel that I had something in common with them. Pauline's mother passed on a funny story to my mother a number of years later when we were both married with families. As Mrs. Elgie told it, one evening Pauline said that she was going to skip supper because she was going to a baseball game at Kinsmen Park. "Oh, is Alvie playing?" she asked (Alvie being Alvie Lovell, a boyfriend at the time). "No," answered Pauline. "Dickie Wright is playing!". Sadly, Pauline passed on a number of years ago.

Jeannie was still in her teens when she married a local boy, Doug Pegg. They lived in an small apartment adjacent to Clarence Breaton's shoemaker's shop. They found the young couple still in bed one morning, the victims of deadly carbon monoxide poisoning and faulty ventilation. I had difficulty dealing with that one.

It is because of sentimental stories and memories like these, and countless others, that I cling to the nostalgia of growing up in my hometown. In many ways, I am still growing up I guess. Memories are the one thing that no one can take away from you.

Incidentally, I grew out of my "older women stage". My wife Rosanne is 10 years my junior. 

This too, is my "virtual history" reality.

SO LONG GRANT! I NEVER GOT TO SAY GOODBYE

Did you ever have someone come into your life as if predestined and then after time sadly leave it without you ever knowing anything about it?

I had not seen my old friend Grant all winter and I was beginning to worry about him, almost anticipating the worst. I found out earlier today that he passed away some time last fall.  I think that he died alone, as he had lived the last couple of decades of his life.

Grant was in his late 70s or early 80s.  I first noticed him on downtown Southampton streets soon after Rosanne and I moved into the community.  It was fair to say that he was a town fixture.  Everyone knew him, but very few took the time to know him, if you understand what I mean.

Initially I passed the time of day with him when we would cross paths in the coffee shops and restaurants that he frequented on a daily basis.  He was a slight, frail man who was stooped and walked with a laborious shuffle that was painful for me to watch.  As time wore on, and his health declined, he relied on a motorized scooter to get around.

He was always alone and I got the impression that he might enjoy company.  From time to time I would buy him a coffee just to have the opportunity to get to know a little more about him.  Eventually, I was able to joke with him and always enjoyed getting a laugh out of him during our chats.  One of our favorite conversation topics was fishing.  I even joined him a few times as he dangled a line from the Southampton harbor breakwater.  He was originally from the Maritimes and had worked for many years as a miner in Sudbury, before coming to Southampton to retire.  He lived in a subsidized seniors complex and in bad weather, he could often be seen trudging on foot across the cold and windy Saugeen River bridge, making his way to a favorite eating spot at noon or to a local grocery store on Highway 21 later in the day.

I picked him up in my car countless times and dropped him off at either destination.  I was, and still am, in the habit of grocery shopping in the late afternoon, around 5:30 or 6:00 o'clock, at least four times a week.  It was not unusual for Grant to hail me in the grocery store parking lot and to ask for a ride home on evenings when weather conditions were not conducive to scooter navigation.  His grocery purchases never amounted to more than one bag -- maybe a can of soup, some cookies, a left-over sandwich from the day's deli and always a couple of scratch-and-win tickets.

Even though I introduced myself to him on our first meeting some eight years ago, I don't think he ever remembered my name.  As a matter of fact, I never asked him for his last name either.  We just chatted, one old-timer friend to a younger one.  I enjoyed him, and I think that he enjoyed me too.  Whenever Lucy was with me riding shotgun, she also had a wag of the tail and a couple of licks for him. "How're you doing boy!" he would always say to her with an affectionate chuckle.

He once told me that he had a lawyer relative who managed his affairs in trust and doled out living expenses from his pension money on a monthly basis.  He may have had a daughter living elsewhere, but I was reluctant to ask him about that part of his life. I tried to impress upon him my willingness assist him in any way possible and gave him my telephone number on one of the last occasions that I gave him a ride home, some time last September or October.  He never called on me.

