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Last November, I launched a short story entitled The Nude. With that story, I bundled an erotic poem which was only available to read for those that purchased a copy of that short. Now, that poem is available to read for free this Valentines day.

The first draft of this poem was first written almost 5 years ago, but after many changes, I released this version below late last fall. The title is inspired by some of my jazz favorites.  Cole Porter, Nat King Cole and Natalie Cole.

The story itself,  is inspired by … well, let’s just say deep passionate love by the fireplace on a wintry night, not unlike the setting of one of my favorite songs, Baby It’s Cold Outside by Louis Jordan and Ella Fitzgerald – without the gosh.

So picture being snowed in, a cottage in the middle of nowhere, candle lights and the crackle of a warm fireplace, and an old record on the phono; cuddled under the blankets on the floor in front of those bright flames, lost in each other’s gaze.

Enjoy, and Happy Valentines Day.

Read last years Valentines post here.

~

Of Kings and Coles

Music sings of Kings and Coles
Loves unseen; love foretold
Winters night light with snow
Streets silent; still, no where to go

Fingers linger under cover
Softly, smoothly, they gently discover
Bodies warm, curled perfect; tight
All is dark but winters light
And flickering embers of fireplace coals
Reflected in eyes of obsessions souls

With conviction I indulge in loves cuisine
Her naked flesh, desires caffeine
Reaching depths of her body, and in between
Natures intention for an arctic scene

Look into my eyes in fires light
Vow every end, sings your goodnight
Place your hand upon my heart
It’s rhythmic pulse, your beauties art
It beats for you, your tender touch
The smell of your hair, your smile and such
Take me places, in dreams not seen
So I may sleep, dreaming where I’ve been

Take my hand from your thigh
Draw me close, in passions high
Grasp me; hold me tight, I come into
In my arms; surrender, as I breathe you

Tonight our passions have been told
Now to have, now to hold
Warm with sweat from winter’s cold
Bodies formed to soul mates mould

I’ve dreamt awhile the girl in you
With beating hearts enchanted view
Would find alive the boy in me
Our flesh inline, our sprits free

Close your weary eyes my sweet
So I may admire your peaceful sleep
I’ll long for the moment your eyes return
To stare in me eternal, by the fireside burn

Until morning my love, kiss me tight
With soft, subtle lips gentle goodnight
Then quietly whisper in my naked ear
‘I love. I’ll love you – forever my dear’

The phono ends to not a sound
But the drum of beating hearts abound
And the crackling embers of music’s souls
Of Kings and Queens, of Kings and Coles

© Copyright 2005-2010 Lawrence Thomas

Recently, a friend of mine over at Tara Cronica, wrote a post about Honesty. Tracy (Westerholm) has always inspired me with her honest, tell it like it is writing style, but after reading this particular post, I was left with a feeling  that there was a little blog karma going on between our two sites.

Fear and honesty go hand in hand, especially as it relates to fearing the consequences of our honesty. Fearing the unknown. Fearing change. Fearing being honest about what your heart is telling you must be done, and what you may stand to lose as a result of that honesty.

I have always been someone who has worried too much about what others thought of me. Always trying to please everyone, but tending not to listen to who I was, or at least who my inner-self wanted to be.

It probably wasn’t until around my mid-twenties, when I started to find myself; when I truly began to stop worrying about what others thought. Yet even today, a couple of weeks shy of my 37th birthday (also my birth year reversed), I have to admit that I still have a long way to go to being that true self.

Everyday, that self comes closer to the surface, as courage and an inner-voice screaming to be set free, break the walls that are now some 25 years in the making, and 12 years in the breaking.

I worried, as I always have, when I hit the publish button to publish my post Finding My Religion (The ‘G’ Word), that I might offend or upset some people dear to me who have strong belief systems; whether it be God or otherwise.

Two friends from BC, were amongst those I worried I might offend. There were more, but I had just finished having religion related conversations with one and the other w,ho follows my work religiously, inspires me to continue my writing journey with their genuine and heartfelt words of encouragement. This persons daily messages inspire me, and I know from their profile, that they have a very strong faith system.

I worried that I might put those friendships that had been cyberspacially (no, it’s not a word) developed over the past six or so months, at risk.

Then I reminded myself, that 2010 was to be a year where I wrote about everything that was on my mind. To get it all out on my path to finding my creative and inner-self, so I posted the story and waited.

And I waited.

And then, that message came and once again, I was inspired. Inspired more than I had ever been. Touched. Teary-eyed. Thankful, grateful, and assured that my honesty and open-heart, were being warmly received.

I know a true friend would not judge a person from one post, but one of those same BC friends had also recently said when referring about his own job, how one word can make all the difference. How one word, could significantly change a message. So, I spoke from my heart, yet I tried to choose my words wisely. But in the end, I let the voice inside of me take the podium.

~

I would say my fears go back as far as at least Middle School?

Fear in hockey stopping me from being the better player that I knew I could be. Fear of being school president. Putting together a strong social and visual campaign and having many people say to me that they knew I was going to win, yet being disqualified for forgetting to hand in a signed permission form from my parents. Not that I have ever had a good memory, but I wonder now if I forgot accidentally on purpose; subconsciously or otherwise. Did I sabotage my own presidential campaign?

Now I wasn’t vying to run the country or anything, so what was I afraid of?

Success.

Julia Cameron talks about this in her book, The Complete Artist Way. One of the assignments for the first 12 week course, is to keep a daily journal or Morning Pages as she calls them.

The purpose of the Morning Pages, is to help us realize where our fears and disbelief’s surrounding finding success in our creative aspirations, comes from. They are about becoming unblocked, and basically learning to believe in ourselves. We are encouraged to write about anything and everything that comes to mind, however trivial or silly those thoughts may be. Every thought is relevant to breaking the negative thought patterns that are stopping us from realizing our dreams.

I could almost trace my fears (and fear of change), back to grade 1, when I wrapped myself around the fence in our front yard, crying because I didn’t want to go to school that day. As it turned out, it was the last day of school and I didn’t want to pass to the next grade because I loved my teacher so much. My mother reassured me that I would still see my teacher in the halls everyday and that she also lived across the street from my best friend, so I released my grip, stopped crying, went to school, and gave my teacher a great big hug to show her how much she meant to me. You could also say she was the first teacher of so many throughout my studies, that have inspired me.

Out of high school, I was accepted to two out-of-town colleges. Mohawk College in Brantford Ontario for Advertising, and Conestoga College in Kitchener Ontario for Graphic Design. I declined both acceptance letters, probably out of fear of moving from the only city I had, and still do, called home, or even fear of possible failure or that I simply wasn’t good enough.

Instead, I joined the working world and it wasn’t until my mid-twenties, that I risked failure and pushed aside fear, to give me dreams of becoming an animator a shof

I enrolled in a year long arts program at Sheridan College in Oakville Ontario to prepare me for my Classical Animation studies. I worked very hard and did very well in all my classes that year, and was accepted into the Animation program. My dreams were coming true.

Only three months into the program, I quit the best animation program in the world out of fear that most jobs were in California, and because I didn’t think I could move that far away. I later visited a friend who was living that dream at Dreamworks in Glendale California. I spent 9 days with him, and when he was working, I explored within an hour radius of Hollywood where he lived. I left California with a sense that I could have done it, and dreaming of what a grand adventure it would have been.

Dreams of returning to California haunted me for a long time. Every once in awhile, I still have vision of that magical land.

Dreams of what could have been.

Fear.

Dreams.

Fear.

My Mentor's Dream

Even today, that fear still exists, but as I break down those barriers, as I chase away fear, I am slowly realizing my dreams and becoming a much more happier me. I am answering the call from deep within that has been longing for so much more, and I am being rewarded for my bravery with messages of encouragement from those that believe in me; even on days where I find it hard to believe in myself. And believe me, they are still all too common for my liking.

When I think of what fear has taken from me, or better  yet, how I have let fear take things from me, I wonder what roads my life life might have traveled had I not given in to fear, or had I more confidence in myself?

Don’t get me wrong. I have no regrets. I truly believe that everything in life happens for a reason. To have regrets would be to erase the biggest part of me. My two beautiful girls. I have just decided that my life lessons can no longer come from fear. They must come from trying.

