Working as a lunch supervisor, as an example, is not an easy task and requires you to be patient, practical and innovative. And, you must have a wicked sense of humor. Imagine yourself going to work every day for one hour. You’re busy at home doing the things you do and then all of sudden you look at the clock and leap to your feet. Out the door you go, off to work, gathering all your paraphernalia, books, paper, markers, games and treats! Oh, the treats the children get from their lunch supervisors! You gather up your goodies, out of breath from trying to get all the things you tried to get done at home so your own children don’t feel neglected, and run to your class. The children swarm upon you like locusts. They, of course, have a million questions, and those questions come firing out of their mouths like machine-gun bursts. You dodge every ‘bullet’ with your smile and your calm demeanor as you hand out hot lunches and Band-Aids while breaking up arguments between the girls in the back row. You stop fights amongst the boys in the schoolyard. You blow whistles that the children often never hear as you tear your hair out because of some issue or another that is going on in your room.

Then there are bosses and peers you have to deal with, who may or may not be on the ball (another reason you tear your hair out). You organize events and find new and exciting ways to teach the children in your class those little life lessons that perhaps the teachers and parents don’t have time to teach anymore. You inspire young minds with stories and ideas and information that may not be on the curriculum. You work at starting newspapers, girls’ clubs, sports clubs and art clubs, giving the children opportunities to grow and find themselves in a freer, less restrictive setting.

You are a lunch supervisor and your job is rewarding. You are adored and I thank you for all of your hard work, for your dedication, for your love of children and how they feel in a place that is, after all, an institution. I thank you for making it more like home, a place where our children feel happy and safe. Where they’re free to discover, to inquire and to learn new things each day as you show up out of breath and panting, just making it ahead of the bell, ready to greet your class with a smile and hugs.

And what of our daycare educators? Those women who put in hour upon hour, morning, noon and night. The women who have the gift, like horse whisperers. Some of our daycare educators seem to have an almost spiritual connection, if you will, to the children. They know when something is wrong with a child. They sense things about the children in their care. They build strong and meaningful relationships with all of the children, and the children are attached and happy to have someone who cares about them. These educators work so hard and are never given their due. They spend countless hours with each of the children in daycare, working with them on projects, helping them with homework and teaching them new things. Our daycare educators see everything firsthand. They watch the children grow, starting in pre-kindergarten and up to that moment when they leave, spreading their wings and discovering new horizons. Along the way you can bet there were some very special daycare educators who were a part of that child’s life, who sat with them when their mom or dad were late during a snowstorm, reassuring them that the traffic must be very bad and that their parents would arrive soon. Educators who were brave enough and strong enough to stick to their guns and not give up on even the toughest child in the group, who managed to instill a sense of responsibility and real autonomy in that child. Who danced and sang and wore funny costumes, because if you can’t laugh at yourself then, well, you’re not going to be able to laugh at anything.

The daycares in our schools are places where ideas are born, where strangers become families and where our children receive constant care from seven in the morning until six at night. Without educators with real compassion and with real passion for this job, our children would be the ones who would lose. Fortunately, we do have very special people who work in our school daycares and I want to thank them for all of their hard work, for the hours they put in and for all of the extra hours they put in without asking for anything. They do what they do because they love it, because it’s rewarding and fun and because to them, each child in their care is special.

Photo Credit

Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved

Apart from horror scenes from a movie, my other reason for ‘dentist anxiety’ is, as a kid I had a dentist who I swear would smoke in the room while he was checking your teeth out. His hands smelled like cigarettes. No such thing as hygiene in those days. He didn’t wear gloves either! It was just the worst place on earth. Maybe he was the dentist from Marathon Man? If I hadn’t known better I might have thought his so-called office was a hidden torture chamber set up by spies. I mean, he was that creepy! So a creepy, smelly dentist from my childhood and a horrific scene from a movie really put a bad taste in my mouth for dentists (excuse the pun.)

