City Life

drunk jewelry lay on the sidewalk

among the plastered blotches of gum stains

as pigeons fenced on the side

just west of city graffiti that read

‘stop deporting people’

 

the square filled up

with tai chi chasers

and the park billowed humid air

among trees offering no relief

in the city park of sunrise

 

construction clung and hung high above

craning in all directions

while below

perpetual streetlights controlled

a never ending whir of city mustangs

 

the clamor of a thousand sirens,

streetcars and traffic transport

was cut by a jet overhead

while I waited at a red light in the sun

under the city sky

 

a man held out a cup for loose change

his teeth were missing, his hands shook

he looked down and away

as my coins landed in an empty cup

there in the carnival of city life

2012-07-18 Janice McIntyre ©

If I Could Have One More Tomorrow

If I could have one more day with my father

I’d spend it selflessly

I’d listen to his stories

And his songs of harmony

I’d hold his hand a little longer

I’d give him a proper goodbye

I’d hug him a little tighter

And make sure he knew I tried

If I could have one more day with my husband

I’d tell him faith’s not dead

I’d tell him that there is freedom

And remember the things he said

I’d get back all his vinyl records

And together we would sing

Of the days we used to laugh and dance

Oh the joy that it would bring

If I could have one more day with my brother

I’d listen to his pain

I’d laugh at all his silliness

And tell him he’s the same

I’d forgive him for his ways

I’d wipe away his tears

I’d tell him there’s second chances

No matter what the year

If I could have one more day with my nephew

I’d hold him in my arms

I’d brush his hair so gently

I’d keep him safe from harm

I’d give him the ocean and mountains

I’d give him all of my dreams

I’d tell him that there is no love larger

Than saying what you mean

If I could walk beside them

Even just for one more day

I’d walk a little lighter

I’d tell them that I prayed

I’d dance with them in sunshine

I’d cover them from the rain

I’d laugh a little louder

I’d take away their pain

If I could do one last thing

I’d love like no tomorrow

I’d give away all my possessions

And there’d be nothing left to borrow

If I could tell you something

I’d make sure that you would hear

That life is now in the living

And to hold your loved ones dear

If I could have yesterday’s tomorrow

And it never went away

I’d open up my heart

Just for one more day

But as I turn towards the places

Where we used to laugh and play

I’m reminded that tomorrow

Are the memories made today

2012-07-11 Janice McIntyre ©

Spirit of the West

The spirit of the west

Breathes me

Under my skin

Between my ribs

Below my neck and back again

Sometimes it laughs

Sometimes it beckons

Sometimes it says goodbye

Sometimes it questions

Sometimes it makes me cry

Rugged roads

Majestic mountains

Where tall tress all look the same

I heard the echo in the distance

As a siren called my name

The spirit of the west

Beholds me

Entangled in its twine

But the east of my life

Returned me

To a place that I call mine

The spirit of the west

Does not own me

Yet its incense runs thick in my veins

Sometimes it loves me like it knows me

Sometimes it buries the pain

The spirit of the west

It moves me

Like an eagle in the sky

I dance in the open lowlands

And never turn to ask it why

The spirit of the west

it chides me

though I am not detained

in roots and branches

that once caged me

all in too much vain

The spirit of the west

It loves me

Even though I said goodbye

For a crooked path

And empty walls

Under my familiar sky

2012-07-09 Janice McIntyre (C)

Creative Ledges

It’s Tuesday, I slept in and missed the sunrise.  Per the light that blinds me apparently it showed up on time and the fireball in the sky is heating up this apartment like a cast iron frying pan.  I check FB updates and note that two of my FB friends unknown to one another have each commented on the soul – one makes a nest in someone’s soul for shelter and the other sells hers on eBay.  And from there I am stirred like the spoon in my coffee cup and today’s blog begins.  Although tea is my usual vice, my head is in a fog and I’m hopeful for some fog release.  However, there are no guarantees when this state of soulful creativity hits.  The fact is I stayed up late last night, musing in and out of creative tangents.  The truth is it’s one of my favorite places to be ‘on that creative ledge.’