~

Going back to honesty, after reading my friends post, I realized it was time for me to be honest with myself; to stop fearing  honesty.

I started by asking our waitress the other night, if the mushrooms on our mushroom bruschetta were supposed to be cold. I wasn’t trying to be a smart alec or anything, but I needed to be honest. As it turns out, yes, they were supposed to be cold. Had I not asked the question, I might have always wondered if I had just been served a cold appetizer that was supposed to be warm.

To be really honest, I liked it better the next day – toasted in the oven.

That question didn’t change the world, but it felt good to be honest about how I felt.

Baby steps.

~

Creative Affirmations

Oh, and remember how I mentioned that Julia Cameron talked about replacing the word God with whatever worked with your belief system? Well, I took that statement quite literally.

I have crossed out the G word as I work my way through the early pages of this book, and I have replaced them, and various other quotes, phrases, and statements, with words that better relate to how I feel -  what works to inspire me.

I truly felt it was important that I do this, because many of these pages we are asked to go and read over and over again, to inspire us and help us become unblocked artists.

Well, the other day at work, a co-worker (whom I have great respect for her as a person, mother, and a co-worker), who is a very devoted Catholic, with pictures of God and Mary in her cubicle and rosary beads around her rear view mirror, asked about my The Complete Artists Way book sitting on my desk. I guess it does look a bit like a bible, and so she suddenly began to flip through it out of curiosity.

I froze in horror.

She looked betrayed as she noticed words so dear to her, crossed out like you would an old flame on a the cover of a school notebook, so I immediately started to tell her why I had done such a thing. I was honest.

I am not sure it soothed her mind, but for the first time, I was really beginning to be me. I meant no disrespect to her, to Julia, or to any one else of any particular faith. I hadn’t expected anyone would open it to see my customizations.

I did it simply because that is what worked for me, and as soon as I started to deface this beautiful and inspiring book, I knew I had to make sure I was ready to back up my reasons for doing such a thing.

Honestly, it felt really good to be me.

Province of the World (in Saskatchewan)

I have been very bothered this past week, over the images and stories related to the disaster that is Port-au-Prince, Haiti. It breaks my heart. It’s a mess. I feel so helpless. Watching people on the news, step over dead bodies on the street like you might a squirrel or racoon. The fatalities; the human devastation, is unfathomable.

There are so many agencies supporting this cause,  and benefits being organized. ‘Give money. Attend this concert, and the proceeds will go to the Haiti relief effort’. I know every little bit helps, but I have this feeling deep within that I need to do more.

I don’t have a lot of money that I can give, and even if I did have money to spare, I still wouldn’t feel that it was enough.

I think to myself, ‘what if this was to ever happen where I live?’ I would be naïve to think that it won’t, and if it did, would I feel right accepting assistance if I did nothing at all to help those rendered helpless in desperate times like this?

So how can I help? Really help?

All I have are my thoughts. My infidel prayers.

All I have are words, so I throw this out there as ‘A’ solution. This coming from someone who really has no concept of money as it relates to something of this significance, but it is an idea none the less.

These words have been consuming my thoughts. ‘How can we truly help these people who are still feeling the aftershocks, and could continue to feel them for many years to come?

This article on Caribbean360.com, discusses more about what not only the Port-au-Prince region’s, but the Caribbean’s in general, need to take heed of, and what may (likely), be in store for them in the months and years to come.

As I read this story this morning, I realized that my idea, although perhaps far fetched, is the kind of mindset we need to lean more towards, rather than focusing merely on an internal relief effort.

So what is my solution? Get them all out of there. Now! Every single person, and then once everyone is safe, take time to put a more thought-out rebuilding program in place. Start by cleaning the mess up, and then slowly start to rebuild what is needed, to gradually bring residents back home and to be able to do so, with the peace of mind that they are coming back to a much safer and more sound, Port-au-Prince. A place built with the mindset that these sorts of natural disasters are going to occur again.

So where do we put all these people? Canada.

How much open, empty space is there in this country? Sure, I know it’s cold and we would need a big area to provide shelter for this many people, but could it be done?

How much money that is being donated to the cause, goes to transportation and many other costs, that could perhaps be averted should the relief be organized in a safer, more accessible place?

How safe it is down there; both with the threat of aftershocks, and disease itself. Get them out. Find open lands in the prairies, and build these people shelters. If a church can be built in a weekend, could we not build shelter enough to house millions of people in a few weeks time? I would feel much safer going to a place like Saskatchewan to help build shelters for these desperate people, than going down to Haiti to risk my life to help them rebuild something that could be demolished by another quake tomorrow.

I would not think twice, about using up a few weeks of my holiday time, and flying to somewhere like a Saskatchewan to help build shelters. I even half enough Airmiles to do it now.

Each of us could make a genuine difference in the lives of millions of people, and not only give them food and shelter, but the peace of mind that they and their families are safe.

If locals to the area chosen to be a temporary refuge for Haitians, started by building a camp for the volunteers, then the volunteers started shipping in to help build shelters, then we can slowly start to transport the people of Haiti to safety.

This way, we are closer to food outlets and building supply stores, and everyone, including relief workers and volunteers, would be out of harms way.

Perhaps we call this area ‘Province of the World (in Saskatchewan)’. A place where ‘The World’ joins hands and as a collective. ‘We’ pay for shelter, and when it is finally safe for the people of Haiti to return home, we now have a place in Canada (the world), that is set up to provide shelter during world disaster crisis’.

This way, we as a word community, could also rebuild Haiti into a prosperous, thriving community. A TRUEly rebuilt Haiti. Both structurally, and socially.

Politically, financially, and logistically, I wouldn’t begin to know how we would go about this. There are so many details that I have not thought of, such as ‘do we create borders within the chosen province’, and that sort of thing.

But what if?

Saskatchewan, Yukon, Northwest Territories, or wherever. How much open space is there in this country, doing nothing?

How would you feel about your little community suddenly becoming the capital of a World Province of millions? A place where every single job in your town, is playing a part in changing the lives of people from around the world. Imagine waking up in the morning, whether you are a doctor or a grocery store clerk, knowing that you are making a difference.

What if?

I know I want to live in this World Province already.

~

This is why we must do more. This Yahoo Photo Slide Show

* Not an actual painting of Buddy.

Teddy was the first cat that truly caught my heart. I have always been an animal person, but before I met Teddy, I really had no desire to own a cat.

Even when I was first asked if I wanted a new housemate all those years ago, I was sceptical. My cousin however, in his plea for me to consider the orphaned tabby, knew how to pull at my heart strings. So, with a little hesitation, I agreed to at least go and meet the little guy.

What was I thinking? Me. A cat owner?

Teddy was an older cat. In fact, nobody really knew how old he was because his owner, who had just passed away after a long battle with cancer, was actually his second family. His first companion had sadly died on him as well.

Teddy had lived by himself while his owner spent her last months in a hospital. Someone would go over each night to feed him and let him out for some fresh air, but for the most part he had been the only occupant of the old Mountain Avenue home for many months.

I arrived at his home early one sunny summer’s evening.  My cousin brought Teddy out onto the front lawn, and almost immediately, he came to check me out. It was almost as if he knew that I was there to see him. He was a skinny little orange tabby, with the biggest green eyes I had ever seen. His make-up reminded me of that of a Tiger, yet his poor little meow sounded like he had something caught in his throat.

The connection between Teddy, Theodore Watson as he was formally known, and myself was immediate. There was something about that gentle natured feline that told me that our friendship was meant to be. Teddy moved in the next day.

Teddy ready for a walk.

Teddy came with all the accessories, including a six months supply of food and litter, and even his own portrait in a thick wooden frame fit for a prince. It was not actually a painting of him; that anyone knew for certain anyway, but it did exhibit an uncanny resemblance to the spoiled little creature.

Before long, Teddy and I were good friends.

He enjoyed his outdoor time and would spend hours on end exploring within a few house radius of our 2nd floor, four-plex home.

Although sharing my new space hadn’t been what I had envisioned when I moved in, Teddy made that apartment a home. That little orange fur ball curled up in the middle of my bed, was just the finishing touches my new pad had needed.