Afraid is not the word. A panic attack in full swing, shaking, nervous, bordering on passing out is how I get in the dentist chair. As I said though, all the staff at our dentist office know me pretty well now and try to make the experience as pleasant as possible. If it can, indeed, be pleasant. Just the sound of the drill makes my heart skip a beat, and not in a lovey-dovey kind of way. I swear I’ve seen the face of God looking down on me in that chair, with my mouth wide open, drooling saliva all over the place. What does God think of me sitting there, holding onto my shorts like it’s the end of the world? But it isn’t, it’s just that your mind kind of gets lost in the scraping and pulling and pushing and spraying. My eyes are always closed because I don’t want to see what’s happening. Lord no, that would make it worse. Bright lights and sterile pointy things that could slice your throat? No, it’s best not to know what’s coming! So I try to think of other things while in the chair, to visualize a peaceful scene, like me on a beach walking hand in hand with my husband. You know, stuff like that. But it doesn’t always work. Sometimes the face of God appears out of nowhere, like an omen, and then I feel it: the pinch of a nerve at the root of the tooth the dentist is working on. My hands grip the arms of the chair and I white-knuckle it until that pain goes away. I can almost see God laughing at my dramatic response, no doubt telling all the angels what a wussy I am, and don’t I see what’s going on the world? Third world problems, He thinks to himself.

I’m getting a crown right now, and no, not the royal kind, the expensive kind. And while my dentist was drilling my fake tooth, standing beside me with drill and tooth in hand, I asked him quite sincerely, “Is there any way I could just take all my teeth out so you could work on them like that?” “Ohhh,” he laughed, “in a perfect world Martha!” Damn, I said to myself. So I’ll be selling my firstborn in order to pay for my crown, and I don’t even get to show it off unless I walk around pointing it out to everyone. I don’t think, in general, people would go for that. Mouths are meant to be kept closed, or at least partially closed, at all times. I guess my new crown will not be something I can flaunt.

I always thought I had a good set of teeth. I mean, they’re pretty straight. But lately I’ve found I have teeth like my mom, in that some of them kind of overlap others. It must be a genetic thing. I, too, am like my mother in the sense that she never went to the dentist unless it was an emergency. My father would go often. He was either brave or crazy, not sure which, but he would never get his mouth frozen. He would have work done without anesthetic! My father and I differ drastically on this point, even though those needles make my heart pound! I wonder if he enjoyed Marathon Man? He may have. So I suppose I’ve inherited my lack of desire to go to the dentist from my Mom. I never saw her go! Even though she made us all go to ‘cigarette dentist’. I guess it was like the threat of torture to us kids – you better behave or I’ll send you to the dentist! Sounds funny now when I think of it, but maybe there’s just a little bit of truth to that?

Anyway, I can’t complain too much, I’ve been going to the same dental clinic for many years. They know me, my husband and our children. They’re like family to us, and even though Dr. Faguy retired a few years ago, his replacement, Dr. Taouk, is just as wonderful. Both men make you feel as comfortable as possible while in their chair. And the staff who work there, Madeleine, Sue, Angie, Johanne and Shani, are all so good to us. If only we could just take our teeth out and leave them with the receptionist and go back a couple hours later and pick them up. Wow, that would be awesome. Unfortunately that won’t be happening anytime soon!

So I’m just grateful things have gotten better for us as far as dentists go. If I’m going to have massive panic attacks, I’m glad it’ll be with these people and not Dr. Cigarette! Or that dentist from Marathon Man. Phew!

Photo Credit

Photo from Pexels – free for commercial use

Don’t get me wrong, it hasn’t been easy on anyone; the teachers have also had their fair share of burdens during this pandemic. And the support staff in general has been amazing, receiving kudos for a job well done in the news and social media. However, in all the news reports and social media posts, there has never been a mention about the staff who have shown up for work from the very beginning of this pandemic, when things were scary and nobody knew anything about the infectious disease. These brave men and women stepped up so essential services in our communities could go to work. Parents dropped their children off with the emergency daycare staff, knowing without a doubt their children would be safe and well looked-after. It was the daycare staff that put on the masks, the PPE, the gloves and a great big smile to help those children get through the first wave of this horrific pandemic. Yet we didn’t hear about these brave souls in the news. We didn’t hear about their fears of catching or spreading the virus and bringing it home to their loved ones. We didn’t hear about the long hours and the anxiety that would overcome each staff member as someone else got sick or was sent home because of a positive test. And we should have, because it’s not just during pandemics that these incredible people give to the children in their care. It’s every day of every year, even in the direst of times, that they step up and handle crisis after crisis with calmness, care and humor.

