A LOOK INSIDE by Douglas Blair

A LOOK INSIDE The Scribe Tips his Hand

C. Doug Blair, 2011

A Look Inside

"The problem is that you have told so many lies, you no longer know the difference between truth and error. You are extremely backslidden and you know the issues. I don't have to tell you, and I won't. Part of you wants God, but then part stubbornly resists and refuses to repent." The speaker's face manifested a knowing grin to reinforce the fact that no one was being fooled here. "You know that I am a prophet of God, and that they are always misunderstood, and called terrible things which they are not, both in public and in secret. But then Jesus said that we, the believers would be persecuted for righteousness sake. The more the anointing, the more the persecution and abuse. And you, honey, are doing what they are doing in a measure. Your insistence on these debilitating anti-psychotic drugs being just one of the abuses. And the doctors really just don't care. In my case they want to stifle the gift. And I am to pray, and pray for big issues. That is what God has given me to do." 1

And from the other, "I'm sorry but in your case many of these upsetting scenarios are just not happening. They are imagined and they are wasting your time and attentions." End of discussion. Different rooms and different pass-times for a while. Then a re-appearance with a request: "Honey I'm bored. Feeling awfully cooped up in here. Can we go out for a little drive and a coffee? We'll just park somewhere and talk. No fuss." Behold the yo-yo life of a partner to the mentally ill. But covenant partners "in sickness and in health". And the kids lumped in with the stress.

STRATFORD SHIPS OF STATE

On the courtly banks of Avon, With the theatre in view, And the audience-in-waiting, And the picnics, not a few. We come yearly to remember Where our marriage troth was set, To rehearse that night of magic When these hearts were firmly knit Now the play had been the reason For our trip from out-of-town; But the ring was in my suit-coat, And my Queen in gorgeous gown. And the dinner was delightful, 2

And the promenade stream-side. ‘Cross the bridge out to the island. Would she come back o’er my bride? She had surely seen it coming. And the question popped with ease. And the snap-shot still reflects Her glowing face, so quick to please. And the swans sailed past the island With their canvas spread in state, And their lowered necks, acknowledged, “Yet another finds his mate.” Then the fanfare called the audience To the dimming lights, the play. But the Main Event was ours, not theirs, By Avon, that fair day! Note: Thirty-seven years ago. Magical! Hilary and I often return to Stratford. The play that night was entitled "She Stoops to Conquer" (Oliver Goldsmith). Can't remember much about it. Other things on our minds. Thank God for my wife.

DUKE AND DUCHESS

Watching a movie this evening about English aristocracy, Hilary and I were reminded of our holiday trip to England and Scotland the year before our daughter was born. A dream come true to avid students of English literature, art, history and Scottish 3

culture. Lovers of the current monarchy. Lovers of theatre, old architecture, darts, shepherd's pie. Seashores, cathedrals, heather covered hills. The list goes on. But almost in the same breath this evening, the two of us blurted out "Blenheim Palace". This is the home of the Dukes of Marlborough (pronounced "Mollbra"), the family of Sir Winston Churchill. The night before we had lodged in Oxford, drizzling wet, gray ancient buildings. Too tired and late to sight-see. But we had a delightful conversation in a common room with a foreign exchange student, a girl form the east, who simply needed some companionship and a few smiles as she adjusted to the big English centre of learning. Our little stints at UWO in London, Ontario seemed small by comparison. Back at our room we were delighted to see that BBC One featured a nature documentary on the Scottish Highlands and a dramatic presentation on the Battle of Britain entitled "Churchill and the Generals". We were being primed for what lay ahead. To our pleasant surprise we were up early the next morning. The sun was shining. After a hearty British breakfast of fruit, bacon, eggs, kippers and "stiff" toast we were down the road to the palace, arriving long before visitors' hours. Parking the car we decided to wander the beautiful landscaped grounds in the forefront, complete with man-made lake, swooping stone bridge, wood lot, sculptured shrubs and lush lakeside pathways. Suddenly we noticed two on horseback coming from the far end of the lake toward us as we stood on the bridge. They appeared to be in their young forties, handsome, dressed smartly in riding attire. They gave us warm smiles and a ready "good mowning". The unspoken comment was that it was pleasant to meet in this uncommon, private, quiet part of the day. 4