Tara relaxing at the Cottage

It was just Teddy and I for the first year, until I adopted an eight year old Black Lab, Tara, the following Christmas.

Tara settled in quickly, and neither animals seemed to mind sharing their space. Even though the dog and cat never really played or seemingly paid much attention to one another during the brief time they were in each other’s lives, it was obvious that they did appreciate the others company.

When Tara and I started to explore the neighbourhood in search of new friends, a certain curious cat began to wonder where it was Tara and I would go.

I had never seen anything like it, but to my, and every single person we passed by on our walks, surprise, Teddy started to follow us. We wouldn’t go far when Teddy was in toe, but from that point on, unless we were going for long walks, our cat would join us.

He’d check out a garden or a porch, disappear for a short period, only to jump out to greet us again further up the street. The little sag in his thin tummy swaying back and forth as he trotted ahead of us.

Teddy would visit neighbours; walking right in their front door and welcome himself in for a visit.

Teddy and Tara out for a walk.

The neighbours loved him, talked about him amongst one another, and one of the neighbourhood teens even started calling me Dr. Doolittle, as he watched the cat following close behind.

Right up until Tara passed away last fall, I looked back at Teddy with amazement, and a smile, at how lucky I was to have such a special and sweet cat.

Teddy was my oldest girl, Emma’s, best friend. She carried that poor little guy around like a ragdoll, but he never seemed to mind. He very rarely hissed unless he was truly in pain from the kid-handling. He would just look for his chance, and gently sneak away, but he would always come back for more.

It wasn’t long after Tara passed, that Teddy joined his walking companion. Teddy had only been in my life for just over 5 years, but he touched my soul deeply in that short amount of time.

Teddy had been gone for over six months, but I still missed my little buddy very much. Even my daughter occasionally asked about her furry compadre. I am glad my girl was able to create a special bond, with Teddy, and that she shares my affection for animals.

I didn’t think there would ever be a cat like Teddy. That I would love another feline as deeply as him. That is until I met Buddy.

Buddy is proof, that souls really do find us.

Buddy on my lap.

Buddy and I actually met when Teddy was still with us. He was one of the few strays who would come up to you and let you pet him if you bent down and called him over. Most cats just raced the other way.

In early spring of last year, Buddy started coming around a little more often. We had never put food out for him before that point, but after seeing how attached my oldest seemed to be getting to the old guy, or perhaps more so, how attached I had become, I started buying some food to offer him when he came by for visits. My girls would pet him on the front porch, and he would sit there and soak it all in as he gobbled down every last crumb of kibble. Emma would offer him individual morsels of food, and probably would have patiently spoon fed him, given the chance.

Buddy was a ratty mess when first he crossed our path. I figured he was quite old with the way his fur was. He also had a noticeable limp, favouring his one back leg, his nose was running, he had a few war wounds from a scrap or two no doubt, and he definitely had fleas.

He was a grey tabby with a thinned coat, skinny, yet so sweat. I always made the kids wash their hands after petting him, as did I, but they loved feeding him and loving him. Buddy was getting used to it too, and his visits became much more regular.

I couldn’t believe how gentle Buddy was with Emma – with both girls really. You could see how much Emma missed having a cat to carry around, and the little guy certainly took all attention he could get. Buddy would hang around for as long as someone would show him a little love.

The name Buddy was actually how I often referred to Teddy when he was alive, so when the old stray came into our lives, ‘Buddy’ just seemed to fit. My daughter and my wife all started to refer to him as Buddy as well, so that is the name that stuck.

There were still days, here and there, when we wouldn’t see him, but we have many cat loving neighbours who leave food out for the strays so I never worried. Buddy had a few homes that he frequented, and it seemed every two or three days he would make an appearance.  We’d hang out and have a little snack and some bonding time, before he would head back out to nose around.

~

It was later that summer, and I hadn’t seen Buddy in a few of days, when he suddenly came to me with a bleeding, swollen front paw, limping, and very vocal. I was very worried about the little guy.

I was touched that he came to me, but at first, I really didn’t know what to do. I finally called my neighbour who was always watching out for the neighbourhood strays. She knew someone who took them in, arranged to have them spayed and neutered, and then released them back into the community from where they came.

I set up a bed and food for Buddy on our enclosed front porch area and kept him in there overnight until the agency could get an appointment for him.

With not knowing how old he was, and from his overall appearance, I feared the next day when my neighbour came to take Buddy to the vet, that that might be the last time I seen our feline hobo.

It broke my heart to think this could be the end of the road for the little guy.

I waited patiently for a couple of days, fearing the worst, but I tried to stay positive for Buddy’s safe return. When the phone rang, my heart sank when my wife passed the phone to me.

The news was good however. A torn dew-claw that they cleaned up, bandaged, and gave him some medication to take home. They also neutered and micro-chipped him, gave him some more medication for the runny nose, treated him for fleas, and released him, free of charge, back into our care.

On Buddy’s papers from the vet, was a little note. “Otis was a good little patient.” For some reason, they had named him Otis. I tried it on my oldest, but she was set on Buddy. So was I.

Buddy had to remain indoors for a couple of days while his wounds healed, so he could receive his meds. My girls were thrilled to have a kitty in their lives again.

My oldest put up quite a fuss, and always wanted to hang out with him on the enclosed porch. Feed him, give him treats, pet him and talk to him. Buddy purred like an old station wagon at all the attention, and after a couple of days, I popped open the screen door and let him come and go as he pleased.

Later that summer, I moved Buddy to our covered back porch, where I concocted a shelter and bed for him to protect him from the elements.

Every once in awhile, if we didn’t close the screen door properly behind us, Buddy would sneak in. Sometimes we would catch him in the act, but every so often he would meander around the house unnoticed. One time, my wife walked through the living room with a cat in her arms, I looked up, and she had Buddy. He had been sleeping on the girl’s bed.

Gracie wanting to play.

I thought Buddy was awesome. Affectionate, and adventurous. He followed me around everywhere. Into the garage and around the yard, but the moment I truly became attached to the gentle soul, was the day he started to follow our 1 year old pup, Gracie, and I around the block for our walks. I must have been smiling ear to ear. He was so much like my Teddy, yet with his own little quirkiness.

Dr. Doolittle was back with a new dog, and a new wandering kitty.

Buddy was officially our resident stray. Now he was the talk of the neighbourhood and people laughed in amazement, as they watched this new cat following close behind each night.

“Is that your cat,” people would ask. “That is awesome! Honey, come look at this. His cat follows them on walks.” And there Buddy would be. Sitting patiently off to one side, waiting as we stopped periodically to talk to neighbours and strangers alike. He didn’t care about the fame. He just wanted to be with me.

I worried about Buddy as we ventured a few blocks from home; especially crossing the streets, but he was good. He would sit and wait a few feet back, far enough from the dog, for me to call out ‘cross’, before he trotted across the street.

~

I wouldn’t say that Gracie and Buddy are friends, as she loves to chase him up our fence at every opportunity, but one time, Buddy had a sore on his neck, and he sat there and let Gracie lick the wounds, and his head, until Buddy looked like he had just come out of the tub. My wife even once caught the two sleeping in the dog’s bed in the front window together. Those moments are rare, but they do have them.

When the nights started to get really cold, I took Buddy for a check-up, and to get all his shots, so that we could at least offer him a warm roof at night.

I decided to let Buddy out of his cage in the van ride to the vet, to see how he would be. He didn’t mind car rides at all. He wondered around a bit and came up to see me every once in awhile for a pet. He was great at the vet, and never complained in his crate while we waited, even though there were curious, sniffing noses everywhere much bigger than he.

The doctor figured he was a little older than originally thought. 8 to 10 years old is what he figured, instead of the 6 to 8 that had previously been guessed. He had two broken front incisors that he suggested removing, and he seemed to have a heart murmur as well. Otherwise, besides his limp, he was a healthy, happy cat.

The temperature really dropped a couple of days later, so Buddy finallyspent his first night with us. He sat on my lap on the couch, with Gracie lying beside us, until bedtime when I made him a bed in the basement, and showed him his litter.

