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Trainspotting

I haven’t lived in the city for ten years now. I live in a quiet suburb of Montreal on the West Island called Pierrefonds. I still go into the city regularly, however, because many of my friends and activities that I pursue are minimum thirty five minutes away. 

There are two main traffic arteries to get to the city from here by car. Highways 40 and 20. Depending on where I want to go determines which artery I will take. I often travel to boroughs in the south west (NDG, Verdun, Lachine, Montreal West), so I will choose the 20. Anything North or East of these destinations I will probably choose the 40.

I prefer the 20 because it runs parallel to the major rail corridor between Canada’s two largest cities and more often than not I see any combination of freight or passenger trains. I inherited my love of trains from my paternal grandfather. Papa used to subscribe to The Railway Magazine (British)and every six months or so got the issues bound together. My dad inherited a shelf full of Railway Magazines and held onto them until he had to downsize. The bound magazines were donated to the railway museum in St. Constant. 

I love trains. I marvel at the system that manages the traffic. It is not uncommon for me to witness 100 car long trains of mixed type (tankers, boxcars, flatbeds, container trolleys, etc.) going in either direction. 

Sometimes a train will just be idling waiting for another to pass, sometimes a train’s speed means we are racing neck and neck and conversely the combined speed of our two conveyances pass each other at 200km/hr. Once in a while I see the silver VIA train carrying people to and from Toronto, Kingston, etc. more often I will see the EXO commuter train that serves the West Island. 

I think about what a huge industry rail transportation is. Must employ tens of thousands of people across Canada. Of course the rails connect to trucking hubs and ports where cargo transfers. Huge.

Even better than seeing the trains is taking them. Resident Passengers over 65 get to ride public transit in Montreal for free. My doctor’s office is adjacent to Vendome station, so I take the train to medical appointments. I love ripping along in comfort and not having my mind on the road. I love not having to find parking or having to deal with detours etc. 

It’s not all peaches and cream though. Recently A friend was on the train to Montreal from Ottawa and the train had to stop in Alexandria because there had been a derailment of a freight train further on down the line. Frustrating when a two to three hour trip becomes an eight hour ordeal. Fortunately these are the exceptions and not the rule. Still better than needing a tow on the highway.

Elizabeth Cotten put it more succinctly.

Freight train, Freight train, run so fast
Freight train, Freight train, run so fast
Please don’t tell what train I’m on
They won’t know what route I’ve gone

When I am dead and in my grave
No more good times here I crave
Place the stones at my head and feet
Tell them all that I’ve gone to sleep.

When I die, Lord, bury me deep
Way down on old Chestnut street
Then I can hear old Number 9
As she comes rolling by.
Posted on by Ian Hanchet · 1 Comment

Attention Shoppers….

I simply can’t be trusted to do the shopping. I invariably get at least one item wrong. 

Let me explain: I am dyslexic. I am able to compensate for this most of the time and many people are surprised to learn this because I am well educated and an avid reader and quick with words. 

Every once in a while it rears it’s ugly head and I will glean the opposite meaning from a sentence or I’ll skip a line of music I am reading or I’ll write a b as a d, etc. this occurs mostly when fatigued or if I am in the throes of a Migraine. 

Back to shopping….. 

The worst place is the pharmacy, although all big box stores are a challenge. This will be hard to write without using the word “fucking” as an adjective before every fucking item in the whole fucking store not to mention the fucking piped in music and the use of different fucking names for the same fucking thing.

I am tired of writing “fucking” just assume it is in front of each proper noun that follows. 

Try buying toothpaste for someone else. My wife likes toothpaste with no whitener. Just plain toothpaste. It is usually hidden on the bottom shelf which is so convenient for a 6 foot tall man. It is far from the pimped up glitterati in the wall of toothpaste above it. I am guessing that there must be eighty to a hundred products in flashy packaging and different formats and sizes and brand names. Maybe 20 of these have a red tag in front indicating a sale of some sort with an arbitrary reduction from another arbitrary sticker price. Flavour is another option. Spearmint, peppermint, just mint, clean mint, fresh mint, regular, original, new, new original and on and on…. This is a nightmare for a dyslexic. In Quebec this is also compounded further by bilingual packaging and the price using different (English smaller by law) fonts. I hope you are still injecting my favourite adjective.