I’ve been a daycare technician for almost eleven years now and have witnessed the dedication and spirit that is ingrained, it seems, in these staff members. In times of crisis, there’s a calm about them, an “If there’s something to be done, let’s do it!” kind of attitude. They jump right in to whatever catastrophe they’re facing. Snowstorms, ice storms, pandemics – its just another day in daycare. It seems those who run and work in daycares really are prepared for anything. We must give them credit for handling such crazy situations with such dedication and kindness. We daycare technicians should be so proud of our staff and what they do for our communities. Without these incredible educators, a lot of parents would be stuck. With extended families becoming a thing of the past, some parents have no choice but to send their children to daycare.

Here we are again, a new year and a new variant upon us, one that seems to be spreading as fast as wildfires. The children are back to learning from home. To help parents who are essential workers, our daycares, once again, are open and ready for business. And again, the staff is working hard to make sure the children that are coming are online and doing their schoolwork. They’re making sure they’re comfortable and happy. I want to thank my staff who have come into work during this second round of Covid-19. Who knows how many more we will have to battle, but it seems to get easier as we go on, and less scary, thanks to the vaccinations.

So, let’s not forget the forgotten ones. The ones who show up no matter what the crisis. The ones who care deeply about the children and are concerned for their health and safety. The ones who make daycare fun, are always happy and have only joy to spread. Let’s not forget the forgotten ones who never boast about what they do, and who really do so very much for our schools and our communities.

Cheers to our daycare staff across the board – for your hard work, dedication and sprit. We have not forgotten you!

Photo Credit

Photo by Martha Farley – all rights reserved

“What’s my starting note again?” he asked.

I hummed it for him and he nodded thoughtfully. After a brief pause, his rich, baritone voice filled the room. I added harmonies as he neared the end of the first verse, and before long, our version of “Country Roads” was in full swing. 

Singing was just one of the ways a co-worker and I used to amuse ourselves on slow nights at work. I left that job two years ago, putting an end to our workplace shenanigans, but I cherish the memories from the few years we worked together. I can’t help but smile as I think back to the first time we met.

I knew instantly he was different. I admired the fact he wasn’t afraid to show his emotions, and that he valued his interactions with strangers. He often told colorful stories about people who’d crossed his path over the years, and spoke fondly of the friendships that had grown through several of those exchanges.

It was his quirks that drew me to him. He had a unique way of looking at things, and was comfortable vocalizing his perspective. He chose to take the bus everywhere he went, something he’d been doing for the last ten years. Most of the time, he’d walk wherever he needed to go. “It’s safer this way,” he would say. “I like to have my feet on the ground.” He didn’t own a cell phone or a computer, and he never felt the need to apologize for it.

When I needed to rely on transit after my vehicle broke down, he was the one I turned to. I’d never ridden the bus before, and I listened intently as he explained everything carefully and answered all my questions. He was unfailingly supportive. “Don’t worry,” he would assure me, “you’ll get the hang of it. One day, you’ll be teaching someone how to take the bus.” At the time, I couldn’t envision such mastery. As it turned out, he was right.

During a conversation across the staff room table, we discovered we both wrote poetry. I printed a few of mine out and, days later, read them to him as he ate his lunch. He recited his flawlessly from memory, even though several of them were written years ago. It still baffles me.

He made a birthday card for me one year that was filled with brightly-colored artwork and had a white feather glued inside. Once in a while, we’d buy a lottery ticket together, just so we could dream. “This is the one,” we’d always say with playful conviction. We enjoyed coffee, and would take turns loading a Tim Horton’s card we both had easy access to in my locker. On the days we worked together, we always checked with one another to see if we needed a mid-day pick-me-up.

We used to phone each other now and then, just to say hi, if our work schedules differed and we hadn’t seen each other for several weeks. I would phone his land line, but he’d never pick up. Instead, he’d listen to my voicemail message and immediately call me back. Over time, I fell into the same routine; it became a thing we did. After every voicemail message he left, he’d say, “Okay, talk to me soon”, his own special version of ‘talk to you soon’.

