Time Keeps on Slippin'

Even though the days are getting shorter and the nights cooler, it is not that easy forgetting the past summer. I seem not to be the only one that has been looking back at that time of year, several publications have run columns for people to reminisce about their favorite summer.

When I think back among the summers that I have had, it is very hard to place my finger on which one was the best. It is kind of like asking me which of my kids I like the most. They are all special, they are all unique and the are all memorable. To me summer is not that of time but of place and attitude. I spent my summers from the late fifties until the early seventies at our cottage at Grippen Lake. Those years where filled with 'firsts' which make them so memorable. From my first kiss, to that exhilarating feeling of dropping your ski when you first slalom ski. It was evenings just spent with your friends late at night watching the sky as it filled with falling stars. It was meeting people from a different walk of life who turned out to be the closest friends I would have throughout my life.

I have tried to think of a year that was far and beyond the best and I can't do it. The summers run on in my life. One becoming a blur of the next. There was the last summer we spent at the cottage with my Mom before she died, and the look on my children’s face as they first played on the beach. Then there was it the summer of the UFO sightings, or the first summer I spent there alone with my two best friends (now that was a story in itself). I remember sitting there with Paul on one side and Mark on the other seriously debating whether or not we should buy new dishes because the other ones were used. Thank goodness for the kindness shown by 17 year old girls.

Corn roasts, barbecues, fireworks, the canteen, the fresh cold, cold water from the creek, the double and even triple dares we made to see who cold stand the longest in the creek's naturally ice cold water. The loons, the swims out to the Rock, the sojourns to Treasure Island by boat at moonlight (running out of gas also works in a boat). The first beer... I still remember my initial revulsion at the taste. At least I'm glad that changed. The enchanted walks late at night with the girl you wanted to hold hands with...but never did.

As with most people, music marks time in my life. And summer and rock n' roll go hand in hand. I mean who could go through a summer without a Steve Miller album? I hear songs that instantly conjure remembrances of my summers, the things that happened, yeah, the things that were. Can it all be confined to the Summer of Love? No. There are always movements in style, there is always accounting for tastes. But we move on, we graduate, we keep adding to our collective summer memory. It is a constant flow.

I was at a party a while ago, it was hot, there was quite a mix of people there. People my age, people older, people younger, much younger and the music was blaring! I was just groovin' with the tune, a little Bob Seger to make the feet move. My wife and I danced with each other the way we danced back in '76 when we met, oblivious to everything and everyone. But suddenly the music changed and I heard a driving base beat start up, followed by a repetitive back beat that was then accompanied by falsetto singing. A roar exploded from the crowd and people, mostly young people rushed to the dance floor. A crowd of gap mouthed people were edged out of the way by people, young people, wanting to dance to the insipid beat of 'Stayin' Alive'. Disco apparently still lives. As the other survivors of the seventies sat around and watched this phenomenon, I could only shake my head.

As I age though, the series of first has slowed to a trickle. Instead of a summer of exploration, I seem to be getting comfortable in watching my children's summers. So here we are, just kicking back. Summer’s gone, autumn’s here and I’m already looking forward to the next one. And to help me along, I've just popped Steve Miller into the CD for a couple of tunes. "Time keeps on slippin', slippin', slippin' into the future..." It certainly does Steve, it certainly does.

Simple Gestures

In a world that is getting increasingly louder and bigger, where everything is improved and upgraded, in a place where the more the better, in a life where money equates happiness, it is always nice to find some solace in small things. Sometimes, as you pile-drive your way through life, you can miss the things that sit quietly on the side of the road. Every life can be complicated, every decision can be wrenching, every horizon can be cloudy. But that in itself is a choice. It has been my experience that it takes as much, if not more effort to be miserable than it does to be happy. Sometimes, it can be the little things that do set you off. If you imagine a glass that is full to the rim and just one more drop of water will cause it to overflow, that is what life is like sometimes. But all in all, a small gesture is what is needed at times.

I am certainly not suggesting that everyone go out and do something nice. That in itself would be too forced and too phony, too much like a random act of kindness and a little too Hollywood for my taste (coming from a screen-writer that says a lot). Sometimes, the best of all gestures are when you are really unaware that you are doing something nice for someone. Maybe, in fact, you don’t even know you have brightened someone’s day. It could be holding a door open for someone, or smiling, just because you feel like smiling. Just a small gesture to someone to let them know how much you care for them. It doesn’t have to be flowers or presents, it doesn’t have to be dinner. A simple touch of the hand or a knowing smile, it doesn’t have to be anything big. It just has to be.

Just a few weeks ago, my cousin called me one evening and mentioned to me that his parents were downsizing their possessions a bit. His father had given him a coat and he thought it might be nice if I had it. He told me it was one that my mother had knitted for his Dad, my mother’s younger brother. He said it was in great shape for a 50 year old wool garment. He just thought maybe I would like. At first glance, just a small gesture from a thoughtful cousin.

Over the years, my wife and I have been given things from my father that belonged to my mother who passed away in 1961. We have some furnishings from their first home, some wedding presents and even a silver trophy awarded to my Mom from high school for winning the Junior Broad jump and the Junior 75 yards race in 1933. But nothing really tangible, nothing that was quite literally from my mothers heart and soul. When Stephen brought the jacket over and I felt the weight of it, it really hit me that this was something that she had worked on, spending hours knitting away. The more I thought about it, the more meaning this has had for me.

A few days later my sister dropped by to visit and I showed her the jacket and she told me that the pattern was a Mary Maxim design and made with Mary Maxim wool. Apparently, this lady was the Martha Stewart of the 50's. Sell the lifestyle, sell the design and the accompanying product. It was the design my mother always used. She always used 100% pure wool (hence the weight of the thing).

Over the past few days as I weighed this jacket in my hands and looked at the continuous ridges in the wool. I saw the flowing change of colors in the wool, which line by line eventually became a recognizable design. I can only imagine the hours of planning and detailing that would occur to knit something like this. The occasional mistake can be seen, a missed loop, but that only adds to the reality of it. Looking closely at it, this jacket, even though the implications to me are immense, it is simply made up of a few simple movements of knitting needles. The love and effort put into knitting this and the anticipation I am sure my mother felt when my uncle first slipped the jacket over his shoulders, brought real joy to my mother. I am sure many people who, in any way, creates something for someone they love have felt this rush of euphoria. It was then that I realized the irony of what I held in my hands. How could she ever have known, that so many years after she left, I would be the recipient of her hours of love. Just simple movements of knitting needles that becomes something more. Kind of like a series of simple gestures.