I can still visualize my wife, back towards me, hands in her trench-coat pockets, watching the two riders progress up the cinder roadway toward the impressive columned palace. Then it dawned on us! Who would have liberty to ride these beautiful grounds during the off-hours? The Duke and Duchess. Once inside the palace we saw the portraits confirming our supposition. Now the ironic part is that in former years Hilary's family had nick-named her "the Duchess" and my high school basketball chums had nicknamed me "Duke". There you have it! The Duke and Duchess drop in on the Duke and Duchess. You may not be getting anything out of this. No matter. It is for us. Thanksgiving is both a delight and a tonic. We remember that beautiful time. Four days after our fifth anniversary, which was September 21st, Battle of Britain Day, 1979. Shortly thereafter, ten months to be precise, little Lauren arrived.

RECIDIVIST

So who is my client? Oh, you are my client. We'll be so suppliant today. I've read through the brief, The carnage and grief, And for swift relief we should pray. They have an eye-witness 5

A clerk in the business Who saw through the mask and the gun. A friend of your neighbour's. For whom you've done favours, And shared in some barbecue fun. They've dusted the till. Your prints on it still. Like those from your last B and E. And leaving the shop, Oh why did you stop To grin at their in-house TV? Once out on the street, What luck had you meet A school-mate who noticed the pouch? Bold faced and secure, What made you so sure He'd missed the shop's name on it- Ouch! Around the next block Your chum had his talk With lawman now hailed to the scene. You stayed on that street A rare ringside seat. You should have put mileage between. Then tired of such fun, 6

You started to run, And lawman took note of your flight. And taxi-cab fare Took you right to where The cruiser came later that night. I'll try to be straight Your prospects aren't great. I think we should deal for a plea. I have expertise To bargain on these. Oh, why won't you listen to me? I wish it weren't so. You could let me go. And turn to that man with the rings. Yes, that one right there With all the blond hair, Big brief-case and braggarty things. Oh he's a sharp lawyer. A witness destroyer. An eagle come down from his perch. I'll give him your file. And in a short while, I'll be at my next title search.

BABY’S COLIC (1987)

He’s up again, And crying for some cause Best known to him. His mother needs more rest. So, it’s my turn. And with him now Some midnight oil will burn. It’s such a mess: My business gone to pot. And awkward friends Would rather stare. “A lawyer in a stew.” Some of them care. A sharp young lawyer? Not. The baby came. And even in this squeeze There is some joy. A bright-eyed little boy His sister takes in hand. Yet times are rough. It’s hard to understand. We cuddle now. And in the tattered sofa Find some peace. No longer squirming for release. His eyes fast shut. 8

Like some pink toy. I’d never harm the boy. Alone, I lounge To cadence of a clock. But not alone. Inside I hear Him talk. The Holy One, Assuring me 'I’d never harm you, Son.'

A NASTY ON THE NARCISSIST

I want to be straight with visitors to this blog. Numbers are clicking in. Few are commenting. It is a creative release for an aging man. It is a record for friends and family. It is a communication of faith and hope. It is a celebration of verse. It is a recollection of acquaintances of helpful influence. It is a wandering together on the sea shore, picking up and examining beautiful shells of God's creation. But this Christ follower has made mistakes. The one which I wish to share concerns my family. All loving, fun, generous and supportive. Back in 1987 Hilary and I were living in Chatham, observing a law practice going down the tubes, conducting a home school for seven year old Lauren, preparing to abandon our little rented house on Queen Street, changing diapers for a new baby boy, feeling misunderstood by family in our religious experience, feeling set aside in the community where talk traveled fast. There had been arguments with both sets of parents about our religious "fanaticism" and the severe cost of home schooling. 'Had not they done well by 9