Let’s say that Pharmaprix doesn’t have what I am looking for, my neighbourhood has several alternatives within easy walking distance (in opposite directions. Northward there is Jean Coutu and southward a Jean Coutu and a Uniprix opposite arch other all on the same busy boulevard. Each store layout is almost the same, but usually there is at least one quirky difference. This difference usually involves the product I am looking for. Painkillers for example are so ridiculously separated. There are cold and sinus type painkillers and there are the regular and extra strength. Back pain, headache, muscular pain, etc. The really good stuff is behind the counter and some needs prescription. There are brand names to contend with and the generic equivalent. Some people swear by the brand name (costlier) and say the generic is not as effective. I say it is all a scam. When I was a kid my mum had Aspirin. She switched to A.S.A at some point which is one of those immediately forgettable meaningless acronyms that are anathema to dyslexics. The good stuff was 222. Fucked if I care what 222 stood for. Those babies worked on migraines.

While still at the pharmacy try the hair product section…..nightmare. I simply won’t buy for someone else. It’s like Where’s Waldo for masochists. 

Needless to say, Pharmacies are not my favourite place. Soviet Russia is preferable. One product you line up for I can get behind…..

Groceries are also a pain in the ass. Let’s pick a product like yogurt. 1%,2%,full fat, Greek style, whipped, fruit on the bottom, natural, organic, I am sure I am only scratching the surface and I am not going to research it completely which would involve doing the very thing I want to avoid. While in the dairy section, different formats for milk. Skim is not even milk. Compound this with almond milk and oat milk and canary milk etc. ‘Full fat, Greek style, whipped, fruit on the bottom’ sounds kinda sexy put together like that…

I am getting tired of writing, so, you, the reader (if still here) must be as well. 

Last week I needed to get black ink for our printer. Great. I went to Bureau en Gros (Staples) and upon entering an enthusiastic young man asked if he could help me. I disappointed him by saying I knew exactly what I needed and pointed to the wall of cartridges half a kilometre away. I went to the wall… HP65 black (good for hp envy 7000 series). I checked. Not my first rodeo. In and out in 5 minutes. Smug.

Sharon put the cartridge in, and it didn’t work. She put the spent one back in, didn’t work. She turned the machine off, same result. If there were tires, she would have kicked them. I was called, and I went into ‘hp help’ etc. and found a YouTube video and unplugged for 20 minutes and tried again. I tried to get hp on the phone but I forgot my password. After dealing with the password I found that my warrantee for free help was expired so I googled “life expectancy of printers” and realized that maybe it was time for a new one. I googled my model and Lo and behold there was one left at the same store I get my cartridges. This happened to be Boxing Day and it was on sale for the cost of several cartridges. O happy day!

I went to the store expecting to buy the same model thinking ‘I already have a full cartridge’ and they were offering 3 months of “free” ink. When I finally found a ‘clerk’ (dr. Livingstone, I presume?) he was a spiritless drudge who checked to see if the model was in stock. Turned out that the display model was it. I checked inside to make sure that the cartridges were still the same. The cartridge was staring at me with its name “hp64”. I left drudge boy behind and got an hp64 black  off the wall. Brought it home and our printer works again.  

I simply can’t be trusted to do the shopping

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Junk Story

This is a rather sensitive issue, you may want to skip it. 

On a normal day no man gives his testicles a second thought.

One day a few months back I noticed that when I turned over in bed I had to adjust my crotch to achieve comfort. I thought at the time that my thighs must be getting fat. Same thing the next night. Weird. I got up in the morning and put the dogs out for a pee and plunked down on a stool to wait and let them back in. Felt like I’d had what I’ve called a “Charley horse“ but means “kick in the nuts”. Shortness of breath and extreme discomfort. Very Unusual to sit on one’s balls. They are not made for that. Still didn’t think too much about it, just carried on with my day. 

