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Be There

Life and death have been on my mind lately. 

I just finished re-reading Galapagos by Kurt Vonnegut. The story is complex but deals with the annihilation of the human race except for some ragtag castaways on an island in the Galapagos archipelago. Told by a ghost with very cavalier and smug opinions about the importance of life and death. Vonnegut’s world view, of course, shaped by the horrors of war and surviving the carpet bombing destruction of Dresden. 

Twenty two years ago on this date (April 4th) a very good friend of mine hurtled to his death from atop a high rise apartment building on rue Docteur Penfield. He was twenty-seven years old. He’d be forty-seven now. He finally achieved his goal.

My father-in-law is ninety and was recently released from a two week stay in hospital after a big scare because his heart is weak. He is quite adamant about doing all he can to stay alive. 

It got me to reflecting this morning about the contrast between people who choose death and others who choose life and others in between. 

Recently there have been friends who have endured gruelling bouts of chemotherapy and radiation and determined to beat it. Other friends were not as fortunate. Many are in limbo. Several stories of people close to friends (a father of one and the husband of a colleague of my wife) who chose medically assisted death because their suffering was immense. 

I respect people and their highly personal life and death decisions. I guess that makes me pro life although I don’t mean it in the anti abortion sense.

In between are people who seem to go through life just skimming the surface and not delving or seemingly cognizant of the wonderful gift of the world around us. Basic people do not interest me. I don’t respect them. “An unexamined life is not worth living”- Socrates

This morning a few lines of verse came to me. I wrote them down and picked up a guitar and said “B”  and this song just wrote itself. I wrote and recorded it all in about three hours. Not bragging. It just goes to show that being in the moment and being aware are two things I cherish and what could have been just an ordinary day became an extraordinary day by my being free to follow this muse.

I’ve known children who want to be older
older people who dye to be young
people discontent with their lot in life
they can’t "be", they need to become

they hate Mondays… Can’t wait for Fridays…
they hate weekdays…Can’t wait for holidays
what about the in between?
break out of your routine
be there….be aware

some people don’t even know they’re alive
they take this gift for granted
looking at the world with blinders on
they don’t want to understand it

willful ignorance.. ignorance is bliss
willful ignorance I’ll tell you this: 
get off your butts and live
life has so much to give
be there… be aware

I’ve known people who’ve been emptied out
they feel like they’ve been living through hell
they wake up in the dark even though it’s not night
they’re living in a prison cell

if you can call that living… they’ve given up
abandoned dreams …  abandoned hope
I wish this wasn’t so, I want to share what I know
be there… be aware….

I’ve known people desperate to die
life’s menu caused them great pain
every day they’d ask themselves why
why should they do it again?

what can I tell them?….what can I say?
I never walked in their shoes… I’ve never felt that way
one thing I know for sure 
my love for life is pure
be there…. be aware

I’ve also known people who were desperate to live
not ready to give up the ghost
they felt that life had much more to give
and wanted to live it to the utmost

what’s the hurry?… breathe in the air…
why worry? …..just be aware…
be there… be aware…
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Orphans

Being a music teacher, I often get asked if I know anyone that would like a piano. This happens at least a half dozen times a year, and I am not even a pianist (although I do have a piano and I do play it). Usually the request is after the piano itself has been put up for sale and no one bit despite the price eventually being reduced to zero. 

It usually fills me with sadness. Today is no exception. A piano used to be as necessary as a refrigerator in a home. I feel that these objects that used to have and hold value and could be found in most middle class homes are no longer desirable in our hurried and mobile society. Gone the endless etudes and errors, gone the singalongs round the piano. My Uncle Charlie was great at making popular songs of the war era into hilariously lewd songs. When a piano is being used, vibrations fill the house and for those moments everything is safe. Everything is warm. Everything is worthwhile. Music connects us. Many of us get similar feelings from our guitars, but it is not quite the same as having a honking big piece of furniture that demands attention.

I understand. A piano takes up space and is expensive to maintain and/or move. Learning how to play requires a considerable commitment of time and effort.  The children have grown up and no one plays it anymore. It is easier to have an electronic keyboard, etc. which has a headphone Jack for not “disturbing” others.  Downsizing is important for an aging population. 