It’s been awhile since I padded across the creative ledge and looked up to the sky and down below at the city of my life.  Because that’s the place from where a good portion of creativity comes from.  I admit that of late it seemed as though my creative soul was blocked, bitten, gun-shy, discouraged and buried like a pile of crumpled up paper packed in a box thrown in the corner.  A cross Canada move, career change and huge life changes all at the same time will do that to you.  Yet all the excuses in the world can’t contain what’s always been there, the creative sword that was waiting to be drawn and alas it has thankfully returned its edge outward instead of inward.  In saying this, I do believe that personal discipline in a writing vent such as a blog is key; yet that is only a portion of it.  What’s key is surrounding oneself with like minded creative souls as often as possible.  Truly the place I long to be most.  I often ask myself is it possible to live in that state of creative thought day in and day out?  I believe it is.  It shows up everywhere if you let it in.  Until now – for the most part of my life I primarily made myself busy with the struggle of a lifetime to be the loving daughter, the better mother, the perfect wife, the best friend sister and assumed the false stance everyone else wanted for me. I was often discouraged, told to take my head out of the clouds and repeatedly advised that the arts were not a life pursuit – instead the arts should be left for the likes of the famed poets, writers, painters, singers and songwriters.

The idea that money is where it’s at was shoved down my throat as early as I could hold my own fork.  For the largest part of my life artistic pursuits were halted, denied, thwarted and discouraged.  Even though I have written for my entire life, I convinced myself of the same falsehoods and took a huge part in that role by choosing partners that would make sure I’d stay off course.  And from time to time when my closet writing retreats and hidden shoeboxes of paper would spill out onto the floor I’d find that it was easy to have someone rain on the parade, pull the chair out from under me and strip away the source from where my creativity would fountain up.  And for years I would choose to allow them to continually rip and strip the safe covers from my soul.  I would continue to write in private, away from the prying eyes, doubtful deniers and empty souls that surrounded me.

But life had other plans.  The strong roots of determination, courage and soulful wisdom pushed me to the edge of challenge and change.  Those changes were no easy feat, leaving the unhappy places of life would become the largest obstacle I’d ever pursue.  The life choices I once believed to be the answers turned out to be the antagonist of my very own soul weighing me down like a ship aground.  The only way out was to spar with it, take it down and cuff it to the mountain I knew I eventually had to leave.  The price would be high and there would be no turning back.  I would lose everything that was once my identity and watch it float out into the sea hanging onto the soul of my life raft on a course set for the unknown.

In all of our lives we have ‘stop life in it’s tracks’ moments and mine came from climbing out of the sunroof that smashed on my head after a treacherous mountain rollover.  On that tragic day, flying down the back of a mountain upside down on a stretcher in an ambulance the answer came to me.  Staring up at a tiny white ceiling tile in the ER made me realize the ledge I needed to be on wasn’t the other side of the mountain or the life I found myself in.  Even in all that, the soul trade off took months to get through – office politics in a job that was contained by dragons in a den, divorce from the pilot dictatorship, two adult children finding their way in the world and a younger one torn between the love of a mother and the conviction of a father.  Changes that became forever changes for the greater good of all regardless of what the rest of the world thought.

And so, as I blog today from a tiny kitchen table in this shoebox 5,000+ miles away from the mountain – I don’t miss the soul sucking things of the past that once decorated the large oak dining table often set for fourteen, the 3,000 square foot house, the big ticket life or the siren chaos.  Much to my chagrin, I have chosen the downsize option long before my retirement is due.  I have downsized in things and upsized in what matters most.  And it is here barefoot from a small table beside an old typewriter that my creative reality resides and springs up catapulting forward.  Home in the city of my childhood under familiar skies and trees among the skyscrapers where lake breezes flow in one window and out the other.  Here where I belong.  And it is here that I choose what’s right for me from the creative soul up.  No more trade offs.  Here where the creativity burns on the edges of a whole new life, a good life, my life.

On a final blog note, that may seem out of context from the above lines strewn upon these pages, Loose Leaf Poets & Writers had a venue last night, which turned out well.  There were some new faces; regular attendees and a few that traveled long distances to attend.  Today I find myself filled with gratitude for the efforts, the interest and the creative passion that is thriving among us.  Each week we cat walk the creative edge and leave with arrows of inspiration in our packs.  In our writing loop we walk the ledges of our week with new ideas and inspiration while continuing with the pursuits of a written vibe that keeps us all breathing.  We will shine for each other and humbly shine for ourselves on something worth pursuing without the trade offs.