There was definitely some jealousy towards Buddy from Gracie, but I tried hard to make sure Gracie knew she was still my girl, and that there was enough love to go around for everyone.

~

Even though it’s mid-winter, Buddy still likes to go outside, and actually meows at the door to go out. Cold or not, he still likes to wander around, and visit the neighbours for a snack, although his outdoor time is short lived now, before we hear his haggard cry outside our back door.

He doesn’t seem to show any jealousy towards other cats either, and one day I actually seen the neighbours cat in our backyard. The two friends sharing a bowl of kibble on the back deck. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice them until I had already opened the back door. I had never seen a cat run so fast, and I don’t think that cat ever came for a visit again. Good ‘ol Gracie.

I never knew what to expect when we brought Buddy in. I had never rescued a stray before, but if there was a poser cat for strays, Buddy would surely be that cute little face on the flyer.

Who knows how long he had been roaming these streets without a home. Without a steady meal. Without someone to love. He deserves to be spoiled and loved as much as possible, for the rest of his days. He has done his time in the cold, lonely world outside.

Many would say they are just dogs or cats, but I say we are just humans. What makes any living creature just. We all need love, affection, friendship, and although an animal can, to some extent, fend for themselves for basic survival, Buddy is one of the many examples of a soul who was in search of something more.

Oliver. One of the strays we have found homes for.

There are many ‘Buddies’ out there. Wandering through our streets and back yards, and there is only so much room in our local shelters for the overabundance of stray cats.

The catch and release program is an amazing service. Our neighbourhood is a good example of how well it works. Our Buddy was a big part of our stray problem, and now I have noticed there are far fewer cats wandering our streets that do not have homes.

I never thought someone would do that much for a cat, for free, until Buddy came home as good as new that summer’s day. The compassion that exists in this world isn’t always apparent amongst all the negativity. I am forever grateful for what they did for Buddy. He has been a joint effort. Almost a community project. Many people coming together to give one cat, a second chance to live out all of his 9 lives.

For the way people have united to help this beautiful soul, to how he has touched our hearts, I cannot simply take him to a shelter or put a free ad in the paper to find him a home. Buddy deserves the best. Lot’s of love, time, and to preferably be able to continue to head out into the day to explore. He knows where his food is; where the love is.

Perhaps a dog-free home, or at least a dog that isn’t quite so ‘curious’. Buddy doesn’t seem to mind Gracie. She has her moments, but I am not sure his little heart can take the torment of a one year old dog at this point of his life. Perhaps an older canine who wouldn’t mind a little extra company.

So I make the call. Grey Tabby looking for a good home. Neutered, all his shots up to date, treated for fleas, clean, litter trained, and eager to find a place to call home for the remainder of his days. Still a full mitt-full of claws, a limp leg and a heart murmur, but above everything else, he has a lot of love to give. Give him a mouse filled with catnip, and you’ll even see there is plenty of kitten left in this old soul.

Buddy listening for Gracie.

He could touch your life for months, for a year or two, or he may still have a lot of life left in him.  One can never know, but I can guarantee you that however much time you are meant to spend together, he will touch your heart forever. I know he has touched mine.

It is going to be hard for me to say goodbye. Even just writing this has been difficult as he lay on my lap keeping me warm. I never realized how much I missed having a cat in my life, until Buddy came into ours. Until the first time he came over to me on our front porch, climbed on my lap, and started purring as I stroked his shaggy, knotted fur.

It’s been nice hearing the pitter patter, or in Buddy’s case, bang, bang, clatter, of little feet again. A purr, a meow, and little whiskers against my skin. Most of all, it has been great having a new little walking companion again.

So, instead of a 3-line free ad and a tiny black and white photo, I felt Buddy deserved a story. His story.

To be continued …

In the meantime, please join the Facebook Group at http://groups.to/ahomeforbuddy for more information.

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* Please note, the image in the mock Classified ad above is not a portrait of Buddy. It is a painting by a friend of mine that has always reminded me of Buddy.

Portrait used with permission from the artist. You can visit Billy-Jack’s website at http://www.billyjacksfineart.com, or join his Facebook group to stay informed when new paintings have been posted at http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=41662057020.

Little Tub Harbour at night.

“All of us are creative. We can all become more creative through engaging our inner-self in our process. Creativity is the natural order of life, nothing we need to invent. Put simply, creativity is our gift. Our use of it is our gift to ourselves. We are intended to be creative.” ~ Julia Cameron.

Well, that is sort of how the quote goes. But Julia told us to change it. Honest.

Before the holidays, as I mentioned in a previous post, I took a sneak peek into The Complete Artists Way. I figured I should at least get a sense of what I was up against in 2010. Little did I know, what awaited me three-quarters of the way down the first page of the intro.

The introduction. I had barely opened the front cover and settled into my seat on the GO Bus, and I was already questioning my 20-10 journey to self-discovery.

There it was. That word.

God.

I continued on another 40 pages anyway.

20-10 was a year of change. As Julia Cameron would later state, “Do not allow semantics to become one more block for you”, and that is how I tried to look at; and I was glad I did.

Further into the introduction, Julia asks the reader to replace the word God with whatever your belief system is. Not that I know what it is, but for now, I have replaced the word with inner-self or Creator.

I tried hard not to look further with scepticism. To get over my hang-up with the use of the word God. To be more positive. Open-minded.

“Just because people don’t believe (you don’t believe), doesn’t mean others should have to avoid words that are such a big part of them.” That is what I said to myself.

~

I did not grow up with religion in my life. In fact, I don’t even know my father’s stand on the subject. All I can recollect about his experiences with church, are the stories told about how when he and his four brothers were younger, my grandmother would drop them all off at church on Sundays, and no sooner had her car turned the corner, than they snuck off out the back door of the church to play.

I know my mother believes in God, and my sister attended church from time to time with family and friends growing up, but religion rarely, if at all, was a topic in our household.

Needless to say, I never attended church as a child, except for weddings and funerals. I do recall going to Sunday school at least once, but living across the street from a church for 15 years is about as close as I ever got to the inside of one, for most of my life.

That is until I met a certain someone.

~

Reason to Believe

Her family was Catholic, and although she didn’t go to church on a regular basis, one day her mother asked her to start going more often.

“I’ll go with you”, I stated. She looked at me like I was nuts. “Really?”

To be honest, those were the moments that we spent together, that I cherished most. Sunday mornings holding hands, coffee after mass with her family. I felt a little out of place as I had no idea what I was or wasn’t supposed to do, but her and her family made me feel comfortable in those surroundings, as I looked to them for guidance.

It was peaceful. I just listened and watched on. People dressed in their Sunday best. Families together. Perhaps the rare moments many of those families were able to be together in these busy times.

The priest was very pleasant and joked a bit. The Lakeshore church was beautiful, surrounded with trees and various shades of green.

Not long after I started attending church the odd Sunday with my friend and her family, I decided I wanted to learn more about her faith, so I inquired at a church local to me, about RCIA (Catholicism Classes).

~

Sunday Faith & Father Jim

Every Sunday for 6 months, I woke up early and walked up the street to one of the many churches in my old neighbourhood.  We started upstairs at the early Mass, and then headed downstairs for class afterward. I found it very spiritual. We shared our dreams and fears, and of course, studied from the bible and learned about the various traditions surrounding the holidays and what they meant to a person of Catholic faith.

Father Jim was the priests’ name. He had been dealt a few curve balls in life to say the least, and had many touching stories to tell about the places and people he had met through his life’s travels. I had not known many people outside my grandfather and my cousin, who could tell a story so well. Those stories in all honesty, are probably what kept me attending church for as long as I did.

Don’t get me wrong. I loved the people and the peace I found in my heart during the time I spent among the congregation, but I found myself mesmerized by father Jim’s stories most of all.

He could make you laugh, cry, and truly feel his experiences, but then he would come around to how that story related to that weeks sermon; his lesson, and he would lose me.

I kept going nonetheless; learning, and now I had started going through the motions of becoming a Catholic. Even though the best part of those Sundays wasn’t about God, there was something special about those moments, that made me want to belong.

~

Finding My Religion – On the Road

Just before it was time to take that final step, I decided to go away for a couple of days by myself to be alone with my thoughts and give some serious consideration to this rather monumental decision that I now faced.