Artwork by Alex Kaysan

To me, the feeling evoked by an unwanted piano is like the compassion I feel for an old unwanted dog that has been given up for adoption. We have two old dogs already in our home (not to mention three little birds). We also have a piano (and keyboards) so I feel the need to help in the placement, but not at my house. 

What to do with it? I have helped some get into student’s homes. My sister had a great idea and got her piano placed at their local community centre and it will be used for choir rehearsals etc. Most churches often already have two or three pianos scattered around, but churches are closing or congregations merging. More pianos to get rid of. Schools (don’t get me started…) focus less on the arts and pianos can be found in the custodian’s lair gathering dust.

I love it when pianos are placed at random street corners in the city. I have seen and heard (and played) on several. Given our harsh climate though, these oases are merely temporary until the elements reclaim the usefulness of the piano rendering it fit for a landfill.

photo by Sharon Cheema

I wonder at how different the world would be if Oscar Peterson (for example) had not had a piano in his home, or Glenn Gould……….

As musical literacy and proficiency is becoming less important in our society, I can merely hope that the void left by this societal change will be filled in other creative and beautiful ways. 

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Last Train Home

My Aunt Betty was my mother’s older sister. My dad had, in fact gone on a few dates with her before he left Ottawa to attend McGill. This is not about that.

Aunt Betty was also my godmother, although my actual mother was more of a believer than Aunt Betty. Golf and curling were the main preoccupations of Aunt Betty and her husband, my Uncle John. Uncle John, too, was my godparent.

Theirs was a successful marriage that paralleled my parents. They had three girls and a boy, and my family was three boys and a girl.

Cancer struck both our families at roughly the same time. The kids were all either independent or in University. My dad’s cancer was treated successfully and he lived another twenty years. Uncle John was not as fortunate. He became bed-ridden and suffered for a drawn out nine years with my Aunt Betty essentially as his nurse/caregiver. Indentured servitude; Duty; Nine Years; Love and suffering; and being housebound were the words that spring to mind from my perspective of Aunt Betty’s life then.

When Uncle John finally succumbed, we were all sad, but relieved as well. Aunt Betty was very pragmatic and rebounded quite quickly. I understand because my mum had a lengthy illness and the mourning came long before her death.

Aunt Betty and Uncle John had many friends, among them a man named Alex and his wife. They would play golf together, bridge, curling, share dinners and vacations. Alex had assumed the same role as Aunt Betty in caring for his spouse as she faded and died around the same time as Uncle John.

Aunt Betty and Alex, who were already friends, leaned on each other and started to date. My cousins were scandalized. My mother horrified. I thought it was great! I had seen The Dead Poet’s Society and learned about Carpe Diem (seize the day). I never could understand cultures where widows wore black for the rest of their lives and just accepted their widowhood as defining them. Way to go Aunt Betty! Choose life! We did not usually talk about anything deep EVER! She loved me, but thought I was a weirdo and did not understand music and the arts at all. She took me aside that day and told me she was grateful for my support on this as “everybody else” was against her moving so quickly. I cherish that bond. Ever so slight.

My first love was a young woman who I fell hopelessly for while home at Christmas vacation while in my senior year. I was usually away at a boarding school that year(Don’t get the wrong impression. It was not posh, but more for boys who were struggling. Run by Religious Brothers. Not club med). She was in her first year of college, and home for the break as well. We saw each other for about a week and then carried on with a furious exchange of letters (hers scented) and in our young minds we really were over the top in love. We managed to see each other every other weekend and each time our attraction and affection grew deeper and deeper. I was 18 and was legal drinking age. We would stay out later and later and I’d drop her off and linger at her house. My girlfriend’s mum was a single mother and worked late as a waitress. Some nights she’d get home and would all sit around the kitchen table and we grew quite fond of each other. I liked this new arrangement. It had started to concern my parents, however. One very late night as I was driving home and unbeknownst to me, my mother called their home.

There was a decided shift in my relationships both with my parents and my girlfriend from that time forward. The “we don’t do that in MY family!” attitude threw a major blanket on our fire. This is the stuff of classic novels of love between people who were not on an even social footing. Romeo? Juliet? We remained friends for a while, planning to rekindle when I got to university, and we both admitted that the timing was not right. Regrets? Yes and no.

When I heard Last Train Home by Pat Metheny I was captivated by the melody, the harmony, everything about it really. I loved the 16th note chugging rhythms of the bass and drums, The track is perfect.