On my last day of work, he insisted on helping me out to a car I’d borrowed from a friend. He gave me a long, tight hug. We talked a little. Then he said, “Here, I want to give you this.” He handed me something wrapped in paper towel from the dispenser in our staff room. That in itself made me smile. I thanked him and tucked it in one of my bags before I drove away. Later, I discovered it was a cassette tape. It didn’t surprise me it wasn’t a CD, nor that it was Enya. It made sense he would love the emotive music, and I was touched by his gift. But he’d also unknowingly brought to light one more thing we had in common: I’d been an Enya fan for years.

We agreed to call each other early on Christmas morning, four months later, so we could sing a Christmas Carol together. After we sang and laughed and wished each other a Merry Christmas, we vowed to make it an annual thing. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to pick up this last Christmas, but that didn’t deter him. He sang an entire Christmas Carol on my voicemail. I listened to his rich, baritone voice right to the end. 

I have so many wonderful memories of my friend, but there’s one thing I remember the most. It was something he said during one of our conversations on a particularly quiet night at work. As usual, we were talking about whatever random subjects came up, and I told him about a dream of mine: I wanted to learn french and travel to France before I died. I asked him if there was anything he wanted to do before he died. 

He looked me in the eye and without skipping a beat, said, “I want to fall in love again.”

Photo Credit

Photo by Carol Good – all rights reserved

Spectators trooped in their numbers to the high-roller pit of Atlantic City. And inside was a burly middle-aged man, dressed in a red cap and black Oregon State hoodie, whose name was Don Johnson.

At first, word began to spread about the crazy man in the pit who was wagering $100,000 a hand. Word spreads when the betting is that big. Johnson was on an amazing streak. The towers of chips stacked in front of him formed a colorful miniature skyline. His winning run had been picked up by the casino’s watchful overhead cameras and drawn the close scrutiny of the pit bosses. In just one hand, he remembers, he won $800,000. In a three-hand sequence, he took $1.2 million.

The basics of blackjack are simple. Almost everyone knows them. You play against the house. Two cards are placed face-up before the player, and two more cards, one down, one up, before the dealer. A card’s suit doesn’t matter, only its numerical value—each face card is worth 10, and an ace can be either a one or an 11. The goal is to get to 21, or as close to it as possible without going over. Scanning the cards on the table before him, the player can either stand or keep taking cards in an effort to approach 21. Since the house’s hand has one card face-down, the player can’t know exactly what the hand is, which is what makes this a game.

As Johnson remembers it, the $800,000 hand started with him betting $100,000 and being dealt two eights. If a player is dealt two of a kind, he can choose to “split” the hand, which means he can play each of the cards as a separate hand and ask for two more cards, in effect doubling his bet. That’s what Johnson did. His next two cards, surprisingly, were also both eights, so he split each again. Getting four cards of the same number in a row doesn’t happen often, but it does happen. Johnson says he was once dealt six consecutive aces at the Mohegan Sun casino in Connecticut. He was now playing four hands, each consisting of a single eight-card, with $400,000 in the balance.

He was neither nervous nor excited. Johnson plays a long game, so the ups and downs of individual hands, even big swings like this one, don’t matter that much to him. He is a veteran player. Little interferes with his concentration. He doesn’t get rattled. With him, it’s all about the math, and he knows it cold. Whenever the racily clad cocktail waitress wandered in with a fresh whiskey and Diet Coke, he took it from the tray.

The house’s hand showed an upturned five. Arrayed on the table before him were the four eights. He was allowed to double down—to double his bet—on any hand, so when he was dealt a three on the first of his hands, he doubled his bet on that one, to $200,000. When his second hand was dealt a two, he doubled down on that, too. When he was dealt a three and a two on the next two hands, he says, he doubled down on those, for a total wager of $800,000.

It was the dealer’s turn. He drew a 10, so the two cards he was showing totaled 15. Johnson called the game—in essence, betting that the dealer’s down card was a seven or higher, which would push his hand over 21. This was a good bet: since all face cards are worth 10, the deck holds more high cards than low. When the dealer turned over the house’s down card, it was a 10, busting him. Johnson won all four hands.