Monday Monday

It’s 4:53 AM and I am awake.  Outside the laughing gulls that never sleep fade in and out alongside another birdsong I’m unfamiliar with.  It seems it’s just the two of them out there along with some bright stars that hang above my window in the sky.  A new day is dawning as a new week emerges its Monday head into suburbia green and city slate.

With fanfare a whirring, I settle into the couch with my UK cup of tea.  The dim lights are all I can take as I sit surrounded by an army of Halo Lego skirmishes.  Earlier I awoke from a dream where my ex-husband was unpacking all of my stuff and examining each item in my cosmetic bag.   And then, we are in church where friends are gathering and I am not sure why we’re there.  Then we are on a downtown Toronto sidewalk and my friend Melinda appears telling me she doesn’t like her job all that much anymore and asks for a reference from the agency that hired me.  She points at the ex and says what the hell is HE doing here?  I laugh and say, “it’s all in a day’s work.”  Then Melinda and I are walking in long summer skirts up jagged slab stone steps somewhere in Greece.  We are climbing high up into a cantina of sorts where it is hot and there is authentic food and we are welcomed in by soulful smiling women whom drape us in colorful pashmina’s.  The dream ends and I awake suffering from a burger that clearly I should not have consumed.  That medication I went off of months ago is screaming for me in the bathroom cabinet and I am affirmed of one of the culprits of my current demise.  These foods my child so readily consumes I can clearly no longer enjoy and though the pang of the odd craving appears it seems its not worth the pain in any shape or form.  I make a note that today we, or at least I shall partake in the food process with care instead of this reckless vacation abandon.

The sky is brightening as the sun rises beyond the trees and though the houses block my view of a far off horizon, it won’t be long before the beautiful sun shall appear within eyesight amidst the treetops.  Blazing in its fireball orange against blue skies and silhouetted branches per the usual it arrives early and on time.  The one thing we can depend on and be assured of each day is the light it brings.  The floor creaks above my head as my neighbors stir to the cries of a newborn and another day begins.

I am still pajama clad stretching my brain and meditating on what’s ahead in the world of my ten year old boy on a summer’s day in suburbia.  His shiny new bike requires mileage and I miss my pedals so its likely we’ll take in a serious bike a trek to top our 30 something kilometer ride of last week.  For now the boy sleeps sound and secure and I am thankful for his presence in my shoebox.  My heart grows wider each day as he fills it up with his love, his stories and his philosophical sayings of a wisdom stemming from an old soul wise beyond his years.  Nothing can make up for our time apart during the school year hence every second of our time together in the here and now immensely counts.  I haven’t heard much from the other two of late, the big girl in her grown up world and the middle boy set to journey back from west to east for school in the Fall.  Adult children take awhile to come around but eventually they do come home.  The reality is our life is no longer a bustling household with three kids, a full-time mom and a dad that flew in and out on paper airplanes like the wind.  The days of five are long since gone and like everything else the days and months heave forward among the leaps and bounds of life.  And though I sometimes miss the mothering mornings, afternoons, nights and evenings in a household that never slept, the mystery of this life continues to catapult forward at breakneck speed far beyond what I ever imagined.  That’s the thing about the future, there are no guarantees that the best laid plans will stick on a crooked path in pictures without frames.  So its best to take the time to vacate and take it all in.  For myself the vacation appreciation has been clearly refreshing and provides a further attitude of gratitude for the has beens and yet to comes.  And so on this Monday of Mondays I am thankful for wherever it leads and all of its poetic presence.

Follow Your Heart

It’s early Sunday morning.  I wake to watch the sunrise one last time before we leave this nature escape.  The loons laugh and call across the lake as if they own it; and they do.  The noisy gulls seemed to have followed us up from the shores of Lake Ontario to The Georgian but for some reason they are not near as annoying to listen to up here.  The sandy beach is empty except for me.  The water gently laps the edge of the shore and I collect small stones that fall between my fingers and slide back into the warm bay.  I could stay here all summer and watch this natural drama unfold in all of its wonder and seasons.  I would live in my summer attire and chase Frisbees all day long with my son on the powdery sand.  I would write stories, poems and love letters to my soul from the edges of large rocks and from under sweeping large trees but the reality is; nothing lasts forever – not even this.