us?' Hilary and I decided to shut off all contact and to pray. We saw love and holy intention in this. That perhaps somehow we had become stumbling-blocks. We were wrong. The situation continued for five or six years. My job history in Kitchener-Waterloo was crazy and erratic. Forced into situations requiring skills which before I had never touched as an academic and legal jouster. I remember driving by London, the old home-town and weeping and wondering. We did not attend my brother Scott's wedding to Kelly, a charming girl whom we had both known through summer camp. We did not attend my great Aunt Mary's funeral. We were not there to comfort my Mom when her beloved cousin Dalton died in California. We blew it! Then just as abruptly we issued an awkward half-apology and welcomed a reconnection. The first to arrive at our front porch, smiling in sunglasses was brother Scott. I didn't recognize him. How pathetic. But gradually and with much consideration the doors re-opened. They need more re-opening. Sand is going through the time-glass. Now why am I casting this sad message abroad? Catharsis? Making amends? Some people out there, new in their Christian experience are encountering difficulties. They are being told to tone it down, and wisely so. They need to hold off drastic measures "for the Lord" and gain size and substance and balance and relevance in their walk of faith. They do not need to "slash and burn" and then to call it a cross which must be born for Jesus. Perhaps they are navel-gazers and self-absorbed in getting fixed up. Perhaps they are proud with a new sense of "giftedness". They need to rub shoulders and share love with all sorts of people. Christ did. And He saw all the ones "come in" as planned. The Pentecostal and Holiness folk are quick to consider their testimony as crucial and irreplaceable. It isn't. It is just a part of the whole. God's will is being done because He is God. 10

I love that song by Steve Curtis Chapman entitled "God is God (And I Am Not)". It is one of our video strips here.

RAILROAD FAMILY

My Dad has a real soft spot for railroads. As a youth he would accompany his grandfather "Lug" Watson, a locomotive engineer, on rides on the London and Port Stanley Railway to the docks at Lake Erie. His "Uncle Bill" Watson was also an engineer in the Sarnia and Michigan area. I remember Uncle Bill very fondly. He and Aunt Betty would often drop by at my parents' home whenever shopping or the horse races or an itch for a drive would bring them to London. Uncle Bill's voice belonged in a much larger man. He was loud because of his living with my widowed and somewhat deaf greatgrandmother Elizabeth Watson. It was surprising for me to learn in later years that Bill had once had a real struggle with alcoholism. Petite and smiling Betty and Elizabeth had seen him through the ordeal. (I never once saw my Aunt Betty upset or downcast. She ran variety stores in Sarnia and would often arrive with exotic Yankee candies for Scott and me. Even widowed and taking the bus to visit us, she was all smiles.) Bill and Betty loved our little dachshund "Otto", and the dog always got first loud welcome when they arrived. Simple, resilient, hardworking, thankful people who REALLY enjoyed their years in retirement together. I will tell a story of Lug Watson. He and an associate were crossing the townships of Elgin County. The railroad line intersected a dirt country road at a very sharp angle with the road somewhat hidden by a hedge. They did not see the little old green-grocer in his dilapidated truck approaching the intersection. CRASH! Cucumbers, lettuce, potatoes, pots and metal parts flying all over the place. The two men in the locomotive only suspected what had happened and they hit the brake. Often they had waived to this merchant in their travels. Was he alive? 11

Once stopped they left the cab to the sound of pathetic whimpering up front. How surprised they were to find the little Jewish merchant intact, crouched on the "cow-catcher" and hugging the head-lamp! Before long, the three of them were rolling on the ground in laughter and much relieved. Years later in retirement my Dad visited the Railroad Museum under development in St.Thomas. Their guide told of a project to re-build one of the old L.and P.S. engines. He pointed to a black and white photo on display, and there was "Lug", standing proudly in front of his old charge. Dad now has a copy of that picture hanging in the den.

THE DANISH SIDE

My mother is not much of a story-teller. Dad has that propensity. Mom was always the good listener, sitting often at the kitchen table, hearing out the teenage boy with his many challenges. I always treasured her support. Words, though few, were appropriate and loving. She was extremely artistic. Oil paintings of scenes and still life. Tasteful backyard gardens. The finest of popular music on the high fidelity record player - Tony Bennett, Frank Sinatra, Keelie Smith, Julie Andrews, Percy Faith, Mantovani and Henry Mancini. There were times when she had to be both mother and father, Jack taking to the road in his Regional Manager's position with Dominion Rubber. On one such occasion she suffered the undeserved guilt of being on the watch when her son was on a construction site and throwing stones with another boy. An errant stone took out about sixty percent of the vision in my right eye. Mom had not had an easy upbringing. At age fourteen she lost her mother, Hertha (nee Jaeger) to a heart attack. Her father Ken Roberts, English-born, tried valiantly to hold things together. He was a commercial painter and a crack local athlete - softball, lane bowling, lawn bowling. Daughter Beverley held in some 12