Later, out shopping at the bookstore I went to the rest room and had some difficulty with my fly at the urinal. I reached in to facilitate the exercise and was alarmed that one of my testicles that was usually grape sized was the size of a plum. My mind was immediately in catastrophe mode imagining testicular cancer and I called my GP (doctor). It was just after four pm and the answering machine was on so I had to leave a message describing my problem. The secretary called back within the hour and I got an appointment for first thing the next day. 

My doctor asked me when I first noticed the symptoms, and I truly answered that I couldn’t accurately say because I was long past adolescence and no longer in the habit of fondling “the boys”. He laughed. Upon inspection, he said he suspected a hydrocele but ordered an ultra sound just to make sure. I got an appointment for later that morning and went to the Montréal General Hospital and gowned up. I was waiting outside the changing room to be called and a nervous young man came in and asked “Mr. McLean?” I was the only person there and replied that that was my doctor’s name and I, being the patient was Mr. Hanchet. He apologized and explained that he was a “resident” I impishly wisecracked that the ultra sound was to be of my testicles (just to be clear). He was actually very professional and thorough and explained that after he was done another doctor would confer with him and then come and explain to me what they saw. The female doctor confirmed that it was indeed a hydrocele and that there was no evidence of anything else to be worried about. She said she’d send the result to my doctor and urology. I thought she said “neurology” and impishly quipped that unlike a lot of men I didn’t think with my crotch. Funnier to me than to her….oh well.

A week passed. No call from urology. I called my GP and asked what to do and the secretary said I could bypass the system and get seen by a doctor who was private (meaning outside of the Medicare system) meaning there would be a fee. I decided to wait, but another week went by and my situation was starting to affect other aspects of my life. Driving was becoming awkward and uncomfortable. I called the private urologist’s office and the secretary informed me that the operation would be $850.00. I said I had to think about it.  I decided to wait.

My brother in law is an eye doctor and had told me that if I needed help he “knows a guy”. He called, but the dr. was on holiday. A follow up call got me an appointment for surgery. I  will go under the knife at the end of August. 

Meanwhile it was still growing. Now an avocado and every time I needed to sit, I did so gingerly on the edge of the chair and slide back. Hoping I wouldn’t need a wheel barrow soon. This was just nuts!

The avocado grew into a tangerine in a ski mitten as my problem expanded. My crotch entered the room before I do and my head is filled with quotations I have heard before that now have new meaning. “He must have big balls” meaning he was brave. The opposite of timid. I don’t see how the size of one’s nuts determine one’s bravery, but I digress. Cojones? Forget about it. Great target for an enemy.

The urologist gave me four options: 1. live with it. 2. drain it. 3. drain it and inject medicine. 4. go under the knife. One was out of the question and three and four needed to be done in a hospital. I chose #2.

At the urology clinic there is a small room set aside for these kind of “procedures”. I nervously was humming the same “The Dance Of The Sugarplum Fairies” under my breath. I had decided an apt nickname for this operating room was “The Nutcracker Suite”. The medical staff were all business as after a small prick (pun intended) I finally earned the sobriquet of “Numb Nuts”. The extraction took a minute or so, and it was all over. 220ml of gross fluid which is almost a cup. I stood up and immediately sensed the difference. Perversely I started to sing “You Make Me Feel Like Dancing” which I didn’t even know I knew. I did a Pierre Trudeau pirouette …(Pierreouette) in my relief.

It has been over a week, and the return to normalcy has been a relief. I am very grateful for this resolution to my minor issue and has made me more mindful and empathetic of those with less easily resolved medical issues.

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“Aging is a series of losses and adjustments”

The other day while having a coffee in one of our favourite cafés, Sharon and I were delighted to be joined by two friends. One of those friends is a favourite professor and mentor from my days as a music student and the other was his life partner who is just as delightful. This is the second time this has happened in as many months. Every time we talk there is such a rich and humorous exchange of ideas on a variety of subjects. 