Today we will pack up and load the RAV for the long trek back down the golden Hwy #400 passing all the cottage shopping stores and through Holland Marsh one of my favoured memories where fresh filled fields adorn the earth and fill the air.  The land of Ontario sun is quite beautiful and intensely hot and despite the sunscreen thwart I covered myself in, I have a sun braised forehead to prove it.  Here in all the wilderness of life I don’t look for mountains anymore or ponder the thoughts of monsoon rain for days on end.  I don’t wait for time to pass and things to change that never could back on a mountain I tried so very hard to call home.  Instead I embrace the small wonders and moments of each day back here where that familiar feeling of coming home and all its adventure of seasons of change welcomes me in and tightens its grip.

Reflecting on the life decisions I’ve made, going west was in its time a want in just the same way returning east has been.  I have no regrets of the years that have passed or what they have weaved in this tapestry of life.  There are bright patches of love and happiness, of children, laughter, dancing and joy.  There were also patches of discontentment, worry and distrust that enveloped and nearly swallowed me whole on the side of a mountain I used to call home.  And though the discontented patches are small and weaved somewhere closer to the middle, the edges of my life continue to brighten and rejoice in the reality of the now in which I live.  It’s not about the pain or the crooked roads in which life was stitched; it’s about the learning from the yearning of what I wanted and what I needed to freely be me.

Over the course of patch discontentment, I didn’t sit in a counselor’s office or take medication and though I had many reasons to do so, I didn’t take up any deathtrap habits either. I didn’t stand on the edge of life and say it was over or point fingers at the demons that stood before me; instead I somehow I remained strong and followed my heart.  And though in the midst of vulnerable crises some of my choices could have been more wisely sought out, despite all that – I made it through to the other side and all the way back home anyway.  The truth is life changes our hearts in all of its death, loss and winning.  Some  situations we choose and some we just seem to get hit with.  I suppose it’s all in how we choose to walk, run, fly, swim and stand the course of what we’ve been given.  I have no trophies on display in the museum of my life, no purple hearts or life merit awards but instead just the scars and well earned wisdom.  The Olympics won’t call me out for the race of a lifetime nor will the Nobel Peace Prize land in my lap and that’s just fine by me.

You see last night I dreamt I won the lottery, I dreamt that some sort of machine kept tossing out large sums of money similar to a slot machine spitting out all its coins – just for me.  In my thrill and awe I accepted and filled my pockets and purse with all of the contents to overflowing and the money kept coming.  I like to refer to this experience as metaphoric dreaming.  And its this kind of dreaming that is good for the soul.  I like to take the view that from where my life stands at this moment, I have won the lottery less the money. And so, beautiful people if you have read this far and get what I am aim to convey, this is ‘how’ and ‘why’ I make the choice to love my life and everything in it.  Not only would I recommend sunscreen and eating your greens but also take care to follow your heart in all of its crooked paths even when the going gets tough – because your heart is the one true compass in life that knows more than you do bout which direction to take you.  And when you come full circle, and you will  – you will recognize all of it and that cup of something will continue to overflow into every part of life.  And so as I pack up my son from this wonder and beauty of the North turning back towards the city I think of the happy times we are sharing in the now.  Though my heart aches for one I call my own, I can’t change the reality of his return on a westward plane in the weeks ahead but I can change how I choose to live all our valuable time out.  And because of that, I can and I am; in all of life’s promises of goodness and trust continuing to follow my heart.  ~<3~

People Are People

Morning has arrived drenched in rain.  The trees drape and drip and the lake air is cool against my skin.  I walk in the silence of this new day through the trees, up the hill, along the beach and into the lodge.  I like the walk and the distance from all the hustle and bustle of lodgeness.  Back down the path our unit sits on the edge of the beach overlooking the green-space and lake where my little bear still sleeps on this rainy day of something. 