I always wanted to perform it, but slower and jazzier so I wrote lyrics melding the two stories of my Aunt and myself. I imagined that it was me getting together with the first love the way my Aunt was able to retrieve a life without loneliness. I am happily remarried, so my last train home doesn’t fit the story and the song doesn’t really pertain to me anymore, but I think there is a universality to the message of people finding either a soul mate that they didn’t seize in the past or a new mate that they never dreamed existed. All aboard!

https://ianhanchet.bandcamp.com/track/last-train-home

Music By: Pat Metheny
Lyrics By: Ian Hanchet

So many years since I saw your face
So many tears since our last embrace
Hidden love, forbidden love
And now I know the time has come
We both know where to go
Take the last train home

So many miles of railroad track
So many years of looking back
A taken love, forsaken love
The time to pay was yesterday
A big mistake, it’s time to take
Take the last train home

Second-hand love was a masquerade
The lives we built were a cheap charade
Those days are dead, now look ahead
The seeds are gone, the birds have flown
Fret no more, regret no more
Take the last train home
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What’s In A Name?

When I taught music full time I would greet each group with a hello song. This served several purposes. The first was to refresh my memory of each child’s name. You can imagine that in an elementary school of 200 plus children that it was easy to forget names of children that I saw for a half hour twice a week at most. The second was to gauge the room. to see who was eager and who was laying back. The children were seated on the floor in a circle (campfire style) with me as part of the circle and the song had as many verses as there were people in the room. Hearing or saying your name in a song is important. It is an affirmation that you matter. You exist. You are famous! I would include aides and If there were visitors in the room I would include them as well. It was all very Pete Seeger!

The song I used most of the time was a little ditty I made up called : “J’aime Mon Nom” Which translates to “I Love My Name”. The children would “patsch” (clap thighs and hands on alternating beats) and we’d all sing: “J’aime mon nom, J’aime mon nom, J’aime mon nom, J’aime mon nom” And then I’d sing and gesture to a child “Je m’appelle….” and the person chosen sang their name. This is a very effective way to read the room and get even the slightest effort and engagement from even the non-engaging students.

in the higher grades I would try and drop this because I already knew their names, and I had lots to stuff into the half hour together, but the children would ask for it, being lovers of routine. It didn’t hurt.

Teachable moments would arise from this according to the situation. On Hallowe’en I’d ask for the name of the character they were disguised as. Several times a child would say that they didn’t like their name so we’d change it to “Je N’aime pas mon nom”. We could use it to access different activities such as: your favourite hockey player’s name, your “girl/boyfriend” (imagine the giggles and/or horror), favourite breakfast, favourite teacher, etc. The opportunities for expression were only limited by the imagination, so, in my case, limitless.

One day, as a grade three class entered, I happened to have a rubber rat on my piano which piqued their curiosity. The reason I own a rubber rat is another short story which I will try to synopsize here.

Before teaching at the School Board I had worked for a decade as a music therapist with children with Autism, PDD, etc. Our Music Therapy room was in a basement of our school in Westmount. We were two therapists who usually worked together with small groups of children and their “shadows” (educators). One day my co-therapist wordlessly gave me the hand sign that she needed to use “the facilities” down the hall and I understood. When she returned, she was stammering and utterly speechless. I eventually made out through her gesturing the words “rat” and “dans la toilette”. She was utterly freaked out! I went down the hall and there was a small rat swimming in the toilet. I flushed, and it disappeared back into the sewers. Bye bye rat. We got some maintenance workers to install mesh and the problem was solved.

Until I saw a Hallowe’en toy at the dollar store…. A life size black rat with red eyes and a squeaker inside. OF COURSE I HAD TO HAVE IT. I bought it and when I got to work, I put it in my co-worker’s desk drawer. I was not in the room when she opened her drawer. I was upstairs, but I still heard her scream…. I got to the room and Marianne was standing outside the room making similar gestures to several days previous. I got the rat and showed her that it was a prank. The horror switched to anger and I was chopped liver for the rest of the day. The next day we were back to normal and she could laugh about her reactions. All was fine until a month later when the rubber rat “appeared” on the piano as Marianne was sitting down to play. This actually went on for months…. I even snuck it into her car!