My neighbor, who just happens to be produce manager at the grocery store I mentioned, told me this evening that he thought that one of the Southampton restaurants held a wake in Grant's memory shortly after he died last fall.  I didn't know anything about that either. Too bad!  I would have liked to be there.

I am struggling with a feeling of melancholy as I type this farewell to an old codger I befriended along the way and who never really knew my name. I hope I occasionally filled a small void in his life...Now I kind of feel that I am the one with a void.  

God love you Grant.  I wish I could have been there for you in the end, but I trust that you are in a better place now.  See you anon, I hope!

JUST IN CASE TOMORROW NEVER COMES...

I was teasing a Facebook friend the other day about the possibility that tomorrow may never come.  He had posted some sage advise on his site to the effect that the nice thing about today is that tomorrow is another day.

As I thought more about our good-natured exchange, the following heart-felt, yet simplistic soul-searching retrospective came to mind.  I have lived it many times.

If I knew it would be the last time that I'd see you fall asleep, I would tuck you in more tightly and pray the Lord, your soul to keep.  If I knew it would be the last time that I'd see you walk out the door, I would give you a hug and kiss and call you back for one more.  If I knew it would be the last time that I'd hear your voice lifted up in praise, I would video tape each action and word, so I could replay them day after day.


If I knew it would be the last time, I would spare an extra minute or two to stop and say "I love you", instead of assuming that you would know.  It is so easy to assume a lot of things, like surely there will always be a tomorrow to make up for an oversight and for things you either did or did not do.


Tomorrow is not promised to anyone, so I won't spend my life waiting for it.  I will hold loved ones close today.  I will take time to express my true feelings and will not hesitate to say "I'm sorry" or "thank you" when circumstances call for it.  I will never be too busy to grant a wish, because it may well turn out to be someone's last.  And if tomorrow never comes, I will have no regrets about today. 


Some times we just need to remind ourselves.

MAN WHO "SAW" FOR THE BENEFIT OF ANOTHER

No one knows the author of the following story but Rev. Dr. Creola Simpson repeated it from her St. Andrew's Presbyterian Church pulpit in Southampton this past Sunday.  It touched me -- perhaps it will you too.

Two men, both seriously ill, occupied the same hospital room. One man was allowed to sit up in his bed for an hour each afternoon to help drain the fluid from his lungs. His bed was next to the room's only window. The other man had to spend all his time flat on his back. 

The men talked for hours on end. They spoke of their wives and families, their homes, their jobs, their involvement in the military service, where they had been on vacation. And every afternoon when the man in the bed by the window could sit up, he would pass the time by describing to his roommate all the things he could see outside the window. The man in the other bed began to live for those one-hour periods where his world would be broadened and enlivened by all the activity and color of the world outside. 

The window overlooked a park with a lovely lake. Ducks and swans played on the water while children sailed their model boats. Young lovers walked arm in arm amidst flowers of every color of the rainbow. Grand old trees graced the landscape, and a fine view of the city skyline could be seen in the distance. As the man by the window described all this in exquisite detail, the man on the other side of the room would close his eyes and imagine the picturesque scene. 

One warm afternoon the man by the window described a parade passing by. Although the other man couldn't hear the band - he could see it in his mind's eye as the gentleman by the window portrayed it with descriptive words. Days and weeks passed. 

One morning, the day nurse arrived to bring water for their baths only to find the lifeless body of the man by the window, who had died peacefully in his sleep. She was saddened and called the hospital attendants to take the body away. As soon as it seemed appropriate, the other man asked if he could be moved next to the window. The nurse was happy to make the switch, and after making sure he was comfortable, she left him alone. 

Slowly, painfully, he propped himself up on one elbow to take his first look at the world outside. Finally, he would have the joy of seeing it for himself. He strained to slowly turn to look out the window beside the bed. It faced a blank wall. The man asked the nurse what could have compelled his deceased roommate who had described such wonderful things outside this window. 


The nurse responded that the man was blind and could not even see the wall. She said, "Perhaps he just wanted to encourage you."