Terry Fox

Bup-buhda-bup, bup-buhda-bup, bup-buhda-bup.

This is the sound that meets you at the start of the Terry Fox exhibit I visited at the museum last week. It’s the audio on a video of a handsome boy with a grim demeanour and a ghastly prosthetic leg, running (can you even call it “running”? It was more of an awkward, clunking hop) along the serpentine Trans-Canada Highway, uphill and down, rain or shine, utterly alone with no sound but the rhythm of his gait.

Bup-buhda-bup, bup-buhda-bup, bup-buhda-bup.

I stood at the exhibit entrance and thought, I won’t make it through this.

Well, I did make it. The exhibit is not designed to wring a tear and make you reach for your wallet. It’s simply the story of how a kid from Port Coquitlam set out to make a difference and became an unintentional hero. More than that, he became a part of our national story.

I was nineteen years old when the Marathon of Hope began. Naturally, since it didn’t concern me personally, I was only dimly aware that a boy who’d lost a leg to cancer was trying to raise money for research by running from St John’s to Victoria during the summer of 1980. The awareness only came after his solitary run had started to gain momentum and he was suddenly featured on every nightly newscast.

Prior to that, he was running pretty much by himself, with a buddy in the van behind him and his brother along for moral support (and to act as referee when he and said buddy started scrapping on the road). The sheer magnitude of what he was trying to accomplish completely escaped me until it was over and schools were being named for him. I regretted not paying more attention at the time, but thanks to his family and a dedicated team, the details of his journey are available in ways they wouldn’t have been had he lived to reach his modest goal of raising a million dollars.

The exhibit chronicles the evolution of what became the Marathon of Hope, from the initial diagnosis of Terry’s cancer (his name wasn’t even mentioned in the doctor’s report; he was referred to as “the boy”) to the marathon’s premature end in Thunder Bay, where his health finally failed and he had to fly home for more treatment. Everyone knows how the story ended, of course. That’s part of the tragedy—yet, as is so often the case, some lights burn so brightly that their lives are destined to be short. Besides, if Terry Fox had successfully emptied his jar of Atlantic Ocean into the Pacific at Mile 0, the effect may not have been so enduring. He was a remarkable young man, as compassionate as he was determined, as courageous as he must have been frightened, yet he persevered because he had watched other people suffer in the cancer ward and decided that it had to stop.

Today is the annual Terry Fox run. It happens every September and has done so for years. It’s coordinated in countless communities all across Canada. People sign up for it who weren’t even born when Terry dipped his artificial foot in the ocean off Newfoundland. Hundreds of millions of dollars have been raised to fund cancer research and will continue to be raised because of his mission to make others’ lives better.

The weather report predicted rain for today—the first rain we’ve seen all summer. My first thought was of sympathy for all those people who’ve committed to participate in the run ... then I remembered the video at the opening of the museum display.

Bup-buhda-bup, bup-buhda-bup, bup-buhda-bup.

Canada 150

I love it here. I love Canada. I love being Canadian. I love hearing tourists gush about how friendly we are and how safe they feel within our borders. I am gratified to know that our global reputation is as pristine as any First World country’s reputation can be. We have our problems, sure. Just ask the indigenous people whose struggle to reclaim their stolen heritage continues. Even so, we as a nation are trying to repair the damage done by our colonial predecessors in hope of making something stronger from the wreckage. We may be Canadian, but we’re also human. We can’t be perfect, at least not all the time. We just try a little harder to be respectful, polite, environmentally conscious, compassionate, sympathetic, funny, humble and supportive. Patriotism hasn’t come easily in the past, but in recent years, it’s crept closer to the forefront, and you know what? That’s okay. We should be patriotic. We live in a magical, beautiful, expansive, progressive, diverse, inclusive and wondrous place.

Though I’d like to say I am proud to be Canadian, I am more inclined to say I’m relieved to be Canadian. Pride does have a dark side. The temptation to become smug about the country I call home has increased since superpowers like the US and the UK appear to have lost their lustre, but I refuse to go there. I am proud, yes. I am relieved, yes. I am grateful, yes. But I am here not by my doing. I am here because my father who, on deciding to emigrate from England, wrote to three nations: Canada, Australia, and America.

Canada wrote him back.

Canada welcomed him, his wife, and his four kids (my wee sister was smuggled in utero). I don’t think any of us would have had it turn out differently.

Happy birthday, Canada – and thanks.

With love,

Nobel Poet

I have no problem with Bob Dylan receiving the Nobel Prize for Poetry. He may not be able to sing for toffee, but few poets can. It’s the poetry that earns the recognition, and someone with a body of work as extensive and influential as Dylan’s deserves all the credit he can get.

Same goes for Leonard Cohen, by the way. It may be my maple leaf showing, but I’d sign a petition to have him awarded the same prize (regrettably posthumously) since I find his poetry/lyrics/sentiments more moving than Dylan’s.

I sort of digress.

