Goodbye summer

It was a good summer, but damn short. I don’t know where the whole thing went so fast, but I sure do wish I could have hit a pause button there somewhere. While the summer was short, it was productive. I got most of the house painted and new blinds installed. Don looked for and found a new job. My son grew at least an inch, and learned how to play baseball and soccer. And we were lucky enough to have visits from family back home, my parents (not one, but two visits with my mom!), an uncle and aunt and a side order of cousins. We also managed a short, but wonderful trip to Niagara Falls where I learned that my little boy loves thrill rides and room service. Little man after my own heart.

Now, back at work and in the grove, I am looking at how fast our days are passing. My son had his 5th birthday last week- how the hell did that happen? Wasn’t he just learning to walk yesterday? He just started hockey this weekend past and gymnastics starts up on Friday.

Don is back into Jujitsu, and I am contemplating starting up Yoga in the Fall. I am desperately trying to get rid of this damn Plantar Fasciitis so I can get back to jogging. Heck, at this point I would be happy to stand or walk for longer periods of time without wanting to chew my own foot off.

I had to say goodbye to a childhood friend this month, and I think that is playing with my mind some. Toying with my perception of time. I was helpless to do anything useful when he went missing- and I could not be there to say goodbye when he was found. It all hurt rather sharply.

The speed of life of late has left me feeling unsettled and nervous.

I sometimes feel like the proverbial hamster in a wheel, running and running, going over the same old track day after day, without the benefit of the calorie burn.

I have to work on finding that pause button. Until I find it, all I can do is appreciate the time that I have.

And I do.

Crowds line highway for fallen soldiers

You know, just when I think this province has nothing redeeming about it, something happens and I find myself stepping back and re-evaluating things, and perhaps cutting the Big Smoke a little slack.

Yesterday, overpasses along Hwy. 401 were again lined with a sea of red and white as hundreds of people gathered to honour the six soldiers killed in Afghanistan last week. They held Canadian Flags aloft, and draped them over the side of the overpass; they saluted, clapped and cheered the six hearses as they broke into view; a moving ribbon of black on the horizon.

This group of individuals was composed of Toronto paramedics, police, parents of soldiers overseas, and dozens of average citizens who thought it was important to take time out to thank and honour those who served their community abroad with their sacrifice.

To date, 66 Canadians and one diplomat have been killed in Afghanistan since 2002. Each time they come back, Canadians see the same sad rituals of the repatriation ceremony: stoic presence of politicians, the soldiers carrying caskets and trying to keep their emotions in check, family members who cling to each other as they watch each coffin unloaded and brought to the hearse, the salutes, and the tears. The lament for the young, brave, men and women whose lives were extinguished under stars they do not recognize.

At least we see it, and remember the cost of this mission. In the US, the government prohibits photographs of the coffins of U.S. troops returning home. They have the cost of the war in Afghanistan and Iraq counted down to the cent, but the human cost is taboo. While many Americans are appalled by this policy, it seems that coverage of Paris Hilton’s time in jail gets more media attention.

I have a friend from Newfoundland, Jeff Hogg, who has been to Afghanistan. He is among the lucky ones who have returned. Scarred, forever changed, but alive. He and his wife both know if the mission continues they will be sent back. It makes me ill to think that one day I could be joining those people on the overpass, saying goodbye to a childhood friend, but I am grateful too. Grateful that we have such selfless people in this country, people who continually serve, people who leave their lives; their loves to keep us out of harms way. I am grateful that I live in a province that can take time out of their busy lives to give a moment of thanks for their sacrifice. Grateful that I live in a nation that does not shirk away from the most devastating cost of war: the horrible price paid for peace and security.

A Castle in the Heart of the City.

As much as I hate Toronto, it is one of the larger outposts of Newfoundland’s Empire and deserves some respect. When we first moved to Ontario we lived in SkyPro apartments on the corner of Bloor and Jarivs. That was a bit of an experience. It is just a little ways up from Cabbage Town which is actually a really pretty spot, however, in the area between there and SkyPro things got a little dicey. At night the “gangstas” from Sherborne St., the hookers, the trannies, the homeless, and the homeless trannies all came out to play (they mostly come out at night…mostly). And the noise! The incessant thrum of traffic as millions of cars made their way to the DVP, the constant barrage of sirens, the yelling, the screech of tires, the thunder of crashes, the pulse and hum of a mass of humanity below.

I was on the phone home quite a bit in those days. My own digital umbilical cord. I remember a day when it was uncharacteristically quiet; things seemed sort of still. It made me think of home and so I called mom. We had been talking only for a few minutes when she and asked: “Where are you?” “I am at the apartment” I replied. To which she answered. "How come I don’t hear any sirens?”

Ah TO! The Big Smoke. It is a great place to visit, but I don’t want to live there. We started looking to move out of the city, and eventually we found a spot we could afford (barely) in Durham. And this is where we now live. However some of our closest friends still live in the city, and we visit them when we can.

Last weekend Julie and Karl invited us to go to a Renaissance Fair held at Casa Loma. Julie and Karl married there a few years ago (it was a magical wedding by the way, she was a beautiful bride, and the groom wasn’t half bad either).

We took the subway to Dupont and made our way up the sidewalk. You can see the edge of the gardens surrounding the castle as you approach, a long stone stairwell spirals its way up the grounds beckoning you in. We went around the long way because we had the little monster with us, and we did not want to hork him all the way up there in his carriage.

It is an impressive thing to see this Castle emerge out of the grey and bleak of a busy city. It is odd too, to step off a subway, walk off a busy street and step back in time. That sense of time out of place was enhanced by the Renaissance Fair. Lords and Ladies strolled in the gardens. There was Merlin’s Ale (yum!) and Raspberry Mead (gah!) to drink. A falconer showed off his bird…er his falcon. There were shows to catch (I recommend “Men in Tights”), codpieces to stare at and wares to buy. In addition to that you could explore the massive Casa Loma, and its beautiful gardens. The castle is a jewel in the middle of the city.

An expensive jewel at that. Sir Henry Mill Pellatt bankrupted himself creating this marvel and it is the Kiwanis who take care of it now. If you ever find yourself in the Big City check out Casa Loma, they have a variety of events during the year, and movies are filmed (Parts of X-men and Chicago were shot there), heck you can be married at the Castle if you want! But whatever you decide don’t drink the Raspberry Mead! My taste buds haven’t grown back yet, but the hole in my cheek is filling in nicely.



*Thanks Julie for the pictures!