Unlike the past few early mornings there is much activity among lodge dwellers.  That family with the four boys that requires a whole lot of extra attention is at the front desk asking for more service again.  It is notable that their one-year-old runs like an ostrich on fire while tripping and falling into everyone.  I picked him up off the floor from a screeching serious face-plant behind my chair in the dining room last night.  While at the same time the three-year-old sibling demanded ice cream in a dish not in a cone and the two older boys smacked each other with cloth dinner napkins.  The parents seemingly oblivious to it all just sat there sipping as much wine as their glasses could hold like they weren’t even there.  You get the picture.

I call them the ‘Fairly Odd Family’ because when they arrive on scene everyone vacates.  Except for yesterday in the pool because the entire lodge seemed to be in it because of the summer heat and the pool party.  In the midst of pool line dancing, games, contests and Pina Coladas strangely the fairly odd mother of four decided to go to my chair of all the 200 chairs available and lay on top of my towel and clothing and drip water all over my bag and book.  They had already taken over a corner further down so it was beyond anyone’s guess as to any sort of mistaken chair identity.  And so, in the midst of volleyball with the bear in the water I swooped out and over to my belongings that included a camera that could not get wet .  As I approached the chair the woman didn’t flinch, nor acknowledge my presence even after my polite ‘excuse me.’  And so I yanked my belongings out from under and around her.  Again, this woman clearly influenced by some unknown substance of the mind didn’t even raise an eyebrow up from her Kindle that so needed soaking along with her head.  I moved my items to another chair one over and the lady in between us was in fits of laughter over my boldness high fiving me all the way back into the pool. 

No words were exchanged, no glances or foot stomping either.  In fact, I continued on with the joy of my day among new friends, some good people and my beloved child that deserved every ounce of my attention with no demands required.  But then the craziest thing happened, the ball that the bear and I were tossing flew up and over onto the deck and right at the feet of the fairly odd woman.  Her fairly odd foot reached out and grabbed it and then with the other foot she placed both feet on top like a footstool and oddly continued reading.  The high five lady was killing herself with glances and hand signals and laughter but I just couldn’t do it.  Instead I retrieved a new ball and the bear and I kept on playing.  Moments later the ball under the odd footed woman slipped and she fell right on her behind.  Because sometimes people are people and they get what they give.

As a previous family of five, in all my years of airporting, hoteling, resorting, camping and vacationing with three kids in tow just when I thought I’d seen it all something else has taken the cake.  Because the fact is it takes all kinds and  people are people.  And so it’s off to the dining room for breakfast and indoor games with canoe races to follow this afternoon and a bonfire on the beach tonight.  This is a vacation to remember for the bear and I hence gratitude abounds right down to the bottom of my cup of something.  Later I’ll write about the little four year old who ate a mound of food with his hands and sat at the table beside us drinking coffee after loading it with seven packets of sugar and Splenda while the mother looked on.  Yes, this is parenting today where kids are just kids and parents aren’t parents anymore.  And wouldn’t you know it as I finish this post the sun has broken through the clouds!

Soul Stirrings

The sun rose over the trees beyond the water’s edge this morning.  The morning stillness stirred  sounds of birdsong and breezes through the tall oaks and maples.  What beauty lay herein among the rock, sand and water I thought to myself.  A call of a loon echoed across the bay as I meandered the paths for a cup of tea in the barren lodge.  Up among the lounge area of books and couches, tables and trays the 24-hour tea and coffee service beckoned my morning eyes.  I filled my cup of something and went outside and walked along a row of colorful Muskoka chairs towards the beach looking out towards the water and enjoying the momentary stillness.

In a short time as the cottage world awakens the marina will likely busy up with fishing boats, ferrymen and Friday cottagers.  Children and families with barking dogs and flying Frisbees will soon overrun the beach and charcoal will fill the air.  A typical northern Ontario day ‘among the Hurons’ where the deep roots of this land of Mohawks, Hurons and the historical territorial undertakings of the Jesuits vibrates under the very grass that covers my bare feet.

Every inch of the experience is a homecoming of sorts with familiar sights, scents and sounds opening the doors to my soul that required some maintenance.  These are the things that stir the water from murky to clear.  The paintbrush of my life sits here on canvas in the wilderness of what I’ve come to appreciate tenfold having been removed from it for so long.  The Canadian Shield of landscape that beckoned the brushes of the ‘Algonquin Seven’ stirs my creative in much of the same way less the skill and less the hardship.  Yes, there is something serene about the early morning call of a loon across the water.