I took a drive up #6 Highway, followed it to the end, to a place I had never been before. I had heard many great stories about this Bruce Peninsula town, but I had yet to see it for myself.

It was early April. Cold. The ground was still covered in snow; the lakes still frozen over, but with a collection of my favorite CD’s; David Usher, John Mayer, Teitur, etc., a bag full of harmonicas, and my digital camera, I hopped in my little 5-speed and went on a spiritual journey through country roads to the open, frozen waters, of Georgian Bay.

I arrived  in Tobermory late evening, checked in, and headed back to the outskirts of town, to a diner I had seen on the way in for some eats. With it being off season, the town was pretty quiet when I arrived, and not much, if anything, was open.

After a quiet meal amongst a few locals, I headed back to the hotel, grabbed my camera, and wandered out into the dark, baron roads that circled Little Tub Harbor, to ask the questions through my camera lens.

It was quiet. Serene. The perfect place to be as I searched my soul for the answers as to which road to turn down at this point in my life’s journey.

In the morning, I took my time eating my breakfast as I looked out the wall of glass, at the sun reflecting off the snow covered harbour outside.

I hit the road again after breakfast, stopping often along the way to take pictures. I was just hours from home, and I still didn’t know what I was supposed to do?

As I drove, as the music played, my mind wondered to different places. But then, suddenly, in the absence of specific thought and constant questions, my answer appeared out of my passenger door window.

It was a church. A little, almost doll-like church. Smaller than I had ever seen before. Like a tree house of faith.

I pulled over, stepped out of my car, and was humbled by the fact that this church was hardly taller than my 5’11” self.

I went inside. I sat down. Sat in silence for a little while. Looked around. Signed the registry, and stood at the front of the room, staring back at the tiny, empty wooden pews of this quaint little sanctuary.

As I left, I took a moment to add that image to the photo album of my journey. I had found my faith. I knew what I had to do.

I met with the lady who ran the RCIA classes the next morning, and told her what I had decided. It was the last time I stepped foot in that Herkimer St church.

~

I realized that day amongst those four little walls, that religion, faith, comes in may shapes and sizes. How could I choose one? So I chose none. I chose to believe in my heart. To simply believe and put my faith in me, because I am the only one who can make this life good. I am the only one who knows how to make me happy. So now I looked inward, rather than outward.

~

Steve Goodier

I have been receiving these inspiring messages in my email inbox, from a man by the name of Steve Goodier for many years now. Perhaps since the earliest days of his daily e-newsletter.

The messages seemed to fill that void that had been missing since those touching stories of Father Jim’s.

Oddly enough, I would learn a year or two later, that Steve Goodier was a minister. Not that it mattered either way, but I found it significant.

What I love about Steve’s writing, is that he doesn’t write about God, or even use the word from what I can re-collect of the hundreds of messages of his that I have read.

I believe that references to religion can change a story. One word. Not that I think people should hide their religion or avoid using words that truly mean something to them., and are a big part of who they are.

Do I believe in a Creator? Possibly. I know my mother and father created me, and my wife and I created our two sweet little girls. We planted the seeds.

I guess I part of me doesn’t think it really matters, if there is a God or if Jesus or any other character of religion, ever existed. If they did/do, I am  grateful for their gifts. Their sacrifices.

What I do know, is that there are some amazing people living in this world. People I know or have known, or even those I do not know around the world, creating change. Sacrificing their time and their lives, to help others in need. People of various faiths.

Treat the world and all creatures with respect. Help others, offer a hand, open a door, and don’t purposely hurt another being .Love thy neighbor, and your community will truly be a home.

Perhaps I will find God or a specific faith somewhere along my path, but for now, life is my religion, and my inner-self is my creator. My Creative Self.

~

Finding Faith in Red Hill Valley

The Valley before the storm

There was another spiritual journey that took place when I lived on Herkimer Street that summer. It was quite possibly there in the Valley, that my faith journey truly began. It was those experiences that made me second guess the decision that would follow early the following spring.

I spent much of those first summer moths in Red Hill Valley with the locals and Native Indians, as I joined their fight to save Red Hill from being paved over.

The battle was lost and a highway now divides our city, but praying, listening to the drums beat through my soul, and one late night sweat lodge in honor of a fallen bear, were actually moments that lead my creative and spiritual journey.

~

I guess to sum up my Faith at 36, I truly believe we all need faith of some shape or form – whatever that faith is. I just believe that it is something best found on one’s own, and not pushed down your throat.

Me trying to use iPhoto on my new-ish Mac.

I leave you tonight, with a little something funny, yet serious at the same time. This song below, is one of my all time favorite songs.

I have been wanting to try out this Garage Band program on the Mac we purchased a short while ago, so I thought I would have a little fun. This was my second attempt. I chose the version that didn’t have my dog howling with me in the background.

As well, you can also watch the slide show from that winter faith journey below, or watch the full screen slideshow here.

Have a great night.

Angels Among Us – Alabama

“And here I am in Colorado! I kept thinking gleefully! Damn! damn! damn! I’m making it.” ~ Jack Kerouac from On the Road (The Original Scroll)

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The drive home along the Mass Turnpike.

Well, we arrived home from Boston safe and sound on the Sunday, after an 11 hour, slow, snow filled journey, at 9:30pm.

I drove my friends car most of the way home, while he slept. He had to go straight to work after dropping me off. It’s been awhile since I have driven stick, so it was a fun switch for me.

In my first post I did while in Boston, I forgot to mention another funny story.

I eluded to how the GPS had us turned around a bit once we arrived in Boston. Three trips around the same landmark was definitely the funniest, but this folly ranked right up there.

We had no paper maps, so we relied heavily on our sometimes hesitant guide. We were circling an area with tight street openings, the snow was falling, we were running very late, we had just circled one area three times, and couldn’t  afford another wrong turn. We were getting so close to the hotel, when the GPS took us on another detour. It told us to turn right at one laneway, but my better judgement, and my friend in the passenger seat begging me not to do it, did have me second guessing this particular decision. But as I would later blurt out to a confused police officer, “the GPS told me to do it.” How could it be wrong?

The Green Stairs - 3 times' a charm

The snow covered streets were cobble stone, and all the people wonering everywhere almost immediately had me further second guessing my decision to listen to the GPS. It was like a town square, surrounded by shops and shoppers. Finally, mid way through the square and beyond the point of no return, a female officer casually walked toward our vehicle as I rolled down the window and said to her “I guess we aren’t supposed to be driving in here?”, and then I proceeded to innocently ask her how to get to Portland Street.

I heard her mention to her partner as we drove away, “he said the GPS told him to to it.” Scary at the time, but these are the stories that will be told over and over, as we remember this trip for years to come.

Our night in Boston was fairly uneventful.  Probably because we left the driving up to the cabbies, and walked everywhere else.

I did end up closing my eyes for probably an hour or so of broken sleep after my first Beantown blog post. I set the alarm for 8:30pm so we didn’t sleep all night, but it was actually 10:30 before we finally headed to The Fours on Canal Street for dinner.

Who knew Balsamic vinegar would be good on a burger? I had a concoction called ‘The Gorgonzola Cheese’ which was a 1/4 pound homemade burger with mushrooms, bacon, and of course, that yummy Gorgon cheese. A little bowl of brown beans, and a side of spiced fries, surrounded the mountainous burger which I washed down with a Samuel Adams.  Somehow driving 8 hours for a Bud, didn’t seem right, although that was the drink of choice for last call.  Which I might ad, comes quite early in the TD Banknorth Gardens district. We were lucky to find a watering hole open past 1 o’clock.

We headed back to the hotel after dinner, to except our complimentary drink at the Red Room at The Onyx. There we met Neil (I believe that was his name). I also am pretty sure he said he was from the Cape, but I do know that he had worked in bars from San Fran and Chicago, and surely had many more stories to tell beyond the few he shared with us over our Sangria’s and Martini’s.

He was a very personable young guy, who was trying to subject a few patrons to the wasabi flavored lime green martini he concocted. One guy nearly choked it was so hot. Just the smell was enough for me. I felt bad not trying his masterpiece in the works, but with no sleep and a Gorgonzola cheese filled belly, I wasn’t up for a date with the porcelain gods.