Johnson didn’t celebrate. He didn’t even pause. As another skyscraper of chips was pushed into his skyline, he signaled for the next hand. He was just getting started.

The headline in The Press of Atlantic City was enough to gladden the heart of anyone who has ever made a wager or rooted for the underdog:

“BLACKJACK PLAYER TAKES TROPICANA
FOR NEARLY $6 MILLION,
SINGLE-HANDEDLY RUINS CASINO’S MONTH”

But the story was even bigger than that. Johnson’s assault on the Tropicana was merely the latest in a series of blitzes he’d made on Atlantic City’s gambling establishments. In the four previous months, he’d taken $5 million from the Borgata casino and another $4 million from Caesars. Caesars had cut him off, he says, and then effectively banned him from its casinos worldwide.

Fifteen million dollars in winnings from three different casinos? Nobody gets that lucky. How did he do it? Most people quipped.

And just like them, I know by now you’re most likely thinking about how you can also wager and win big like Don. It’s a nice dream to have!

But you know what? You don’t even need to travel to Atlantic City or some of the biggest land-based casinos in the world to realize this dream. Thanks to the evolution of digital technology, you can now do it right from the comfort of your home on the omiqq website. And if you’re lucky enough to have the right set of strategies like Don Johnson, you just might be the next biggest success story of the poker world.

Photo Credit

Image by Free-Photos from Pixabay

Guest Author Bio
Uday Tank

Uday Tank has been working with writing-challenged clients for several years. His educational background in family science and journalism has given him a broad base from which to approach many topics. He especially enjoys writing content after researching and analyzing different resources whether they are books, articles or online stuff.

In the early days, bingo promoted unification within communities. Later, its benefits continued to be seen during the gloomy days of World War II, where it became a much-needed distraction for those on the home front. By the 1960s, due to the gambling act reform, bingo was in full swing in the UK, rapidly becoming one of the most favored ways to socialize. And because bingo had become more or less a pastime, it was considered to be more a type of lottery than a form of gambling.

Although traditional bingo halls are still alive and well, online bingo sites are increasing in popularity, offering a modern forum in which to play the game. Online players not only enjoy the same entertainment value and social benefits as traditional bingo, but can also stay connected on social media platforms. Another bonus? Online bingo is just a click away.

If you’ve been looking for an exciting, affordable pastime in which to make new friends and are curious about playing  bingo online, here are a few things to consider:

Affordability

Bingo is an affordable, low-cost option for those wanting the gambling thrill without the high stakes of blackjack or poker. With little to lose (yet still quite a bit to win!), the relatively low cost of a game of bingo appeals to a wide variety of people and attracts players of different ages and gender.

Options

While physical venues are still enjoyed by many, one of the draws of online bingo is choice. There are so many options to choose from, and most offer the added interest of chat rooms, forums and blogs. These are fantastic opportunities for players to interact, share some helpful tips and take advantage of special promotions and offers.

Health Benefits

Aside from fun and entertainment, bingo actually provides physical and psychological benefits as well. It helps to reinforce concentration and can stimulate short-term memory. And because of the fun-filled atmosphere, it provides an opportunity to laugh! Laughter relieves stress, and can even boost the immune system. It turns out, bingo is a wonderful addition to a healthy lifestyle, adding a sense of community and social belonging. Bingo brings people together!

While the game of bingo itself has seen its share of changes over the years, it’s maintained the core aspects players have grown to love: it’s fun, it’s social and it’s a game for all ages. Not to mention, there’s the lure of the win! The ‘human’ factor, though, is what adds real value to the game, and is perhaps one of the biggest reasons it has maintained its popularity over the years. With player interaction and guaranteed excitement, bingo is a fun and easy addition to a healthy lifestyle!

Photo Credit

Photo from Flickr – some rights reserved

Guest Author Bio
Patrycja Lewczuk

Patrycja has been involved with online bingo and casino for 3 years and is well-versed in the ins and outs of online gaming. She provides players with sound advice, allowing for a safe and enjoyable online gaming experience.