This rugged land where artists camped and cabined in all seasons less the extreme amenities of today is a tombstone that reads ‘live for today.’  And though I don’t feel guilty for internet connecting in the least, I do appreciate the reality of life the artists of the past would have endured with backpacks filled with supplies, paints, brushes, easels and intense Ontario elements that would include swatting at insects.  There was no sunscreen and there were no coils or aerosol repellants to fend off the wicked and annoying winged things that love to connect with sacred skin.

This day full of all its July and wonder is the gift of beautiful sunshine, beaching, boating and relaxing with the blonde beautiful boy that owns part of my soul.  It’s true, getting back to nature in somewhat of a resort style isn’t the same as it used to be but nonetheless it stirs a creativity and opens the portals of coming home in a way that I hadn’t expected; a gift that shall likely keep on giving.  If I could offer anything reminiscent of the early stirrings of this day it would be this:  Love your loved ones, hold them close, take in what this day gives you and let go of what it takes away.  This life that we have is short and time is the only keeper of the soul.  Do love your life and everything in it and never under any circumstances give away parts of your soul to places, people or things that do not deserve to dwell among the sacred spaces of the heaven of your heart.

Boxes & Belonging(s)

I dreamt all night of strange events that included my stored up belongings left at a friend’s had gone missing in an earthquake.  Perhaps its my conscience that has been over-consumed with the idea of leaving half of my life packed in boxes on the west coast of BC while I shift and shuffle the little I do have in this tiny apartment.  Of all the organized and well-orchestrated cross Canada moves in my life, this one has been the least orderly.  I am missing my kitchen items, clothing, footwear, flowerpots and photos.  And they’ve all been packed in boxes for so long that I’m actually getting used to living without them.  When they finally do arrive I’m not certain where I’ll put the 30 something pile of cartons and boxes.  After all, I seem to be getting by with the Canadian Tire set of dishes and life simplified.  And though I did give up my Swiss Army knife for a Kitchen Aid corkscrew opener, it still can’t compare to the one packed away at the bottom of one of those boxes.

Recently, my neighbour from across the hall showed up at my door with a beautiful set of Mikasa glassware, a salad spinner and a food steamer, as they were overloaded with wedding gifts still in the purchased boxes from over a year ago.  She had duplicates that she couldn’t use that were non-returnable in Canada and was tight on storage.  She, her husband and little one are living in overcrowded quarters in an apartment the same size as mine.  I gladly accepted and handed her $50 for the items and told her to take the family out for ice cream.  She in her friendly New Jersey laugh accepted the funds said she’d take me shopping in her hometown of New York someday.  In an instant we were neighbor friends sharing conversations in the hallway, parking lot and laundry room.  I soon met the French couple from upstairs that recently had a new baby boy, the Polish couple and their 11-year-old daughter below with their orange kitten, the New Brunswick train mechanic on the top floor and the French house painter in the basement.  These friendly people, employed, polite and clean are my apartment family in the six-plex at the bottom of my childhood street that I call home.  I am blessed with the reality that my building sleeps at proper hours at night; there are no loud crazy people and no tenant issues to contend with.  And though its old and the hardwood floors creak and I’ve yet to discover if the radiator heating works; I’m making the best of all of it.

Having been both the humble and proud owner of five family homes, builder of three which included a custom built home on five acres; with moves from Toronto to Vancouver, Vancouver to Halifax, Halifax to Vancouver and No-Mans-Land, BC to Toronto; a few moves under my belt were proven experience in how to be a good neighbor.  Only here I don’t cut grass, shovel snow, pay taxes, wash windows, repair appliances or order new hot water heaters.  There is no unplugging the central vac from Lego pieces, loading and unloading a dishwasher, covering the swimming pool or taking the garbage out to the curb.  It’s an adjustment, and I often find myself sweeping the stairs in the hallway, cleaning up any paper from the front yard, junking the junk mail and putting bricks on top of the outside garbage bins in an effort to sway the raccoons.  I can’t help it.  I do miss my gardening and a place to stoop with a book under trees.  But there is a yard here and I do have a lawn chair and perhaps its time I learned to manage an indoor plant or two. In short, life has become quite simplified.  There is less to clean, less to wash, less to shop for and less to worry about.  The divorce drama has subsided and the pain is just a memory.  I do miss my children terribly.   And in an uncomplicated stupor I work to maintain the important relationships with my two adult children and the younger one not quite yet in his teens.  Though we are often far apart the reality is the bond and connectivity is something that cannot be broken.