We headed out into the blustery  Boston streets for last call, which we spent with half a dozen young locals at what seemed the only open door in the district. We sat quiet, and tired, as a group of friends enjoyed a night cap of some deadly shot, before making our way a few doors down to our hotel.

It had never felt so good to crawl under the sheets, and sleep came immediately.

You learn a lot about yourself and your travel partner when you are on the road for 48 hours (41.5 to be exact)  with someone. No time alone with your thoughts except for the can, the shower, in your own head, or in your dreams.

It’s easy to pick apart the little things that annoy you about that other person, but in a year of change and self-discovery, I tried to look at it from another angle.

There is a song that describes me in a nutshell, with a few lines that go something like this:

“I’m in a hurry to get things done
I rush and rush until life’s no fun
All I really gotta do is live and die
But I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.”
~ Alabama

Head in the clouds. Eyes on the puck. Looking up before I have hit the ball. Thinking about tomorrow when I have barely opened my eyes to today.

I lost $260 at an ATM in Niagara-on-the-Lake this past summer, because I don’t take a moment to check to make sure I have everything before moving on. If you see me behind an ATM, watch for free cash.

An umbrella and two lunch filled lunch bags (one also containing a pair of black mittens), have found new homes courtesy of one absent minded commuter the past couple of months.

Most recently,  $100 US dollars went the way of the Dodo, somewhere in transit betwen Niagara Falls Canada and Boston Massachusetts. I just hope that that $100 is at least, in a collections tin back in Scottsville, NY along the I90, and that a family who lost everything to a house fire, is the beneficiary of my blunder – Hoping that I had mistaken a $1 bill for a $100. Easy to do when the bills are all the same color. Can’t really mistake a brown spot for a loonie back home, but I am not making excuses for my careless ways.

I watched my friend check, check twice, and check a third time while we were running late to make it to Fenway for the 2pm game – our whole reason for being in Boston. Making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. I realized as I watched impatiently with one foot out the door, that although I thought he was going way overboard in the time he was taking to double check, that that is the reason he knew where every dime had been spent, and he still had all his money in his pockets.

Slow down. Take a look. Note to self.

So I end this post with a quote from a song by a Canadian band who I listed in my On the Road Jukebox while Twittering on our recent road trip. “The good in everyone. (You see)” – Sloan

It’s easy to find someone’s faults, but if we take a moment to look at ‘the good in everyone’, we might just learn something about ourselves.  We all have our little querks. After all, it was me who had us circling Boston and driving in town squares wasn’t it.

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Watch the slide show from our trip below, or see it full screen from the Photobucket.com website here. I took these pics with my Blackberry, having forgotten my digital camera in the hotel room. Some of them turned out not too bad, but blurry or not, the feeling is still there.

The Complete Artists Way - Julia Cameron

On The Road - Jack Kerouac

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It’s been awhile since I have made a New Year’s resolution. The last resolutions I made, that I can recall, came over a three year span. My first year, I quit smoking, the second I eliminated caffeine from my diet, and finally, the third year I stopped eating chocolate; all cold turkey. I stayed strong to those resolutions as well, although all three have come in and out of my life at various times since. Smoking believe it or not, has been the easiest one to stay off of more than on.

This year, my ‘thing to change’ came from deep within my soul. It wasn’t just a challenge. It was the necessary need for change in many aspects of my life. Almost a cry out from an inner-self.

“IT’S TIME FOR CHANGE. I HAVE DREAMS. ARE YOU LISTENING TO ME?”

I feel like I have a bit of a head start to my 2010 project. First, because I took a sneak peak into both my books of study, to get an idea as to what I was getting myself into this year. The two books I have chosen are The Complete Artists Way, and On The Road – The Original Scroll.

Secondly, I had already started to find my path to a more creative-self, when I moved to the cities west end 7.5 years ago. By surrounding myself with art and artists, taking writing classes for the first time, joining a writers group, and attending creative functions whether they be book readings or seeing a live band, I began to find my place.

Coincidentally, my upstairs neighbor at the time, just happened to be a retired writer who filled my bookshelf with writing books such as Strunk and White and The Art of Interviewing. My first and second articles were published the first month I moved into that Herkimer apartment, and my first published short story the following fall.

Even just recently, by writing every day on my daily commute to and from work,  I have almost filled a journal in the span of four months since we became a single vehicle family. In total, I have 5 or 6 journals that I have filled over the past 7.5 years.

The preceding story to this post entitled The Final Assignment, goes into more details of how I found my way back to writing after many years, and what has happened in the past 3.5 years to get me to this point. To the moment that I realized that I needed to make some changes.

In a nutshell, I fell in love, got married, bought a house, had two children, said goodbye to my wife’s father, my dog and cat, welcomed in a new puppy to our young family, accumulated lot’s of debt, and in May of 2010, I will have been at my job 12 years with many questions lingering in my heart, as to what my future career goals should be.

Somewhere amongst all those life changing moments, between sleepless nights, teething, terrible two’s and potty training, I still found some time to write and get back into a new writer’s group, but somewhere within, that is still not enough.

2009 started off great where writing was concerned, publishing my second short on my birthday in February, but during the last half of 2009, an inner voice still wanted more time to be creative – even amongst the second publication of my first short story.

Ideas of various stories and projects were dominating my thoughts; dreams that ’self’ needed to express and explore, so my goal for 2010 was to find out what my soul is crying out for. What it wants.

I found The Artists Way while looking for a book to inspire my sister who had every curve thrown in her path in 2009. I found what I was looking for, and stumbled upon Julia Cameron’s book in the process.

A few days ago, my wife and I watched the movie Julie & Julia, and I was inspired to take on a blogging project myself. The fact that The Artists Way was written by a Julia, seemed quite fitting as well. Then, two days ago, a friend of mine lent me her copy of On the Road by Jack Kerouac. A borrowed copy seemed like the only way to read Jack, so Larry and Julia became + Jack.

So, it seems I will be joined by two writers in 2010. One is still with us, and one is a ghost on my road.

Quite fitting, is the fact that 2010 started off with a road trip, so my copies of The Artists Way and On the Road, have literally joined me on my journey down the I90 east to Boston, Massachusetts.

What is my goal? I guess I should have one? It certainly won’t be as intense as Julie Powell’s 365 day Julia Child recipe project. My family must come first, but I do need to make some changes, so I guess the only promise I can truly make, is that I will be taking you along on this spiritual ride. I plan to learn a lot about Julia Cameron and her Artists Way, much more about Jack Kerouac, but most of all, much more about myself.

I’ll try my best to blog every day, and keep it short. That is a challenge in itself if you have read any of my ‘blog’ posts. 1,500 to 2,000 words is not at all uncommon for a post of mine.

What are you goals for 2010? It’s a new day. A new year. A fresh start. I know life is an ongoing process of change; of becoming a better self, but this year is about taking drastic steps to realize the dreams my heart has carried for so long, because I can no longer ignore that cry within. It just won’t let me, and to be honest, I don’t want to ignore it any more.

Here’s to our dreams.

For now, I am going to enjoy the rest of my night in Boston, and head to The Fours for some dinner, a few drinks, and enjoy the local hospitality that I have known during my visists to the great city of Boston.

Under the grandstands at Fenway Park

Happy New Year. It’s 2010!

Well, it’s 6:24 pm on January 2nd, and my first post in 2010, is literally coming from on the road.

I am in Boston Massachusetts to be exact. Working on very little sleep. My traveling compadre who finished work back in Canada at 3am this morning, is having a catnap; snoring logs as I sneak a quiet moment to do a little writing. No seriously. He is very loud.

Myself, the kids woke my wife and I up around 7:30am New Years day, so other than closing my eyes for a few moments here and there, I just watched two outdoor games at Fenway Park, one in the comforts of my living room back in Canada, and one in person; all during one waking period.