However, that doesn’t stop us from complaining. My wife’s aunt complained that she woke up every day wondering what else would be wrong with her. My navy vet dad would say that people don’t know when they’ve got it good.

Time and tide wait for no one; and, we’ve lost some wonderful family and friends, over the years. I remember Uncle Earl saying to me at a family funeral to look around… that many wouldn’t be here in another five years. Unfortunately, that included him.

The toughest situation is when your family and friends struggle with incurable diseases, like Uncle Earl, who died enduring Multiple sclerosis (MS). Yet, Earl was a witty guy. After visiting him, you were the one feeling uplifted – not the other way around! His sickness didn’t define him.

But what if you lost everything – health, wealth, family and friends?

We only have to remember the Nazi camps during World War II. The uprooting of Jews leading to the death of millions – with thousands of others emotionally and psychologically scarred. After surviving years with the daily threat of brutality and death, most had no home, or family, or communities to return to.

Survivor and psychiatrist, Victor Frankl, who lost all but one of his family to the gas chambers, outlined his existentialist viewpoint in his book A Man’s Search for Meaning, “…to live is to suffer, to survive is to find meaning in suffering… each man must find out for himself.”

“He who has a why to live can bear with almost any how”. – Nietzsche

According to Dr. Frankl’s firsthand account, what alone remains is the last of human freedoms… the ability to choose one’s own attitude in a given set of circumstances. That’s a hopeful message to consider when re-focusing our resolutions for the new year. We have more control over our circumstances than we think.

Before we speak, may we be less critical by considering three questions from Canadian author, Louise Penny: Is it true? Is it kind? Does it need to be said? Because, we know what indiscriminate judgement can do to our world.

The older I become, the more I realize I never did understand much about life’s really important things. I was always the one being forgiven, never the one offering forgiveness. Now, I see that I’m just the middleman between the blind and the divine.

“Ain’t it good to know that… I’ll be there.”
~ You Got a Friend by Carole King

I grew up in a medium size city with a small-town feel. However, I spent most of my pre-school years, and much of my school holidays, soaking up the culture in a small fishing village (with no population sign) where my mom’s vast network of relatives seemed endless. I loved it! And, being by the water, I learned to fish, swim, hunt and handle boats. But, most importantly, I learned about a person’s responsibility from the family’s raconteurs. Of course, over time, death got in the way – taking from me those wonderful, irreplaceable, caring people – who so endeared themselves to me with their stories about life.

Like my friend, Gary, from Bright: not a finer person anywhere –whose sudden passing shocked everyone. He was committed to serving others – with kindness and integrity. He certainly was too good to lose.

When, at the funeral home, I reached out to say goodbye, I noticed the watch he was wearing was right on time. I don’t know what that means in a timeless world, but he was more interested in who you were… in the here and now.

So, I’ve found it doesn’t matter where you start out; or, where you end up – it’s what you do when you get there that counts. And, you’re most effective when you act with empathy and loving understanding.

“Rainy day lovers don’t lie when they tell you
They’ve been down like you
Rainy day people don’t mind if you’re cryin’ a tear or two”
~Rainy Day People by Gordon Lightfoot

Plus, there are many folks who volunteer in every community. They selflessly give of their time to help others in need. I remember conducting an interview for Rogers TV Kitchener about the Meals on Wheels program. It was explained that when you see how courageous their clients are – with various disabilities – it makes your problems seem small by comparison.

Then, there are little acts of kindness happening everyday day. Working with my wife, I remember how exhausted we were after a major move –neither of us stopping to get much to eat as we oversaw the movers set things up and moved them here and there for us. At the end of the day, the two of us were about to collapse when friends showed up with gourmet sandwiches and a bottle of wine to toast the new place.

“Take it or leave it or try to believe it,
If you’ve been down too long,
Rainy day lovers don’t hide love inside, they just pass it on”

So, how do you measure great people? – by their deeds.

I’m also reminded that you’re never sorry tomorrow for doing what’s right today. Martin Luther King Jr. may have said it best:

“Everybody can be great because everybody can serve.”