So, that was the rat story. Back to the story at hand. The rat went into a box and followed me around to several schools and stayed in the box until I put it on my desk with the intention of “naming” it in a song.

I sat in the circle with the kids and said “I have a rat. The poor rat doesn’t have a name. Can we think up a name for a rat that has never been used before?” I sang: ” j’aime mon rat….” I named him something like “zgworrrdndillybop mc wa wa” as an example. I asked the children if they thought that name had ever been used before. As the song (and the rat)went around the circle, names like “Blackie” and “Ratty” were tried. I would ask the class if they thought those names had ever been used before. Most agreed they were not original. As we got further there were many creative examples: “George” , “Matilda”, ” Queen Rat” etc. Not original. Some children tried names in foreign tongues I would poll the class after every try and most agreed that there was a strong possibility that somewhere on earth at some point in time there was a rat that had received this name before. One kid tried “Ratatouille” and another said that was Disney’s imagination which set off even more discussion. It was all very educational and creative and fun. I then had an idea. I asked the class if they had ever heard the story of Rumpelstiltskin? To my amazement (and horror) none of them had!!!!!!!! I said “We are out of time, but I will read it to you next time. As fate would have it, I was reminded by a student that it was a double period that day as I was doing a favour to their teacher who had an appointment and it was a prep period for me. Woo Hoo!

I love stories! I love reading stories aloud to children. I was read to, I read to my own children and my nieces and nephews. I could not believe that by third grade, these children had not been exposed to this wonderful story.

I read it to them off the internet complete with “interjected lies” such as: “then they grabbed a burger at Harvey’s” just to see how attentive they were. I fielded questions throughout and I used all sorts of funny voices for the King, the girl, the imp, etc. The kids were rapt.

Their teacher arrived to take them back to their class and the kids all groaned. They told me that the story was amazing, the best class ever One boy asked where to get that story and told me that I “made the words come alive” and they never realized old stories could be so much fun. I was elated that it went so well, I saw little light bulbs lit.

Almost totally unplanned, yet hugely successful. My elation of having done a good job was tempered by a sadness that many of these kids did not have the same nurturing and opportunity and privilege that I enjoyed growing up.

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A Small Life

It’s been a small life

Caught somewhere between
Monumental and mundane

Between the roaring,
boastful beacon bonfire

Lucky lux

And the Kind Candle. 
Feeble flame flickering 

Trying to make 
a difference to the indifferent
A dent in the surface
To give meaning to absurdity

Fighting the current,
The reasons, 
the blames,
False titles,
Wrong  names

Finally accepting 
The ebbing tide. 
Not to drive, but
To finally ride

Who will be 
my eyes?
My ears?
my heart?

Who will remember
Ten years hence?
If not gone, going

But for today…..
Rejoice
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Bourgeois Suffering 

Sunday evening, while on a family zoom call, my brother-in-law used a term that was new to me, but the meaning of the term was extremely familiar. 

Earlier on Sunday, while grocery shopping, I was very frustrated with my shopping list which had several items on it that I had difficulty locating. There were crowded aisles and seemingly no workers to ask, my overcoat was too warm for being inside for longer than about five minutes and the omicron numbers in our province were way up. A recipe for me to get cranky. 

I was getting more and more grumpy as I went from one failure to procure to another. Even the things I did get were not quite right. I needed to get Rolled Oats (not quick). I checked the cereals. 32 different products and none of them were just oatmeal. I figured maybe they would be in the baking section. No. Maybe they were in the display of everything baking at the end of the aisle? Nope. I returned to the cereal section and found a box that did not use the word “Quick” (it did say “fast rising” or some other synonym.) I put it in the basket. Wrong!!!! I was also asked to get large zip-loc bags. There was a huge selection. I found Zip-Loc. I found large. I put it in the basket. Who knew that there are different kinds of large Zip Locs? Not me. What I bought was for vegetables and not cookies. I tried to call Sharon and see if she had any suggestions, but she was not picking up….. 

Usually I don’t let the small stuff bother me, but it was a perfect storm for exasperation and kvetching. I did not do this in public, but  did in private. . The rolled Oats SHOULD HAVE been where I looked for them! There SHOULD NOT have been so many confusing Zip Locks to choose from. There were TOO MANY people shopping and I was TOO hot. Woe IS ME!!!!