secret pain, began to gain weight, felt out of place. But then Danish aunts came to the rescue. Mary and Lillian, sisters to the deceased Hertha. These were robust, jovial Danske folk. Mary had married a local musician, Stuart McKenna. Lillian's husband was Pete Belcher, a cab driver. The female comfort and counsel took hold and Beverley began to blossom in high school - glee club, basketball. Then off to nurse's training at Victoria Hospital. Aunt Mary suffered the early loss of Stuart. Her beloved son Dalton joined the American Navy for the war and became an American citizen with Hollywood friends. Dalton was the practical joker, hockey enthusiast, construction engineer, traveling to distant places with exotic projects. He would always, and I mean ALWAYS make his mother laugh. He was the closest thing to a brother for Bev. My parents happily visited him in California. His third and final wife, Laurie was an airline executive. Lillian and Pete lost in a couple of attempts to have children. This would draw Lil even closer to Bev and her two sons. I always remember Aunt Lil for her considerate gifts and cards, which seemed all the more precious because she did not have much money. She worked as a switchboard operator at Hotel London. Her voice was perfect, "I'll connect you." Surprisingly she also suffered threatening bouts of emphysema. Mary was married again to a local optometrist, Perce Dawkins, and the two lived comfortably. They got my parents involved in the Gyro Service Club with many memorable meetings, projects and parties. These women remain all that I really know about my Danish side. Of course I have the stereotypical images of pastries, dairy cattle, blue cheese, seas in every direction, herring, Hans Christian Anderson, Jenny Lind, Victor Borge and the history of Vikings in longboats. Perhaps only the people really matter anyway. I can still see the fair-skinned, 13

rosy-cheeked, costumed sisters smiling, hugging and singing Christmas carols at their beloved Beverley's holiday dinner.

WHAT A DEPARTURE!

My mother-in-law, Betty Hourd was born in Dutton a small village southwest of London and largely of Scottish stock. Her father David Dow was the local dentist and was often paid in kind during the Depression. Her mother Katherine was a second wife and had two children by David, Betty and Lorne (a lawyer in Woodstock). Hilary tells me nothing but good reports about her Nana Dow with whom she spent many a summer holiday at the beautiful Vansittart Ave. home. Tales of shopping, basket in arms, theatre- going, swimming at the local park, etc. After an unhappy stint of one year at University of Toronto, Betty came to Western in London, at a time when there were only two buildings on campus and the campus was well outside the city limits. There she met the love of her life, Charles Rayburn, a dark-haired business student, gymnast and boxer. Charlie felt led into the furniture business with his father, the historic Hourd and Company Limited, going back to 1867 and once located at the corner of Dundas and Richmond, but latterly at Quebec Street in the east end. When control was relinquished and father Rayburn passed away, Charlie became fully apprised of the debt, a significant one. He also contracted bone cancer of the jaw, and the banker showed no mercy. Betty meanwhile was raising the children, Whitney (1943), Cameron (1946) and Hilary (1952). Had it not been for the lending help of dear friends, Don and Lillian Wright of London, Charlie never would have made it through the squeeze. His lyrical and buoyant Scottish wife was his never-downcast support. His name was entered in the medical journals for a novel and successful bone transplant from 14

hip to jaw. The old debt got paid. Eventually manufacturing ceased and the factory became a rented warehouse proposition. Charlie pursued life insurance underwriting with great success, serving in a very significant way the London professional and academic communities. Betty took up supply teaching. The old neighbourhood on Thornton Ave. changed many times over. The happy connection with St.John the Evangelist Anglican Church continued. Betty sang in the choir. Charlie acted as Warden on the Board, and applied his extraordinary carpentry and joining skills everywhere. Back room of the house, cottage at Port Stanley, furniture for friends and family. The children married and moved away... Fast forward to 2005. Betty resides in a senior care facility, having undergone three heart attacks. (She died on the table once.) Charlie continues at the family residence with day-to-day house-keeping help. But his decline is quick and he dies in December. The service is a beautiful one at the old church the day before Christmas. Betty and friends and family stand at a winter grave in Mount Pleasant. A decision is made by Whitney, who has provided the lion's share of visitation and practical support to Betty, to have her moved to a Port Stanley facility. There she makes the absolute best of her stay, becoming a staff favourite, helping in the kitchen, chatting with anyone who will engage, singing the old show tunes which she had so enjoyed in the Don Wright Chorus during the war. The end comes in February 2007. Finally I get to the point of this piece and the title! On the final morning, Betty was found awake by the early shift nurse at about 6:00 A.M. With a smile on her face she raised herself in the bed and exclaimed, "Oh, am I ever glad that you are here." That was all. She lay back down and breathed her last.

