I passed a milestone a little while ago that was something I never really thought about, but I guess in some manner it is an accomplishment. I have been a published writer for over 20 years now. Not that I have shaken the earth with any of my ramblings or even given it the slightest of nudges, but still it is something that not many people can boast.
Over that span of years only once has a complete stranger taken the time and effort to respond. That was after I wrote an article that described living in an old house in the oldest part of town. Strange things seemed to happened there involving missing keys, oddly stacked canned goods in the pantry and furniture that aligned itself up on its own. I then explained that I had a 2 year old child who lived in the house whose actions explained all of these events. The respondent rebuked me for, “wrecking a perfectly good ghost story with kids.” Throughout their lives, my kids have had an incredible talent for wrecking a good many things, but a ghost story is not one of them. Now that they have grown up and their curiosity level has somewhat leveled out - the mantra for much of their childhood seemed to be, “I wonder what would happen if...” - things don’t seem to break all that often.
I should have known better than to mess with a ghost story, even if it was well intentioned. According to an Ipsos-Reid survey completed in October 2006, 47 per cent of Canadians believe in ghosts, with 9 per cent of those saying that they have had a visit from a dead relative (there are times at family reunions that I am certain that number has to be higher). I wanted to compare that figure to how many people believed in a fair and balanced government, but that seems to be a top secret statistic revealed only to those who cower on bended knees to the Gods of Ottawa. I easily found out how many Canadians believed in Santa Claus, the Tooth Fairy, God, Satan and the percent of Canadians who brush their tongues in the morning - 55 per cent for those who are really reading this closely. But the number who believe in good government is another matter all together; I still think it will be less than those who believe in ghosts.
What brought me to this point is that I am one of the 47 per cent above and for that matter one of the 9 per cent as well (although I am not part of the 55 per cent). Living in an old city and more importantly, in an old part of an old city I have had my share of could be considered ghostly experiences. When I lived in a house on University Avenue as a student, my bedroom was at the top of a stairway, the only room on the attic level. One night I heard someone walking up the stairs with quite deliberate footfalls and then stop at the top of the stairs, which was at the foot of my bed. Thinking it was one of my house-mates trying to scare me, I rolled over quickly to catch him. There was no one there. Needless to say, my sleep was a bit disturbed that night.
A much more visual moment took place years ago when I was working at a local private hospital. I was on a midnight shift and it was just before dawn. My chin was drooping to my chest, when suddenly my eyes popped open to see a woman with brown hair and wearing a brown smock come running up to me with a smirk on her face. The sight of her shocked me, as patients were asleep at that hour and I sat upright in my chair. Just as suddenly, she was gone. I put this off due to a sleepy hallucination, but the following day I mentioned it to a person who had worked there for years and she just said, “Oh, so you saw the Lady in Brown?”
My kids stayed the night at the hospital after it closed to see if they could detect any activities. They had cameras set up, tape recorders set to automatically start with sounds. Strangely enough, among other sounds and events, they did hear and record a woman’s voice seemingly humming a tune at 3:00 am.
Shortly after my father passed away in 2005, I had a dream in which everyone in my family unexpectedly dropped by my house. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw my Dad walk up to me. Characteristically, he was wearing a loud sport coat, his tie was slightly askew and his silver hair was long and swept back. When I saw him, I asked him what he was doing here, as he was dead (I guess it is a bit easier being blunt when you are asleep). He just looked at me and said, “I am fine and everything is going to be alright.” Before I even had a chance to say, “You’ve been dead for two weeks and you are still giving advice?” he was gone. And he was right. Everything has turned out to be alright.