Sharon and “C” got into their various experiences with their recent eye surgeries and the positive and negative emotions evoked from their experiences. I didn’t hear much of that conversation because on our side of the table we were having our own conversation. I always love talking with and listening to “K” and I believe he delights in it as well. The time before I had intended to send him an e-mail to express how our conversation had actually elated me and had altered my mood for hours afterward. I forgot to do it, of course, but this time I was determined to let him know how much he has meant and still means to me. 

I was reminded of a message I received from a former student who I was quite fond of. I had found him on Facebook and he messaged me back with a series of re-acquainting stories and ended with this message:  “You had a huge impact on my life, Ian!”

I wanted ”K” to hear a similar sentiment from me. He surely already knew. Most teachers are aware of that special connection. I have been fortunate to have had many great mentors and have been lucky enough to have been a mentor to several myself. 

As we were wrapping up and taking our leave I heard Sharon say to “C”:

“Aging is a series of losses and adjustments”

Which struck me as quite profound.

”K” and I had talked about career moves and loss of loved ones through death and/or neglect and loss of various abilities including changes in eyesight, mobility, location, etc. and Sharon’s statement rang so true for both conversations. 

Sharon has experienced this through her job as a home-care physiotherapist and more recently through her father’s illnesses and death and the erosion of her mother to the afflictions of aging. 

“K” and I had talked about losing our parents and several colleagues and several contemporaries. I, also had the experience of my kids leaving the nest and needing less of me. I have lost some ambition and some skill through realizing I can’t do it all.

My older brother who showed me my first guitar chords can no longer form those chords because his fingers are distorted by arthritis. My fingers may be following. I recently saw Bruce Cockburn whose arthritis requires him to use two canes to walk. He talked freely about having to adapt his style to accommodate the physical changes befalling him. he’s still great by the way.

We all lose things, seeing them drop away from our reality  until the only thing left to lose is our own life force. 

At twenty I knew I would live forever. In my forties my dad stopped living forever. In my fifties my mum stopped living forever. Here I am in my sixties and I see more of my musical and literary heroes stopping living forever. It is starting to sink in that maybe I won’t live forever. 

On Monday as I drove home from my eldest daughter’s thirtieth birthday celebration I was overwhelmed by a cloud of sadness suddenly realizing that I would not see my children grow as old as I am now. I couldn’t help that feeling or that realization. Reality sucks. I have my strategies for coping. I am a creative person. I revel in imaginary worlds and escape into art. 

Now I adjust more than I want to, but probably not as much as I need to as the years flash by. Realizing this is like a sudden growth spurt of several inches. 

My mind is expanding as my spine is contracting but my heart remains constant.

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Carpe Diem

As a teenager I made extra spending money by doing gardening chores for some of my mum’s friends in the countryside around the town of St. Sauveur-des-Monts, Quebec in the lower Laurentian mountains. One friend of hers in particular gave me lots of work keeping her “Canada lilies“ under control. I had to dig up these obstinate orange monsters and divide them and replant the halved plant and dispose of the other half in a designated compost heap a short wheel barrow trip away. Mrs. Henderson had perhaps two dozen of these plants whose root systems were huge and intertwined. Cutting the roots with a spade was a particularly satisfying feeling and I am happy recalling this memory. 

My story is not about plants, though, it is about teenage lust and paralyzing self-loathing. 

Next door to the Henderson’s was another friend of my mum’s named “Hope”. Hope was a single mum and had several kids. One of those kids was Kathy. Kathy was a year younger than me and because of zoning went to a different high school. I only ever saw her from afar at the Bell theatre in Morin Heights or at community events like Canada Day or la fète St. Jean Baptiste. 

One day as I was working on the lilies I saw Kathy out of the corner of my eye setting up a chaise longue on the balcony of their chalet and discretely kept watching as she slathered her limbs and torso with sunscreen as she prepared to sunbathe in her bikini less than sixty feet from me. She looked perfect. Blonde, already tanned, nubile. I was smitten in that dumbest of ways because we were really just strangers and I lacked the skill and/or confidence to do anything about it. 