Why such a departure? I believe that she was holding on long enough to let someone know there was no trauma and no regret. She was ready. This account was of great comfort when re-told to friends and family at the funeral. That was the day of a terrible ice-storm in London, but people came to celebrate and give thanks. A good woman. Eighty-nine years here. "Now a beautiful vine blooming on the other side of the wall." (Rutherford)

WARNING! GRAPHIC ROMANCE!

"WARNING! Some scenes in this Film Festival contain incidents of graphic romance." Then followed four delightful Cary Grant movies on the public television station. We chuckled at the humour of the ad in light of the sexual content in most films today. But there is really a sad comment here. Modern viewers might in fact be offended by the tameness and slow, hopeful pace of these films. Current fare presents key characters in hasty liaisons of convenience and chemistry only. Desperate people in desperate times interested largely in their glands and quick gratification. Consider also the reality shows on television, The Bachelorette, for example. I must admit that I find the dynamic of the competition to be interesting. Dozens of hopeful young men get virtually minutes to make some lasting impression upon the one woman looking for a husband. And viewers get to watch it all - the awkwardness, the stunts, the fleeting intimacy, the pathetically short monologues which represent, supposedly, some sort of honest self-disclosure. Will viewing young people get to see this as the norm for a search in today's market for a helpmate? 16

Admittedly most young men groan at the prospect of a "chick-flick". Perhaps such films suggest the young woman's longing for a slowly developing hope, coupled with chivalry, gentleness, small niceties and gradually developing dialogue on the condition of the heart. The first kiss used to be a target of some significance. There was much delight to the imagination...BUT NOW? This past weekend we were called down quickly to be bedside with my Father, age 88, at University Hospital in London where treatment will now focus on a tumour in the brain. He had suffered stroke-like symptoms overnight and was left all of Saturday with bodily thrashing and awkward speech. We hardly know what lies ahead. At one point and for several seconds he extended his hand behind himself and toward the foot of the bed where my Mother was seated. HE WANTED TO HOLD HER HAND! Romance may still be found. Bravo!

SMACK OF A KISS

It was Saturday and I was on duty at the grocery store. From around the corner of the aisle I could hear a loud smack and then a giggle. Curious, I went over to find a Middle Eastern man leaning over his grocery cart to give his two year old daughter another kiss. She was a beautiful child with arresting eyes and long midbrown hair. For the moment she was delighting in Daddy's attention, unaware of others around, unaware I think of her own beauty. Another man stood to the side. Probably the uncle. His expression to me said, 'Oh yes, I must wait this through. He gets this way often with the child.' The spontaneity of gushing love was a treat to see. A little later having searched the aisles with a customer looking for a product, I 17

returned to the dairy section to find a tall man standing alone and evidently impatient. "May I help you find something, sir?" "No, thanks, I'm just waiting, waiting for HER." I turned to see a woman in her upper thirties in a motorized wheelchair. I looked again at the man and his expression to me suggested, 'What a treat, eh? Dragging HER around like this.' The wife said a few words about a product offer. Her speech was a little slow. With four words he dismissed her suggestion and walked on ahead again. The woman hit the joystick control on her chair to follow the husband. Probably with no small difficulty through the crowds in the check-out lines, through the busy, pre-occupied traffic in the parking lot and into their specially adapted vehicle. The look on her departing face was still a loving one for that good-looking big fellow up ahead. I thought to myself, what a contrast between these two men with their girls. But how could I judge. This life deals out some hard hands.