We left my house at 4am this morning, and made it to Boston in great time considering poor road conditions for much of the trip and the first couple of hours in the blustery darkness.. Then, I took the wheel the last 20 minutes, and hour great time went to pot. 20 minutes to go turned into about 45 (perhaps an hour), after the GPS had us driving in circles around Boston’s North End. One wrong turn kept adding 10 minutes to our ETA. The running joke was “Look kids. Big Ben. Parliament.” My friend and I were laughing so unbelievably hard, I could not see from the tears and snow outside we were in such hysterics. We past these green stairs three times as we circled the area. I think I need a picture of them before we head home tomorrow.

Road trips. These silly moments are what they are made of, and what we will remember fondly over beers for years to come.

It’s been almost 9 years since our last road trip together, which also included an east coast road trip to New Jersey to see Ray Bourque score in game 3 of the 2001 Stanley Cup finals. That same trip also included our first and only trip to Yankee stadium, and rolls of shots taking in and around the World Trade Center. Just months before it fell to the cities floor.

My friend and I don’t just take road trips. We witness history together. We have been friends since grade two, and there isn’t a doubt in my mind that no matter where life takes us, we’ll be doing stupid shit like this until our final days.

Well, my toes and hands are just regaining feeling, but I keep having to pinch myself to realize that I just finally visited Fenway Park, and there was hockey being played there under the lights of the historic stadium.

I have to tell you, that place is magical. We sat under the grandstands in a section of rare original stadium seats. There wasn’t much elbow or leg room and they are a little hard on your arse, but I would sit in them time and again if they decided to keep that part of the stadium original. Thanks to the folks on either side of us today, who provided us with a little history of the park.

I am not sure how my friend is sleeping right now. I made lots of snacks for the trip, but I had to run to a corner store to sneak some food into my inside coat pocket to bring back to the room. I was starving. They have snacks here, but $5 for a big bag of chips; I just couldn’t do it. It’s only $5 for a Heineken though. I might break down for one of them if buddy sleeps too long. I am feeling a little parched.

Perhaps I should catch 40 or 100 winks myself before we head to The Fours for dinner, but tomorrow I’ll be back in Canada and the road trip will be over. I miss my family, but there is just something about these kinds of road trips that energizes the soul. I had the opportunity to catch some shut-eye last night, but I was too eager to hit the highway and get here.

This is my third trip to Beantown, but it’s the first time I actually seen a sporting event here. I had driven by all the stadiums before, but finally today, I seen the inside of Fenway Park. I never made it to the Gardens, but Banknorth and Gillette Stadium are in my scope. And Fenway hopefully many more times in my life to see some baseball when I can’t see my breath.

I wanted so much to be at yesterday’s event, but I am not sorry that we had to settle for watching many of the guys I grew up watching today. I miss hearing the announcers call names like Rick Middleton, Cam Neely, Ken Linsman, and so many others. Ray Bourque and Bobby Orr would have been a nice touch, but at beggers can’t be choosers.

Here is the roster for today’s Legends charity game.

BLACK: Bob Beers, Andy Brickley, Lyndon Byers, Cleon Daskalakis, Gary Doak, Joel Finley, Mark Finley, Charlie Jacobs, Claude Julien, Neal McDonough, John McKenzie, Rick Middleton, Terry O’Reilly, Bob Sweeney, Don Sweeney, Kiefer Sutherland

GOLD: Ken Casey, Ken Hodge, Bobby Farrelly, Pat LaFontaine, Denis Leary, Brian Leetch, Ken Linseman, Bob Miller, Jay Miller, Cam Neely, Brad Park, Tim Robbins, Dave Schultz, Rick Smith, Tom Songin, Tom Werner

My First University Class. My inspiration. My friends.

Originally posted Aug 3, 2008 @ 16:44

At the start of every class, we re-configure the tables and chairs so that they form a square around the room. It enables us to see each others face, instead of the back of one anothers heads. To feel their voices against our hearts, instead of lost in the high ceilings before their muttered translations make it to the back of the classroom.

The room disappears as one by one, my classmates share with the group, stories they have written about their childhoods. We laugh at a couple, a few trigger memories of our own past, and some even bring us to tears. They inspire me with their courage as they take our hands, and lead us into their minds; sharing with us their passions, their fears, and even their deepest, darkest secrets. The stories are kept brief, but coming down from their high is often like stepping out of a dream.

I was in grade seven when I wrote my first novel. It’s un-edited, hand written, double sided on lined foolscap paper. Some of the words barely readable through watermarks and fading over the past 22 years, but there it is, staring back to me. One of the earliest signs that a writer was alive inside of me.

Even though I didn’t write another story after that middle school novel, I still continued writing poetry when the right kind of love or infatuation inspired it. It would be another 15 years before I would spend any serious amount of time writing again. In fact, it was shortly after I ended a relationship that lasted most of my twenties. The guy who once thought he had love and his life figured out, now had no direction; no place to go. The future was as wide open as the spaces I longed to travel. A new chapter of my life had begun.

Creative juices flowing on Herkimer.

Shortly after that part of my life ended, I moved into an old radiated heat home on the 2nd floor of a Herkimer St four-plex in Hamilton’s west end. It was a perfect spot, complete with an inviting roof top deck off of my living room. The apartment needed some paint, but it wasn’t long before it felt like home.
Financially, I wasn’t rally prepared to incur all the debt load bachelorhood would bring with it, but my cash situation, or lack there of, just gave me another motive to write.

The neighborhood was beautiful. Rich with skyward trees that had seen nearly as much life as my 92 year old grandfather; if not more. Stately homes that were constantly being renovated to perfection by their visionary owners who seen beauty outside the tired condition some of those homes were in.

I could walk everywhere. Bars, bakeries, popular breakfast spots, art galleries, busy parks, and trails. The community was a very creative spot amongst these city boundaries.

Ironically enough, my new neighbor in apartment three was a writer. A real one who actually got paid to write for a living. It wasn’t long after I moved in, that he loaded my shelves with piles of books he had obviously spent a lot of time with, from Strunken White, to the Art of Interviewing.

Not only did my new mentor equip me with my own library of writing periodicals, but he lent me folders full of various samples of what he had accomplished over his career. Outside a passion for writing however, we also shared a love for music and it was actually what we talked about most during my three years in Apartment two.

Apartment three was always around. He was retired, hadn’t written in years, and he had the biggest collection of music I had ever seen with milk crates full of CD’s. He knew so much about music, and talked so passionately about the topic, that I often wondered why he hadn’t taken up writing for a music magazine.

A shot of Herkimer St.

Money was at a premium those first six months, so I knew I needed to find cheap entertainment, and a way to make extra cash. There were lots of things you could do by simply walking there, and Hamilton wasn’t lacking things to write about that summer.

Our professional hockey team, The Bulldogs, were in the Calder Cup, our football Ti-Cats were ready to go for another season, and the World Cycling Championship was also in town.

The Bulldogs were making history in the Calder Cup playoffs. It was game 7 and my friend and I had upper bowl seats to a sold out winner takes all showdown at Copps Colliseum. It was a losing battle for the home team, but the energy and excitement in the stadium that night had me up writing all night.

Other than a local poetry contest many years ago, or the Junior Press club as a child, I had otherwise never sent my writing off for submission. Naïve to the rules of publication, I gave it a shot. The following week, my article was published both on the Bulldogs website in its entirety, and a condensed version in the Hamilton Spectator. My first two publications as a writer. Ironically enough, my childhood novel and my first story to find print, were both about a professional hockey championship in Hamilton.

Hockey Night in Hamilton

Not since my minor hockey days, had I been as excited about anything as I was that morning. It was like carrying around the championship trophy on Super Saturday. A feeling I wondered if I would ever duplicate in my adult life. Seeing my name atop an article in a paper I once saw bundles of everyday piled up at the curb after school, was one of the greatest feelings of accomplishment I had experienced in a very long time.

Of course, I bought quite a few copies, and it was all I could do to avoid staring at the sports section lying open on the passenger seat on my way to work, or on my desk at the office; and from admiring the center screen link on the homepage of the Bulldogs website to my story.

I was addicted to the feeling now, and I knew that this was something I had to make happen more often. So, I set out about town to find my next source of inspiration. Oddly enough, I found it once again in the form of Hamilton sports.
I had tickets to that days Ti-Cats pre-season opener, and by mid-day the following afternoon, my second story was now written. Exactly a week from the day I had my first story published, my second was now staring back at me, and once again, a half dozen copies occupied my passenger seat.