In the end the reality is, I have a home, an excellent job; I have my family, and my hometown back in my life along with all the familiar people, places and things.  Fourteen years away from here has been a journey; I’ve had to relearn roadways, traffic patterns, transit systems and the vastness of change that’s overtaken huge portions of the area.  But all in all I’ve come home to my favourite places, people and things.  And as I have, one day my children will come home too.  In just a few short weeks one of the three will arrive in Toronto and call it home as college beckons him to the place from which he was born.  Home is where the heart is and the boxes of belonging will follow.

Dirty Detachment Digest

Wednesday July 4^th, 2012 – Vacation Week One – Blog Entry – Day Three 

It’s another beautiful summer skied day in the land of the Ontario sun.  I wake to the sounds of a garbage truck whirring, stirring and munching the refractions of what the baby raccoons did not salvage last night.  A bird sings over the loud engine in competition as I try to identify it’s song – a long call where sometimes another answers.  There is never a shortage of bird song or chatter in the greens that hover over this magnificent tree lined suburb street I call home.  The street of my childhood is comfort and truth to me, unlike the struggles of British Columbian terrain.  In fact, it was about year ago around this time that I gave official notice of my leaving the dirty detachment in No-Mans-Land, BC.

It was a tough year all around – save and except for a few fleeting moments of auxiliary graduate success, a handful of lifetime friendships and the end to chapters that were long overdue.  I had been working in an environment surrounded by files of serious crime, radio in stereo dispatch, overcrowded workspaces and prisoner bar clangers and screamers that often emanated like a bad smell coming up from the basement.  For a duration of four-plus years I had been immersed in the sewage that sprang up from the crimes and deeds of the addicted, twisted and defiled.  There weren’t many ‘good’ stories or ‘happy’ endings; perhaps the odd lost wallet returned intact, the missing teen returning home or the stolen car found but nothing strikes me as epic in that regard.  Found keys, glasses, purses, backpacks, suitcases, drugs – dirty fingerprints, traffic ticket complainers, DNA sample slimers, subpoenaed stiffs, parolee reporters and smelly front counter customers with missing teeth were the daily routine.

I don’t miss the office politics that smelled as bad as the homeless and damaged people for life.  I’m certain its chokehold continues long after my post was due.  That’s what you get in a small town of small talkers.  My observations are that if you grew up there and you were smart enough to get through school and get your high school diploma you might be the recipient of twenty plus years of dog *ucking and working at the District before a higher education, general respect and manners were considered a job pre-requisite.  Perhaps a few kids were born at the local hospital, you shared the same divorce lawyer as your ten other neighbours and you had a 50% chance of ending up living in the basement suite of what used to be a grow-op with a dog or cat to come home to.  It’s a tough town to live in, grow up in and be a part of.  It’s not near the small town friendly one would expect unless it’s where you came from.  Kudos to those who had the strength to move on, move up and get out and make it as far as the next town of the same game.  That’s progress.

On the up side there were some fine friends both uniformed and un-uniformed that I fully respected whom worked hard and didn’t get paid near enough for what they endured. They put up with far too much drama and often spent more hours in the paper trays instead of at home with their families.  They stayed up all night to keep a community safe, chased bad guys in the dark, looked for downed small aircraft in forest terrain in the dark and they were the first on scene when a death occurred spontaneously or purposely, they directed traffic in busy intersections in torrential downpours at the remains of a bad accident scene and proudly went into schools to teach life awareness skills to kids who thought they knew more.  They rode bikes for days in an effort to conquer cancer and helped you pack and move on their days off.

That’s the thing about coming home, it provides a chance to look in the rearview mirror and affirms that courage is character, truth always prevails and sometimes-huge sacrifices are made for the greater good of self-preservation.  There is no turning back and the road ahead is only a forward lane.  So far its been a beautiful ride and the only emergencies in this new life are chosen and come without the dirty detachment dust and all its sirens.