So I guess when everything is weighed, whether these ghostly sightings are a manifestation of the mind in tired or stressful situations or they really are contact from the other side, we won’t know until we get there. Houdini tried to do that and it was the one trick he couldn’t pull off. I will happily count myself among the 9 per cent who have dead relatives visit, but hopefully they won’t stay for more than a night. From what I understand, having resident ghosts in your house just kills the real estate value.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
Monday, April 13, 2009
Super Hero? Super Mom
I am almost went insane last week. Some may say that is a very small step for me, but that is all a matter of perspective. One man’s crazy is another man’s sanity. Certainly one issue should not be enough to take me to the brink, but this one is kind of delicate. Like most people of my age group, we are all growing older and we are growing older a lot faster than we ever thought was possible. It seemed just a few years ago, I was skippin‘ down the cobbled stones, lookin’ for fun and feelin’ groovy. If I tried that now I would probably be feelin' woozy.
It is a matter of biology that we all grow older; you can’t avoid that fact given the alternative is to be dead. But it is whether or not you accept the fact that you are growing older or not. There are many ways to look at this situation, avoidance, denial, acceptance and an all out battle against nature using every tool that science can supply are some of the options. I have certainly at one point in my life avoided the aging issue altogether and definitely denied the process was going on at another point, and finally, yes I am slowly accepting the fact I am getting older. I still haven’t opted for the scientific approach yet, although there is still time for that option. Thankfully aging in itself doesn’t kill you, it is the total lack of bodily functions that finally does you in.
I did the denial thing a few summers ago when I still believed I could water ski like a teenager. Most family and friends were not aware of any thing wrong, as my body was in shock for most of the weekend. It was only until I was home alone with my family that my body seized up and only emerged from the pretzel-like shape I had twisted into after a few days of loud soul-wracking moans and pleadings with any natural or supernatural entity to stop the pain. To say it was a graceful segue to acceptance of aging is a little of a stretch, but here I am now happily ensconced in the fact that yes I am older and yes there have been changes, but that is OK. Again considering the alternative, this is not a bad position to be in.
My youngest daughter was feeling out of sorts one weekend. Nothing seemed to be right. Her Mom asked her what was wrong, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “I don’t know... I just wish I was older.” A very common and real statement that is made by young teens around the world. But deep in my psyche where a normally quiet bespectacled nerd resided, this statement rattled down through the dark corridors of my brain and caused this fellow to bolt upright in his comfy chair. He clucked a few times and then threw the Mike Meyers Fool Switch and took over my mind and body. Without a second for me to rationally react, I found myself standing on my ottoman, newspapers still fluttering through the air after I tossed them, screaming at the top of my lungs in some acquired and unknown Scottish accent, “Wha? Ya crazy lass? Ya canna wait until your life is over!! Ha’ your brain turned to porridge? Mind you what you be wishing for! Before ya know it the wicked hand of time will come down and smote you with grey hair and wrinkles like the old woman who is standing beside yo...” Fortunately, another bespectacled nerdy scientist deep within my brain threw an even more important switch and turned my mouth off before I went any further.
I sat back down sheepishly smiled, mumbled an apology and was happy to hear my regular voice instead of a thick Scottish brogue. Fortunately, this sort of thing happens a lot around our household so things got back to relative normalcy in short order.
I can understand why my daughter wanted to be older, it is kind of seductive. No more education system and having the freedom and time to spend lots and lots of money. But as all adults know, seduction is all it is. We tried to explain that with all of this comes a great amount of responsibility especially if you throw in the burden of being a parent in the mix as well. Getting older is not one big party (well, maybe it was for a few years) and as you get older instead of getting easier, life tends to become even more difficult, more complicated. The kids sat at the dinner table and stared at us with truly unbelieving and unconvinced eyes. I finally told them of an old philosopher or was it an ancient Chinese saying that put forth something like, “With great power comes great responsibilities.” They exchanged glances and one of them said to me, “Dad. Peter Parker's uncle said that”. Damned spider.
“So,” they continued, as they warmed to the thought. “You really think getting older and being a parent is the same as being a super hero?” Without hesitation, my wife and I both agreed. I mean, what is it that a super hero actually does? They save the world from mass destruction, ya da, ya da, ya da. That is a mere pittance to aging and parenting. We strive for Truth, Justice and the American way (or at least a variance of that), we try to right the wrong, punish the evil doers and make every thing in the world right again. The only thing missing is the secret identity and jazzy costume. I looked at my wife said as she stood proudly over the dinner table, her hands firmly resting on her hips with wind blowing her hair back heroically. She smiled at the kids and said, “Give me a cape, slap an M on my chest and call me Mom. Does anyone have a problem with that?”