I continued to submit a story each week for the next month, but my streak had ended at two. I wrote about the World Cycling Championship, and about a couple of other things that were going on around town, but whether it was because I didn’t know much about the topics I had tried to tackle, or that my luck had just run out, I was brought back to the reality of being a novice writer. It would be another year before my voice would find a place in print again.

Before the highway.

I worked full-time for the local cable company and although I loved my job most days, there weren’t many moments I didn’t think about writing. There were so many ideas floating around in my head, but never enough time to write; at least for publication. There were still many things to inspire me around the city, including some memorable moments spent amongst the natives and tree sitters involved in the fight to save Red Hill Valley.

I did write. I had gotten in the habit of always carrying some sort of note pad or voice recording device with me to at least capture my thoughts, but I was never able to find the time to make something out of those scraps of paper.

Earlier into my second year in Apartment two, I started having some troubles at work. It was probably the best thing that ever happened to me as a writer, as those tough times brought me to ride the train every day for a few months. Those daily commutes were what inadvertently brought me to enroll at McMaster.

It was a few weeks before a new school year was about to begin, and suddenly I found myself wanting to enroll full-time at University. I had no idea what I would take, or how I would pay for classes seeing as though I was still paying for the time I spent at Sheridan Arts, but I had always dreamed of going to University. Suddenly I was thinking about a new beginning.

School quickly started back in, the smell of September was in the air, and as I stared outside the bus window; back packs, and IPods, and lunch bags, I pictured myself walking those downtown streets, waiting with bus pass in hand, for my ride west to the McMaster campus.

I wrote in my journal every day on the train to and from work, and it wasn’t long before I found the meaning behind those though times. I was writing again. Albeit random thoughts, but it had been a long time since I felt the kind of inner peace, that I did those fall months.

Not only was I writing again, but I was also keeping a journal for the first time since high school. Before long, I had filled two or three of them.

Another thing happened that fall as well. I had caught the University bug and although things at work were a lot better, taking classes was still on my mind.

I was back to driving into work again everyday, and I had returned to my hectic lifestyle. Come the new year however, I would finally be taking my first University course; Introduction to Writing and Publication. And so my journey through the Writing Certificate program began.

Although I was very nervous that first night, my teacher and classmates made this new adventure seem right. This was where I was supposed to be. I was finding my voice, although I quickly seen that I had a lot of room to grow as a writer.

That same spring I enrolled in another course – Developing Sensual and Erotic Writing Styles. We had a lot of laughs during those classes, and we were all making each other sweat by the end of the term. The final night, our teacher brought up the idea of putting a chapbook together for an upcoming literary fair in Hamilton, so a handful of us put pen to paper and in the fall, we were selling our short stories and signing copies of our books. If seeing your name in print wasn’t addictive enough, having someone catch up to you on the street to sign your book was a fantasy come true. All those years of practicing my signature in science class, were finally paying off.

I had just started seeing a woman around the time we published our erotic chapbook, and a short story was born out of that early romance. It evolved into a fairy tale style story of our lives as they progressed along, and as we formed into a couple. The written account is yet to find its closing chapters, but the real life fairy tale came complete with a wedding, a beautiful baby girl, and one on the way.

That December, I had taken my new love up to a winter resort amongst her childhood home town. I brought the dog, and even the cat was aboard our tiny coupe; the whole family. On New Years Eve, in front of a warm fire with the world outside covered in snow, I pulled out my guitar, a couple of loose sheets of paper with the words to a song I had written for her, and through those words, I asked her to marry me.

The new year had just begun, and it was already proving to be a very hectic one. My fiancé had encouraged me to take a course I had been dreaming of enrolling in; Writing for Children. She knew I had been wanting to study under this teacher, and that I feared he might be retiring soon.

I volunteered one evening a week, school the next, and I had homework almost every night. My wife to be had already moved in, and one night I returned form volunteering to find a parenting magazine on our bed. We were going to have a baby. That news couldn’t’ have come at a more opportune time, and now I had a child to write about that winter semester.

It was a very exciting time all around. The class was everything I dreamed and more, and we had had our first ultrasound to make it all official; we were going to be parents.

Amongst all of that, we were also planning our wedding; right down to designing, printing, and cutting our own invitations. We were even making our own envelopes. Did I mention we were house hunting too?

With everything that was going on in our lives, that winter semester came and went before I knew it. As always, most of the class, including the teacher, walked over to the local watering hole for a couple of pints to close out the term. When I returned home that night, I climbed into bed and whispered into my wife’s ear. “Thank you, hun.”

“For what”, she replied half asleep?

“Bob retired.”

In May that spring we were married, by the end of June we were moved in to our new home, and we were due to have our first baby mid September.

I enrolled in my second 3-day novel writing contest in as many years that Labor Day weekend, and my theme this time around of course, was my pending role as a father.

The three day writing weekend was going well, and the words were flowing easily. I had dreamed of becoming a father forever, and years of anticipation exploded onto my laptop screen as if those words had been dying to be expressed.

My wife had left me alone for the weekend to write. It was now Monday morning, and the better part of this day had to be spent finishing up last details. I had a tight schedule planned so that by late afternoon, I could start editing in time for the midnight deadline.

At about 8:30am that morning, I received a call from my wife; her water had broke, and suddenly the excitement and anticipation began. After a long 24 hour labor, our first child was born.

While my wife and baby were sleeping later that day, I snuck down to the cafeteria for some lunch with my laptop in hand. Even though the 3-day novel contest was over, I added another chapter to my story. I was in the cafeteria an hour or so, exhausted from very little sleep, and still overwhelmed from everything that just took place; grasping the fact that I was now a father. I realized as I described the miracle that I had just witnessed, that my story needed this ending. It wouldn’t have been complete, without my little girl entering this world.

As I collect my final thoughts on the closing of this program, I reflect back at what truly started it all. You could say it all began when I found a home that awoke the writer in me; the place where I was published for the first, second, and third time. Where I found myself, and started my family. The truth is though, that McMaster is where I have truly found my voice.

I have fallen in love with this place, as well as the teachers and students I have met during my time spent here. The opportunities that have come out of this experience have been endless. I have met so many wonderful, passionate people over the course of the last three years. A handful of my classmates and I, even formed a writers group. We have been together over two years now. We are friends, we help each other network, email the group contest info and writing related events, and share our excitement with one another when we get published. We attend book signings, and awards nights. Email our work to the group to critique, or bring it to the meeting to work shop. We have dinners and drinks together, and we share our lives and our dreams. We have monthly postcard story challenges, complete with little dollar store prizes for first to third place.

All of this has become possible through courses at Mac and I wonder what the future of writers in the greater Hamilton area will hold, now that the writing certificate has run its course.

There are many things that are special about this program, and yes, maybe these same qualities will carry into classes I take at other institutions. Maybes it’s because this is the only place I have studied writing outside of high school, that I have become so attached to this Main St East building.

I thrive on being surrounded by passionate and open minded spirits, and each semester I am inspired just being in the presents of others who share the same dreams and desires. We connect on levels I wouldn’t’ have thought possible amongst a group of perfect strangers. You learn more about these people in ten weeks, than you will some friends in an entire lifetime. Even the shy, reserved, less confident students, are pouring their hearts out by the final class. It’s amazing how you can grow in ten short weeks. Not just as a writer, but as a person.

I write in my journal during the 15 to 20 minute trip on the number 2 to class every Thursday. I conjure up lives for the people that occupy the standing room only bus. I stop at the Skydragon Centre for a large coffee and an organic snack on my way to the downtown centre, and on the bus ride home, I usually just relax with a good book to unwind.

I know I will take more writing courses, but Mac and those I have shared time with over the past few years will always hold a special place in my heart. I love the Continuing Education building. Break time dashes to Tim Horton’s, exploring a downtown I have had no reason to otherwise visit, or getting up in front of my peers and freeing my voice.

It’s week 10. In a few hours, the last class will begin. When the final seconds call to closeout this semester, all that will be left of this program amongst those old courtroom walls, are faded voices, and the stories they once told.