Image Credits

Photo is pixabay creative commons

First published at fredparry.ca

Guest Author Bio
Fred Parry
Fred Parry lives in Southern Ontario. He is a lover of people and a collector of stories, music, wisdom, and grandchildren. His newspaper column, Music in Me, can be found in ‘The New Hamburg Independent’ Metroland Media. His book, ‘The Music In Me’ (2013) Friesen Press is Available from Amazon and Indigo / Chapters.

Blog / Website: www.fredparry.ca

My mother use to say my uncle Lyle, “… had a temper if he wanted to use it.” Her deference for acting out in anger might have come from her dad who enjoyed a good donnybrook. I’m sure he seldom utilized human relations skills. No, to grandpa, it was his way or the highway – period! People learned not to provoke him or “poke the eye of the tiger.”

Now, decades later, I’m face-to-face with a tiger’s rage.

At first, I didn’t know what was causing the commotion. Along with adults, and a disembarked school bus of secondary students, we were standing on the sidewalk waiting for the theatre doors to open. Unhappy with this, a man armed with a walker, was ramming his way through the crowd – people scrambling to get out of his way.

Some stuff fell off his walker when he ran over a friend’s foot.

Instinctively, I bent to help pick up his things when – with a serene expression – he asks me for some spare change. I was incredulous. Considering his rude behavior, I said, “You picked the wrong time.”

“It’s the eye of the tiger / it’s the thrill of the fight / risin’ up to the challenge of our rival”
~ The Eye of the Tiger by Survivor

His outrage was explosive! Publicly chastised, his eyes glared with resentment. And, there I stood – guilty of poking the eye of the tiger with a (judgement) stick.

So now, standing up straight, to the full extent of his six-foot frame, he rained down on me a tirade of expletives… hissing out the words, “Then, when is the right time?” I stood transfixed: my mind playing a ‘Lightfoot’ soundtrack… about waves turning minutes to hours.

Locked within each other’s gaze, I searched his eyes to discern what he was truly feeling. What I saw haunts me still: a belittled man fighting for survival… with precious little to call his own, except his dignity, which I’d just demeaned.

“He’s not selling any alibis / As you stare into the vacuum of his eyes”
~ Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan

Still, my pride wouldn’t let it go. What was the right time? It was what he, me and everyone knew:

“Not today?”

Years ago, I interviewed Order of Canada recipient Anna Kaljas. For years, hundreds of homeless people have stayed in her Kitchener homes – that include homemade meals. She asked, “Why do people put them down? – they’ve been put down all their lives.” Saying, they’ve places for stray cats and dogs; yet, no room for those unlucky enough to find themselves out on the street… looking for shelters and food banks.

And, even though we may not have homes to offer; may we still have room in our hearts for caring.

Image Credits

Photo is pixabay creative commons

First published at fredparry.ca

Guest Author Bio
Fred Parry
Fred Parry lives in Southern Ontario. He is a lover of people and a collector of stories, music, wisdom, and grandchildren. His newspaper column, Music in Me, can be found in ‘The New Hamburg Independent’ Metroland Media. His book, ‘The Music In Me’ (2013) Friesen Press is Available from Amazon and Indigo / Chapters.

Blog / Website: www.fredparry.ca

Lebby was my bohemian. Her large, gold-hoop earrings dangled loosely around her thin neck. Her printed dress oozed many colors, each one bleeding into the other, her cigarette held in her long fingers, nails painted. Just like in the fashion magazines, Lebby exuded exotic; the epitome of sophistication; an Andy Warhol wanna-be. She was a sixties beauty with her dark hair cut short, much like Twiggy’s, and big sunglasses on, the ones that covered most of her face. She took long hauls of her cigarette when she would look out into the street from her chair in the living room.

She was my bohemian; a rhapsody in color. She was older than I was by eleven years and I yearned to be like her. I wanted to spend time with her, this mysterious young woman named Lebby who lived in our house. She had arrived years before as an infant, my mother’s sister’s child. And she had stayed, here in Montreal. As time went by, though, she decided to leave us for good and move back to Toronto with her mother. When she would come back to Montreal to visit I would show her my wardrobe, new clothes handed down to me from various friends of my mother’s. I would stand on the bed singing “Second Hand Rose”, modeling my latest outfits, and she would laugh and clap and tell me I looked fabulous.