It is a matter of biology that we all grow older; you can’t avoid that fact given the alternative is to be dead. But it is whether or not you accept the fact that you are growing older or not. There are many ways to look at this situation, avoidance, denial, acceptance and an all out battle against nature using every tool that science can supply are some of the options. I have certainly at one point in my life avoided the aging issue altogether and definitely denied the process was going on at another point, and finally, yes I am slowly accepting the fact I am getting older. I still haven’t opted for the scientific approach yet, although there is still time for that option. Thankfully aging in itself doesn’t kill you, it is the total lack of bodily functions that finally does you in.
I did the denial thing a few summers ago when I still believed I could water ski like a teenager. Most family and friends were not aware of any thing wrong, as my body was in shock for most of the weekend. It was only until I was home alone with my family that my body seized up and only emerged from the pretzel-like shape I had twisted into after a few days of loud soul-wracking moans and pleadings with any natural or supernatural entity to stop the pain. To say it was a graceful segue to acceptance of aging is a little of a stretch, but here I am now happily ensconced in the fact that yes I am older and yes there have been changes, but that is OK. Again considering the alternative, this is not a bad position to be in.
My youngest daughter was feeling out of sorts one weekend. Nothing seemed to be right. Her Mom asked her what was wrong, she shrugged her shoulders and said, “I don’t know... I just wish I was older.” A very common and real statement that is made by young teens around the world. But deep in my psyche where a normally quiet bespectacled nerd resided, this statement rattled down through the dark corridors of my brain and caused this fellow to bolt upright in his comfy chair. He clucked a few times and then threw the Mike Meyers Fool Switch and took over my mind and body. Without a second for me to rationally react, I found myself standing on my ottoman, newspapers still fluttering through the air after I tossed them, screaming at the top of my lungs in some acquired and unknown Scottish accent, “Wha? Ya crazy lass? Ya canna wait until your life is over!! Ha’ your brain turned to porridge? Mind you what you be wishing for! Before ya know it the wicked hand of time will come down and smote you with grey hair and wrinkles like the old woman who is standing beside yo...” Fortunately, another bespectacled nerdy scientist deep within my brain threw an even more important switch and turned my mouth off before I went any further.
I sat back down sheepishly smiled, mumbled an apology and was happy to hear my regular voice instead of a thick Scottish brogue. Fortunately, this sort of thing happens a lot around our household so things got back to relative normalcy in short order.
I can understand why my daughter wanted to be older, it is kind of seductive. No more education system and having the freedom and time to spend lots and lots of money. But as all adults know, seduction is all it is. We tried to explain that with all of this comes a great amount of responsibility especially if you throw in the burden of being a parent in the mix as well. Getting older is not one big party (well, maybe it was for a few years) and as you get older instead of getting easier, life tends to become even more difficult, more complicated. The kids sat at the dinner table and stared at us with truly unbelieving and unconvinced eyes. I finally told them of an old philosopher or was it an ancient Chinese saying that put forth something like, “With great power comes great responsibilities.” They exchanged glances and one of them said to me, “Dad. Peter Parker's uncle said that”. Damned spider.
“So,” they continued, as they warmed to the thought. “You really think getting older and being a parent is the same as being a super hero?” Without hesitation, my wife and I both agreed. I mean, what is it that a super hero actually does? They save the world from mass destruction, ya da, ya da, ya da. That is a mere pittance to aging and parenting. We strive for Truth, Justice and the American way (or at least a variance of that), we try to right the wrong, punish the evil doers and make every thing in the world right again. The only thing missing is the secret identity and jazzy costume. I looked at my wife said as she stood proudly over the dinner table, her hands firmly resting on her hips with wind blowing her hair back heroically. She smiled at the kids and said, “Give me a cape, slap an M on my chest and call me Mom. Does anyone have a problem with that?”
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