I own no Dylan albums. I only know what songs I’ve heard on the radio. I love the impression of him done by Don Ferguson of the Royal Canadian Air Farce, mostly because it highlights the mumbled nasal twang that enables most folks to pick out no more than an occasional word. But Bob Dylan is responsible for one of the few bright sparks in my 2011 “Holiday From Hell”.

Up until 2015, when they stopped producing it, the annual Starbucks Christmas CD was anticipated with all the energy and excitement of a kid for, well, Christmas. I have all but one disc in the collection, my favourite being Let it Snow, released in 2011. Even the cover art is fabulous. It’s still among the first discs to hit rotation at the start of the festive season. Every song on it is a winner—including Dylan’s. In fact, his is one of my favourite tracks.

Not because he wrote it (he didn’t). Not because he recorded it (for a charitable cause). Not for any other reason than the cornball foot stompin’ headbangin’ country-fried tempo had my Ter dancing around the kitchen in a truly rare fit of present-moment glee. To this day, whenever I hear it, I am reminded of a sparkle in the snowstorm that became a whopping dump and nearly destroyed us.

The poet goofed, though. Another Dylan track was featured on the Bucky’s disc the following Christmas, and alas, it’s the one track I consistently skip.

Proof that even a Nobel Prize winner can make mistakes.

Don’t Look Back

Last week, I watched Bill Maher and his four guests—two Democrats and two Republicans—argue back and forth about their upcoming election and what’s wrong with both candidates. The US is in a sticky pickle because, as I see it, the voting public is caught between a Trump and a hard place. When faced with two evils, folks generally choose the lesser one ... but in this race, how can you tell which is which?

No matter. I’m Canadian. My problem comes after the US election, when everyone else in the world has to deal with the outcome of their decision.

It was interesting, however, to hear people on both sides trying to outshout each other about “taking America back”, “getting America back”, and “reclaiming America”. One of them referred to regaining the country originally intended by the founding fathers.

Are you kidding me??? The country was founded over two hundred years ago, by privileged white European males who drew up a Constitution that would serve their interests and no one else’s. Think about it. When the country was formed, the only Africans in America were slaves, women were chattel, and the native Americans had been driven off their land by the guests they had welcomed but who refused to leave. The paperwork wasn’t written for anyone within those three groups. The right to bear arms meant that colonists on the frontier could defend themselves instead of waiting for the cavalry to ride over the hill. And they were pretty much defending themselves from the indigenous residents, so I’m of two minds on the fairness of the policy in the first place.

If I have learned anything in the past couple of years, it’s that nothing is ever going to be the same again. You cannot get back to the way it was because the way it is has changed so radically that previous rules can no longer apply. Society can’t rely on a document that was written in the dark ages because that document was written for the dark ages. Respect its purpose, sure, but then improve upon it, for crying out sideways!

We are not here to stay the same. We are not here to live in the past. We are here to move forward, to embrace each other and create something better than what we had yesterday (and I don’t mean building a better iPhone). Cleaving to an outdated document is not the way to fix today’s problems. One might even suggest that cleaving to that document is what created today’s problems. The world in 2016 is not remotely similar to the world in 1776 or whenever. Can we please leave that old world behind and work with each other to make something wondrous of the one we have?

Because it is wondrous. People are amazingly diverse, but our diversity is not what makes us magnificent. Our shared divinity is what make us magical. We are each capable of love, of compassion, of respect and gratitude and kindness. Our culture does not make us any of those things. Neither does our history. We should be using those things as starting points from which to grow and change ... but even as I write this, I realize that I might be missing my own point.

We are spiritual beings having a human experience. We are born divine. Many of us lose sight of it along the way. If time truly is cyclical and we are moving in circles, then perhaps we do want to go back to somewhere in the past. Let’s go further back than two measly centuries. Let’s go back to where we truly started, when we were born pure and untainted, radiant with love and no conditions, when we knew in our souls that all we needed to make a success of this life was to exercise our divinity and treat each other ...

... with love.

Oh, Canada!

The manager of our local coffee house asked me yesterday if I was coming into town for the Canada Day parade today. I’m not a big parade person, mostly because the crowds get in my way, so aside from being surprised that there is a parade on top of the other celebrations, I wrinkled my nose and said most likely not. Then I asked him if he was going.

I love this guy. His brow lowered and his eyes got steely, and he said, “I’m not so proud to be Canadian these days. Our government isn’t doing anything to be proud of.”

“Yikes,” I replied. “A dissatisfied customer!”

That got a laugh, but we went on to discuss the upcoming election and where the Harpers are in the standings (below the Trudeaus, he tells me, though he added that the Liberals are responsible for getting us started on the downslide). We were interrupted when his trusty sidekick asked him to take a phone call—but his comment got me thinking about where the country stands on the global stage.

Truly, I don’t follow the news. There isn’t much to cheer about, given the media’s propensity to focus on death, disaster, and dishonour. And our national leaders, no matter what party they represent, do tend to look south for direction. We’ve been dragged into the war on terrorism thanks to radical extremists targeting everything in the First World. Politically, Richard has a point. From a personal point of view, however, I still take pride in being Canadian because our population is so diverse. We’re still friendly. We are (mostly) polite. We are passionate and compassionate. We are resilient and resourceful. We have the same social problems as everyone else, but we’re trying to solve them as best we can. Best of all, we live in a place where everywhere you turn, it’s breathtakingly beautiful.