She would talk to me about her adventures in Rio de Janeiro. She lived there for a year with her husband at the time. Their relationship didn’t last long and before I knew it she was living in Scotland and sending me fabulous makeup from London, England, the top fashion haven of the world. Not to mention it was the home of the Beatles.

“I’m never getting married,” I would tell her on our visits. This, after listening to her and her girlfriend ruminate over their love lives. “Oh, and I am never, ever having kids,” I would add. She would laugh and light another smoke. “Sure you will,” she would tell me. “Don’t listen to us,” pointing to her girlfriend, “we are very bad examples.” But I didn’t think so at all. I thought Lebby was the bee’s knees, the bomb, the crème de la crème. She just had this very provincial air about her. She was also very sweet and never made fun of me or thought I was too young or too naive. She made me feel grown up and smart.

When I would visit her when she lived in Ottawa she would take me to parties – parties in restaurants. I felt like a celebrity, because for me it was only celebrities that partied in restaurants. The people at these parties were different, too, with foreign-sounding names and they all talked with accents – German and British. My bohemian, that was Lebby. She could sit with the well-to-do Ivy League crowd or the hip and wild crowd.

She introduced me to the symphony, I might have been twelve at the time. I was sure I was going to be bored but I wasn’t. I had never been to a concert before. The music was overwhelming to me. It was just so powerful and loud and it jumped out at me. These small lessons in life with Lebby were delivered with love as gifts. They were tokens of joy for me that continued into adulthood.

As we grew older, our lives moved in directions neither one of us could have probably imagined. Yet the connection we had, deepened as we aged. As it turned out, we both became as traditional and ‘white bread’ as the next person. We both married and had children. But although our lives were mired in tradition and mediocrity, there was still that bohemian living within us that would emerge and transform us both.

Living with an alcoholic for several years certainly sent me down a path I would never have imagined going down. A path where light was muted and the shades were drawn. Without Lebby’s support, that path would have been more treacherous than I could have handled. Yet we muddled through the mire and dirt and ghostly skeletons in our closets. And we were transformed, emerging from that path, our spirits whole.

“What should we do for our ritual, Maaaa?” Lebby would ask over the phone. She and I had taken this journey together. It was a journey of discovery. Our rituals helped us see things more clearly and grounded us as we tried to find meaning in our lives. Having given up on her corporate job, Lebby now embarked on her passion – she started to paint. Using different techniques and mediums, the color was no longer printed on her gorgeous dresses but appeared now on canvases.

The two of us were sitting in her living room one night, the heat spilling into the room even with the air conditioning on. It was hot. The humidity and heat just seemed to bring out a ritual for us that night. I grabbed a huge stainless steel bowl, cold and lovely to the touch, and on that hot night I started to sing. I didn’t sing anything in particular, words just came out in that kind of sing-song sort of way. The bowl seemed to sing too, beneath my touch. Slowly, the sound from the bowl and my singing grew louder and louder. Lebby joined in, grabbing a pot as well. Before we knew it the two of us were caught up in a sort of ritualistic drumming session with stainless steel. It didn’t matter what we were singing, what mattered was the pounding of the bowls, the irresistible desire to smack the hell out of them as loudly and as powerfully as we could. We became the music. Like the symphony of years gone by, we were the music. The jazz of life.

Lebby is still my bohemian, and the music of life continues to play on. Her hair has changed to grey but I would prefer to say it’s silver. She stands at her easel and studies her work; immerses herself in it. Her studio is filled with light as the sun shines through the glass windows. A paintbrush is now in her long fingers rather than a cigarette. The smell of garlic is in the air, as there is always something cooking in the kitchen. Music is playing quietly on the CD player in the background, the sound of Neil Diamond, or is it Paul Simon? Art books are piled in every corner of her studio. Gold hoops have been replaced with delicate studs. Each day I am thankful that I have this lovely woman in my life, a woman who watched me grow up and who connected me to things that I would not have otherwise known about. 

Lebby looks at her canvas and splashes orange across it. “Isn’t that just the most scrumptious color Maaaaa?” she says out loud. “It sure is,” I reply.

Photo Credit

Photo courtesy of Martha Farley – all rights reserved