In those days, I had a six pack and often worked shirtless. I continued working and needlessly flexing certain muscles in hopes of luring Kathy into my orbit. Talking to her was out of the question because she was a Goddess and I was not. As I write this I am being re-traumatized by the pent up anxiety I experienced at the time. I had desire to meet this girl, but was missing the information that even though a goddess, she was just a teenager like I was and was sending off the signals that she was approachable. I feel like such a coward admitting my social impotence here. I was clueless and felt worthless.

I returned several times to the property to continue gardening, but the weather never seemed to reproduce the perfect conditions of that first day, and Kathy did not reappear. Nothing ventured, nothing gained.

In the fall, I headed off to University in another province and got on with my life as did my pals from this era. Eventually Got married, raised a family, etc. 

Thirty years or so later I was back in St. Sauveur attending a funeral for the mother of one of my friends and ran into Kathy’s mum “Hope”. We struck up a conversation and I nonchalantly asked how Kathy’s life had turned out. I let out that I had had a crush on her that summer. Hope exclaimed “YOU had a crush, boy oh boy, Kathy had an overwhelming crush on you that summer and couldn’t figure out why it appeared that I had no interest in her!” Doh!!!!

I have often used this story in my teaching to children. Essentially, we never know what someone else may be thinking. It isn’t a great idea to put others on a pedestal so as to make them seem unapproachable.

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Slow Learner 

So, it happened once again last night. I’m not inherently stupid, but I seem to repeat stupid things. It always comes as a surprise to me even though it is not surprising. It’s like Russian Roulette with the fuel gauge. I usually win, but sometimes I don’t.

It never happens in a safe place like a side street or a parking lot, no it is always somewhere highly visible and slightly dangerous. 

My first encounter with running out of gas was on the Ville Marie Expressway east bound just before the exit for Atwater. I was with my friend Mike and I had just picked up $500 from a music store (Frank Quinn’s)on Décarie. Frank had sold my Fender Twin amplifier for me and paid me what was owed. We were headed toward “music row” on Craig Street where there were several music stores to browse. Browsing with $500 in a music store is dangerous for me. Back then (when I was still at University) it was a fortune. 

There were no cell phones back then, so we had to wait for a response from the surveillance routière cameras to alert the towing. The tow truck had a canister of gas on board and got us up and running. He said he only took cash or credit card, and did not have change for $100. I only had the five c notes, and had no credit card, so he trusted me and gave me the address to remit my debt. Probably around $35. Whew.

The second time I ran out of gas was on the way to the Brandon Jazz Festival with a car full of music students in the middle of a Manitoba winter. You’d think a teacher would have it together to ensure the car was gassed up for such a voyage, but no…. While we were pulled off on the shoulder of the Trans Canada Highway one of the other cars with more of my students passed us, laughing, waving and smiling and apparently oblivious to our predicament. One of the students from my car volunteered to hike over to a nearby farmhouse and came back with fuel.

As if this wasn’t enough, the third time was with my first wife and our unborn first child on the way to the Royal Victoria Hospital as we rounded the reservoir on Docteur Penfield. It was only on our way to birthing class, and not “showtime”, so Emma wasn’t born in the car…. I was sufficiently shamed into having the car more ready. A harbinger.

Several years passed until my next episode. I was returning from work in the very east end of the city and was to rendezvous  with my young daughters at Westmount library. They had just started to walk there after school alone and  although they were safe and had walked there with friends and their friend’s mum, they were still young and vulnerable and I had to be on time. I was running late and knew I was low on fuel, but decided to gas up after I picked them up. 

There probably isn’t a worse place to run out of gas than the Ville Marie Tunnel. Ironically within a km of where I ran out of gas the first time. I know the sensation and acted quickly to take the nearest exit (Atwater) I managed to get to the side and was starting to walk toward toward where I knew there was a filling station when a guardian angel pulled up beside me and offered to give me a lift to the station at St. Jacques and Atwater. I was super thankful and couldn’t believe my good fortune. I put a deposit on the canister and filled it and was preparing to walk back when the same man tapped his horn and indicated he’d drive me back. There are some good humans on this planet.