Today, Ter and I are taking it easy. An idle saunter through Oak Bay is on tap, wandering Willows Beach and stopping for a pub lunch at the Penny in the village. We won’t be part of the horde of 50,000 converging downtown for the festivities and we’ll only hear the fireworks we used to see from our living room window at Rockland. I’m happy to be Canadian, but today, I think I’m happier just to be.

Happy Canada Day, eh?

My Eddie

Gee - can you tell I'm a fan?

He sang with a band called Moist in the 1990s. I saw their video for “Silver” on Muchmusic and immediately thought, Who is that? He stood out – his voice, his presence, his black hair and exotic eyes. He lived and breathed the awful torment of that fabulous lyric and I was absolutely enthralled.

His name is David Usher.

Moist didn’t survive, though they put out enough hits to make a compilation titled “Machine Punch Through” which showcases his voice. I almost regret buying none of their albums, except that David went solo and continues recording to this day. His eighth album came out last October. I didn’t bother to wait for amazon to ship it. I bought it cold from HMV.

You’d think from his lyrics that he’s the gloomiest, angriest, most messed-up man on the planet, but I believe he’s actually a pretty happy guy. Though his songs may be rife with rage and corruption, the music is hardly discordant. Much of it is quite beautiful, unplugged and featuring the occasional cello riff (?!) I hardly ever hear him on the radio out here; he gets more air time in Montreal, where he’s based, and he does show up in entertainment news around an album’s release. Last winter, when “Songs From the Last Day on Earth” came out, I caught a clip of him talking a) about the album’s cheerful title, and b) about his other life as a techno-geek developing social media software currently in use by two western Canadian NHL teams and his work with Amnesty International and McGill University. Make no mistake. This guy is the son of an Oxford economics professor and an artist, and has a degree in political science. He’s a smart man.

His voice soars from breathy lullaby to impassioned howl in one long note. He can pour so much feeling into a single word that my skin responds with goosebumps. He’s one of the rare few whose work I will buy unheard. The joy for me is in discovering new gems in the jewel box.

I wonder sometimes why his music calls to me so strongly. I used to razz Laura about playing Pearl Jam during my massage appointments, but I learned to appreciate Eddie Vedder’s gift for making art of apocalyptic emotion. One song (I never knew the title) was a cheery toe-tapper that turned out to be a condemned man’s countdown to the noose, and danged if that didn’t beat all. “Good old Ed,” I remarked dryly, “always the happy-go-lucky optimist.” And Laura loosed her throaty smoke-and-whiskey laugh. The day I learned she was ill, the first song on David’s new album flared to mind and looped me into scattering stars for her across my office bulletin board.

Here at the end of the world, I can still see the stars.

Then it hit me. David Usher is my Eddie Vedder.

(Ru note - This post was scheduled last weekend for uploading today. It turns out to be an strange coincidence. Pearl Jam is playing Vancouver on December 4. I got the pre-sale notification yesterday and my first thought was: Laura would love to be there! Silly me. She now has an all access pass. Yes, I miss her, but after the initial reminder of loss, the smiles returned with the memories. As Theodore Geisel once said, "Don't cry because it's over; smile because it happened.")

A Thousand Words

Look at this picture:



"Pacific"

It’s driven me crazy for years. I glimpsed it during a documentary about Canadian artist Alex Colville that I watched pretty much because it was on. During the show, one of Colville’s contemporaries remarked that his work was so interesting because you always had the feeling that something bad had either happened or was about to happen. The contradiction of violence and tranquility in this one really hit me. There’s a story in this painting; a story that’s eluded me for years.

Last week, I started to get something. Picture if you will a man of mystery between assignments. He got back last night, late last night, in heavy rain and brutal wind. He crashed oncoming through the door, slept hard—this is the only place where he sleeps deeply—and woke on his own to a placid dawn. He puts the coffee on and takes a shower. The workout can wait a day, but weapons maintenance can’t. It can, however, wait for coffee.

Half-dressed, he pours a cup and carries it to the picture window, propping a shoulder against the deck doorjamb. The sky is a polished silver-blue, split from a matching sea by the dark blue horizon. A brisk salt breeze has the surf curling as it hits the shore, thumping the sand like a Golden Retriever’s tail welcoming him home. Already his rhythm is adjusting to the ocean’s heartbeat. The solitude is sublime.

He sips his coffee and contemplates a trip to town. The kitchen needs stocking and he’d better do something about the garden. Not the roadster, then. He decides on the SUV.

Later on he might take the chainsaw down to the beach and carve up some driftwood for the fireplace … and then he spies something lying on the sand, half-buried amid the logs and ropy kelp tossed ashore by last night’s storm.

He slowly straightens, muscle coming alert, eyes intent on what could be a bunch of seaweed but looks suspiciously like a tangle of dark brown curls …