Bourgeois Suffering. A phrase coined by the Buddhist Nun Pema Chödrön.

It is sort of like “First World Problem” in that, the problem at hand is not life threatening, but an inconvenience to my entitlement. A mere blip on the radar of what is important in life.  

 I was once in line a few years ago to get a coffee at The Second Cup in Westmount. There was a “Karen” ahead of me who was freaking out on the kid barrista because the franchise had run out of Mocha flavouring. The woman was quite rude and nasty to this poor kid. I was next in line and when it was my turn, I jokingly said “I guess I shouldn’t order a Mocha then?” and the the Barrista said in all seriousness: “Welcome To My Ghetto!”. I stored that away and wrote a song about it. 

Another story from around the same time was when I was sitting in my car waiting for someone and doing a cryptic crossword when the car ahead of me backed up and hit my car. I was immediately getting all my testosterone gathered to give this person a blast of shit when he scurried toward me and I rolled down my window. He said “Please forgive me!” which blew my testosterone out of the water. “Of course!” I replied. 

When I take a step back and see how silly my attitude can be in the face of trivial problems, I reset my attitude from entitlement to gratitude and things go much better. 

On Sunday, people in my age group became eligible for the booster shot (3d vaccine) and I went on-line to book, but the site kept crashing. I’d either “time out” or the slot I was hoping for became unavailable. I got frustrated but shrugged and gave up after about 30 minutes. Sharon had two devices going trying to do the same for me and she got quite flustered as well by something she could not change. She gave up after 45 minutes. I decided to try my luck with walk-in (sans rendezvous) on Monday. I tried three locations without success.

Meanwhile Sharon got me a reservation on-line for tomorrow. 

I will probably always have the feeling of Bourgeois suffering to go with my white privilege, but I have the tools to keep it in check and stay healthy. Gotta remember that “Namasté” and “Fuck You” are opposites and the first is harder to access, but better for me.

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Dave Gossage Sep7et (a fan’s perspective)

Where do I start? Last night I attended another concert at Café Resonance on Av. du Parc by this wonderful assemblage of Montreal area musicians playing the music of flautist Dave Gossage.

Let me begin by saying that in Montreal it is a rare thing to hear seven musicians playing high caliber Jazz outside of festival or concert settings, but in a café, it is almost unheard of. I try and catch them every time. Every time I go home smiling ear to ear.

Visually, the ensemble is striking. The front line consists of Dave himself looking like a wild lion maned wizard stage right with his electronic arsenal of effects that makes the word “flute” seem basic. He uses these effects Svengali-like to great advantage, making the breath of humanity into a nuclear hurricane or a murmuration of birds and anything in between. To his left, Alto and Bari sax player Samuel Blais (who also employed electronics (but more as colouration) and Tenor saxophonist Frank Lozano whose appearance as mild mannered accountants belies their fiery and intense expressionism on their horns. Stage left was the domain of stoic guitarist Steve Raegele (who resembles a medieval Norman soldier from a Monty Python film) sporting a hybrid cream coloured custom Stratocaster made by local luthier Ted Stevenson. His tidy lines and thoughtful counter melodies offering clean, subtle but integral support to the music. When he took a solo, he’d kick into overdrive and roar past the others like a sports car jumping a queue with tires spinning and engine racing.

Behind the front line, the rhythm section of David Guttierez Osei-Afrifa on piano and synthesizer(s), Double Bassist Adrian Vedady and drummer Rich Irwin. This time around, my sight line of these three was perfect. The movement and expressive body language of these three being as entertaining as their superb musicianship. David sometimes supporting “conventionally” on piano and sometimes offering other worldly sounds on his synths and bank of Gizmos. His sounds always delighting and surprising without overtaking. One of his solos, mind you, sounded like middle period Chick Corea with soaring melodies and liberal use of the “bend” feature on his synth while always his entire body was swaying and writhing entirely inside the music. The ubiquitous Adrian Vedady was the only musician on stage (besides the tenor) who went straight into an amp sans effects. He was basically (pun intended) holding everything together with his superb, deep, round sound, his solid sense of time and his aura of trustworthiness as he bobbed his head and was seemingly chanting the somewhat tricky ostinato lines of Dave’s music. Rich Irwin on drums and electronic drums also held things together rhythmically and confidently. Not only did I feel that his beat could be trusted, but his creative bursts and his personality not only supported, but elevated the music. The several other times (pre-Covid) that I saw the band, I did not have clear sight lines for the drums. He is super fun to watch.