I swore I had learned my lesson this time and vowed to myself to never ever be put in that position again. 

Well, that lasted a while, but the next time it happened I was on my way to a gig in Ottawa and didn’t want to fill up in Montreal as the gas was always between 15 and 20 cents cheaper per litre in Ontario. I planned to fill up near Hawkesbury where there is a huge filling station just off the highway. Undershot it by one km. I ran out of fumes within sight of the station… in the rain.

Now over ten years into my new life, smooth sailing, happy camper,etc. 

We were On the 20 returning home after having gone to separate dinners in town. Sharon was at a pot luck with her photography class and I was with good friends a few blocks over. I picked her up after dinner and we were catching up and I forgot my mental note to fill up before heading out on the highway west. We nwere almost at our exit and I had just finished reminding her that we were scheduled for our flu shots in the morning. She had forgotten. I had just remarked that it was unusual for me to be remembering when I felt the Jeep losing power and I knew what was happening and put on my flashers and reached the shoulder.

Handily there was a sign directly in front of us with the exclusive number to call for roadside assistance. I called and within minutes a truck appeared and laid out flares and blocked off the lane beside us as we awaited the towing. Pretty smooth way out of trouble. I Paid with credit card and sufficiently shamed (Sharon posted it) and financially punished to stay out of trouble and maybe this time will have learned my lesson.

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Guide Dog

Role reversal is a technique used in therapy meant to develop empathy and put yourself in another’s shoes. 

In my life I have seen many guide dogs leading humans who had little or no eyesight. Where I went to University was across the street from the Canadian National Institute for the Blind. I never dreamed or ever considered that one day I might be a “Seeing eye dog”. 

One of our two Shih-Tzus completely lost his eyesight around a month ago. It seemed all of a sudden that he started bumping into things and stumbling into hazards like stairs. This may have been as a result of his recently diagnosed diabetes and/or pancreatitis. The sudden need for Sami to be dependent and protected from falling down stairs and needing to be carried in both directions has put me in the role of seeing eye human. I carry him outdoors for his morning relief and several times throughout the day as well. Before we realized he was blind (day one) I put him out in the back yard with the other dogs and when I went to let them back in the two other dogs scrambled through the door, but Sami was not with them. This wasn’t unusual, the dogs sometimes went round the corner of the L shaped yard. After a while, though, I became concerned he wasn’t showing up or responding to my voice. He usually came when he was called. I went over to the side of the house and he wasn’t there. Sami is a real home body. He is not a runner, he was not in the yard and the gates were closed. We checked indoors thinking maybe we were unaware that he came inside. Another pass of the yard and a sideways glance revealed that he had fallen in a window well. The basement windows are below ground level. He was quietly lying in a bed of leaves and I pulled him out. So weird he didn’t bark or whimper or anything. 

I have been amazed at the ability of this little creature to adapt. Without language, I can’t be sure if he understands what has befallen him, but I am sure he accepts it. He wags his tail for meals and he still enjoys being petted and going “walkies”. He just gets on with his job of being a dog. 

It is an honour for me to be his eyes. He has learned to traverse the two steps to get back into the house. He follows my voice and as he nears the step I say “up” and he is able to hoist himself up and enter the house. He often gets disoriented inside the house and frequently bumps into walls or chairs, but has learned to walk gingerly and he doesn’t hurt himself, he just flinches and changes direction. Sometimes he is completely at a loss and just stands facing a wall and waits for me to point him in the other direction. He never complains. 

This new symbiotic relationship has brought me closer to him. I always liked Sami. He is quite the character. I now love him to the same extent I loved another dog in my past named Stardust. We are hoping to provide him with quality of life as long as we can. Sharon is the primary caregiver as far as syringes and pain meds go, easily the more difficult task, but I do most of the physical work of lifting and overseeing his movements. 

Dogs give us so much. They are loyal companions and warm comfort. They teach us so much about life. Too bad the deal is that they don’t live as long as humans. I have mourned many dogs (my own and friends’ and family dogs). It is never easy, but mourning a loved one is far better than not having a loved one. 

The little rascal just climbed the stairs, so I better go and see what he’s up to and bring him back to safety.

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Hallowe’en

I had an interesting but disturbing exchange with a man last evening. He was painting a hallway near where I was going.  I noticed he was wearing a school board shirt from a local board and struck up a conversation. He explained he was moonlighting and added that being a parent was expensive. I asked how old were his kids? He told me they were ten and seven. I exclaimed “you’re missing Hallowe’en” to which he replied “We don’t do  Hallowe’en, we are Christian!” 

Now, I was brought up Christian and this concept was news to me. He went on about how Hallowe’en gave a foothold to Satan, etc. My opinion of this man did a complete 180. The remainder of our conversation was of him spewing his dogma and me trying to politely escape. I felt like he was no longer human, but a programmed automaton. There was no room for anything else. An idea free world.

I thought about all the kids I have taught whose parents’ religious convictions kept them from participating in fun events or social ceremonies that were contrary to their beliefs. Some who were not allowed to play, sing or hear music….. others who were not able to have birthday cupcakes, etc. no dancing. No Hallowe’en…..

It saddens me that there are huge swaths of humanity who are blinded by ideology that restricts and controls their behaviour to such an extent that festivity is alien to them. Straight and narrow flies in the face of my belief that we are meant to rejoice in our lives and the wide vista of the planet we inhabit. 

Last night, after this encounter, as I drove slowly down a residential street in NDG festooned with creative, spooky and hilarious decorations and looking left and right at little goblins running from house to house with their parents in tow (and sometimes better costumed than the kids) my heart was warmed at this harmless and charming activity that pulls neighbours together and celebrates life in the face of and in spite of death.

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Wok With Yan/ Walk with Ian

I recently discovered a great place to walk not far from where we live.

I love walking in the woods, but I live in deep suburbia. We have a park very nearby where we walk the dogs and sometimes I walk all alone just to gather my thoughts. Nice park, but not the new one

When I lived closer to Mount Royal I’d go there to walk and/or cross country ski, but not as often as I would have liked to. Pay parking was a deterrent.

There are several places out here on the West Island where I can go and walk, but alas, my vignette for parking expired and I haven’t renewed it yet. I will as winter approaches so I can park and ski at Cap St. Jacques and on Ile Bizard.

The park I “discovered” is called Centennial Park in DDO. There are tons of activity areas: a dog run, etc. but the area I like is the trails in the woods and around the man-made lake. As a young girl, Sharon played in the area that is now the park. She said the area was all farmland and woods before the neighbourhood got built up. She said she thought the park opened in 1976. I asked her if her math was off because the Centennial of Canada was in 1967 when her dad bought their home a few blocks from where the park is today. Turns out it was commissioned in 1967, but took 9 years to complete.

The park comprises 48 hectares and surrounds a lake. At various places along the trail you’d swear you were in the Laurentians. I spent a good portion of my early life near and in lakes like this and the surrounding brush offers fragrant reminiscences that warm my heart.

The walking paths in Centennial remind me of a particular walking path in Oxford, U.K. where the author C.S. Lewis walked as part of his routine. His walk is called Addison’s Walk. My brothers and I toured Oxford in the spring. A tour that concentrated on Lewis and Tolkein…Heroes of ours. I have posted a virtual tour of this lovely promenade that is both entirely rural, but bordering on the bustling urban campus of Oxford University.

If you delight in nature (like I do) a park like this one is a true blessing. Not only does it provide body-care exercise, but mind-settling scenery and, bonus… it keeps one “regular” (nudge,nudge, wink, wink, say no more, say no more!).

I am so thankful to have this resource and I wish I had visited earlier. I regret that the geriatric Shih-Tzus no longer have the stamina for long walks.