The music itself (all written by David Gossage) which varied from funky and bombastic to pastoral and sweetly melodic might be considered “challenging” to the casual listener much as trying to follow a conversation in another language might be a challenge. I think that even though one might not “understand” the language, these men displayed their distinct personalities fully in what struck me as a collective love fest. This music is not about fame or money, although I’m pretty sure either would be a welcomed bonus. To me, the Dave Gossage Septet is about musical friends who are so different from each other coming together as a cooperative and creating light in the relative darkness of our wounded world.

I hope that there will be more offerings from this outfit in the near future. I’ll be there. You should be too!

a few snippets from a crappy phone

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Micro-Rich

I am re-reading “Palm Sunday” and all of the other works of Kurt Vonnegut Jr. in my library which I mostly read when I was in my twenties. I like re-reading things. I have recently re-read Mark Twain, C.S. Lewis, Steinbeck, etc. 

Sharon thinks it’s nuts. She reads voraciously and is single handedly keeping Chapters/Indigo in business. She seldom re visits a book. She moves forward in her knowledge.

My thinking on the matter is this: if a book made me feel a certain way once, and it was a pleasurable experience, why not read it again? It is the same book, but I am not the same “me”. I could read a new book,sure, and I do, but have I gotten everything I could have out of the books I already own?

If I go to a favourite restaurant, I order what I like. For example, at Mr. Steer it is a #2. I don’t go there any more since they ruined the decor from cowboy kitsch to generic corporate crap, but the #2 was the bomb! I like to return to things that I know I will like. Today, I had a new sandwich from Premiere Moisson. It was not one that I had had before, neither was it as good. Tried and true works.

I like to watch movies more than once as well. I must have seen The Wizard Of Oz, Blade Runner, Apocalypse Now and The Big Lebowski at least six times each. 

Sometimes watching a movie that influenced me profoundly at an earlier time can lead to disappointment on re visit. “Easy Rider” was that for me. I found it shallow and trope filled and obvious. I learned much from that re visit. 

Music is something I re listen to as well. I hear nuances with each new listen, and my tastes change over time. I love Ornette Coleman now, but didn’t have ears at first. I have softened my opinion on John Denver recently and listened pleasurably. I don’t immediately barf when I hear Abba anymore. 

Any artist would be glad to be revisited. Appreciating art takes time. There is no way I could read/watch/listen to everything new, I take time and love things I know I love. If an author/artist I love comes up with some new material, I give it a listen, likewise if I find an artist I am unfamiliar with whose music I like, I search out more of their stuff. I get much pleasure from music that has existed for a long time. I am listening to Billie Holiday and Lester Young repeatedly this week. So old, so new. So great.

We are all running out of time. Appreciation of the arts takes time. A glance at a painting is not enough, music playing in the background is not enough, being unable to recall scenes in a movie, or unable to discuss at length the nuances of a novel are indications that we may have only scratched the surface.. go deep or go home…..

I don’t have the kind of mind that gathers info and spews facts. I can’t be omnipotent, or even close to it.

I know a little about a lot,  And I know a lot about a little. 

I love being micro-rich

I like to linger. To savour, to immerse myself in what I am experiencing. I’d rather visit a few countries intimately than tour the world in a whirlwind. 

When you find love, love. 

Posted on by Ian Hanchet

Roll into Tim’s to win….

We didn’t have adequate milk supply at the cottage, so We visited one of the Tim Horton franchises in Lachute on Saturday so Sharon could have a latté. I placed the order via the intercom and as I approached the window of the drive-thru with five bucks in hand the Tim’s worker on duty handed me the coffee and said “la madame en avant à déjà payer ton café”! Sharon insisted I give the cashier the 5$ as a tip, which the lady tried to refuse, but ultimately accepted. Win/win, right?

Yesterday we had to return to Lachute to get a baking thermometer and my sister asked if we could pick up 2 dark double doubles for her and my bro-in-law. We saw that there was a huge lineup at the same drive through, so I said “f…. it” and we drove past and up the hill to Canadian Tire for the thermometer. There was another Tim’s there, so I drove in to the parking lot, but the lineup was very long, so I thought maybe going inside and ordering would be faster. The lineup was such that I didn’t even get inside, and in the five minutes I stood there not budging, no one came out either. Again I aborted and thought we’ll just forget about the coffees. As we retraced our trip back into the centre of town, Sharon saw that the lineup there had shrunk to only a few cars. I turned in and ordered three drinks and got to the cash where the same lady served me and said “bon appetite” in the way that some English people mangle the french language on purpose(like merci buckets) and then repeated what had happened the day before: “La madame en avant à déjà payer” only this time she closed her window as fast as my dropping jaw so I couldn’t pay her a tip. It was completely surreal. How can this rarity occur twice in a row? On the way back to the cottage Sharon and I discussed the absurdity of it all and posited several theories about what may have happened and why. I think this may be how conspiracy theories get invented. Was it a Thanksgiving thing? Did she recognize my voice and decide to repay the tip from the previous day? Was it a Tim Horton Illuminati plot that tracks Anglos in green jeeps? Maybe it was a special effort by Tim’s to make people more generous and sell more coffee, or maybe it is just that some people are just kind and enjoy surprising others. It was fun. We were surprised and thankful and it put smiles on our faces. 

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Small Town,Main Street, Saturday Night.

On Saturday, Sharon and I were tasked with getting pizza for the gang (my brothers, sister and all our spouses). Our rental cottage was in the hills outside of Brownsburg which is very near the town of Lachute where I had gone to High School fifty years ago.

Lachute is a hub for the surrounding agricultural community and is a fairly large small town. When I was a teen the place to get pizza from was Princess Pizza. My exact memory of that place is gone, but when I got to Main Street I did remember another place with booths that I had gone to as well. Chez Carole was still there, so I went in and ordered three huge pizzas “to go”. They told me it would be about twenty-five minutes so I went out to wait in the car with Sharon. 

The layout of the street is somewhat like a very wide boulevard. When I visit this street, I am always reminded of 50’s era movies of American small towns and/or small town scenes painted by Edward Hopper. They used to have angled (zig zag) parking, but switched to parallel.

There is parking next to the sidewalks and on either side of the median. I was parallel parked next to the median facing east. When I got in the car after placing the order Sharon remarked on the number of motorcycles and mullets she had seen. I replied “Small town, Main Street, Saturday Night” as an explanation. Clusters of teens walking in groups, older couples looking for a place to dine out, etc. Driving up and down the street itself were several restored vintage cars and many Harley Davidson motorcycles.

We watched a couple on the other side of the median getting prepared to mount their bike. Each article of biker clothing carefully put on in a ritual dance. Chaps tightened, vests attached, bandanas adjusted helmets fastened and sunglasses donned. Then some little stretches and the rider got on followed by the driver who had an extra adjustment of his junk before straddling his hog, kicked off the kick stand and fired up the electronic ignition. They rode away slowly and deliberately showing off their leather and poise. I said to Sharon that everyone is on parade tonight.

Just then we saw two identical fire engine red Mazda convertible sports cars in tandem. They slowed and the first driver made a gesture to the following driver and they parallel parked in unison. I was amazed. It was like some synchronized swimming choreography we were watching. They backed in as if attached and then went forward about a foot and then back about half that, all in unison. The passenger doors opened as one and two former trophy brides got out and turned to watch the tops of the cars glide into place and then the two drivers struggled to get out. I recognized the effort of two large bald men with bad knees attempting to look effortless. They succeeded and rounded their vehicles to join their companions and cross toward a restaurant. It struck me at the time how unhappy they presented and I imagined that the men had probably been relevantly employed in industry, but had been cruising on their initial success for the last twenty years and now were too entrenched in their ways to be able to handle any change. The expressions on the faces of the female companions had a strange fadedness to them. Bottled blondes in clothes just a wee bit too tight and shoes that pretended to be stylish, but weren’t. 

I thought that maybe these people were former classmates of mine (they certainly could have been) disguised by fifty years. My imagination placed them in this same scenario every week-end since the mid seventies. I could see at a glance that they played golf, but probably didn’t enjoy it. 

As they walked away (still synchronized on auto-pilot) I forgave myself for being so judgemental and turned to look at Sharon and I was filled with thankfulness for her, for the week-end away, for the time with my siblings at Thanksgiving.

photo by Sharon Cheema