WEDDED TO YOU

I was having real difficulty getting to sleep. Mind racing. Numerous topics of anxiety. Money. Job stress. Health issues in the family. Future and career for the children. It seemed as if I had to go over all of them before I would allow myself to sleep. Finally at about 3 A.M. I conked out. I am usually a solid sleeper with few dreams. It was unusual therefore that I 18

would be pulled out of sleep at about 5:15 A.M. In my spirit I heard the words,"I am wedded to you". I awoke. Not at all groggy, and began to contemplate what I had just heard. I felt remarkably refreshed. Often I have joked with male friends about trying to get my head and heart around the concept of being part of the "Bride" of Christ. Women have little trouble warming up to the image of the perfect husband. Men often opt out with the concept of a team coach or military Captain who is with them in the fray. But no,we are Bride material! Looking at my own wife, I know that I know we are knit as one. She could do nothing which would turn my affections away seriously. She is my closest experience of unconditional love. I will always put things in the best possible light concerning her. "Love thinketh no evil." Recently some reading from the book of Job impressed me with the standing of man and wife before God. In the dialogue between God and Satan the enemy had been allowed to attack everything of Job's (children, servants, flocks, herds, beasts of burden, crops) but not his life. His wife lived because apparently God did see the two of them as an inseparable unit! Now let us take this privileged position of spouse and apply it to the Bride of Christ. Joint heirs. Inseparable. Mutually submissive. Growing unity of thought and purpose. Yeah, I certainly want to be in on that! And now perhaps I can read the comments of the old Scottish divines a little more comfortably. They were always seeing themselves in the context of the Beloved in the Song of Solomon or as Ruth in that delightful tale of marriage. Imagine hardy Scottish Covenanters heading to the wilds and resisting the King's dragoons to the death for the sake of truth and presbytery. Brides, or rather part of the Bride! Grace now seems a little clearer. Many teachers have often told me that there is 19

no effort on my part which would make God love me more: neither is there any error or stumbling which would make Him love me less. He is ravished by his Bride. I leave you with the beautiful thought expressed by Naomi to Ruth in chapter three of that book: 18 Naomi said, "Sit back and relax, my dear daughter, until we find out how things turn out; that man isn't going to fool around. Mark my words, he's going to get everything wrapped up today." (The Message)

GUTSY PRAYER

"Pastor, teach us to pray." The two young couples approached Eugene Peterson in absolute earnest. They felt that their prayers were awkward, insincere, imitative, short and ineffectual. "Why don't you take a good look at the Psalms. King David was a man who knew how to pray. He covered most of the situations which you will face. Study his approach." Weeks passed and the Pastor heard no more, but then a somewhat apologetic knock at the door of his study. "It doesn't seem to be helping, sir. The King James language seems so archaic and foreign. We cannot get at the heart of David through it all." 'Well friends, said Peterson, 'that is unfortunate because those prayers were really quite visceral, frank, elemental and unrestrained. If David were ticked off he let God know. If desperate he hollered out for help. If joyful, the very heartstrings sang. Perhaps I might attempt a paraphrase of a couple of them to break 20

the ice for you.' Thus began the much celebrated paraphrase of the entire Bible which we now recognize as "The Message". Those young couples discovered a prayer life which was spontaneous, honest, unvarnished and delightfully personal. They were coming closer to God's heart. Hearing from Him. Pleading in ways consistent with His will. Becoming angry where He was angry. Chuckling at the things that humoured Him. Delighting over His victories. It took for them the vernacular and street-wise which Peterson had incorporated into his texts. At a time of personal crisis, and not too long ago, I found myself examining Peterson's text and walking dark streets, yelling out at God in very direct terms about the need. He was not offended. He visited me. He settled me. He gave me fresh courage. The answers came later...

MUST BE SAID

The old man settled back into his bed at the nursing home. Lunch had been passable. He wasn't interested in any of the afternoon programs. Pretty hard when the sight was almost gone. His lower back hurt. Feet were swollen. He let go with one long sigh. His son was late. That was usually the case. But he enjoyed seeing him. Hearing a little bit about how life went on for one almost thirty years his junior. It would get him to remembering the good times shared. 21

The meals. The afternoons at the lake. The ball games. The quiet evening chats by the fireplace in the old home. There was something that he shared with his boy which even his wife, God bless her, could not provide. She held another room in the facility and was probably busy at bingo or watching a movie with her new-found friends. He was happy that she had found some breathing space. He felt himself drifting off...but then a few uncommon sounds and a jostling of his foot. "Well, I see you made it." His fifties-something son gave the usual excuses about finishing off the work day, hectic traffic etc. The old man waited for the next prompting to conversation. Awkward moment. He found that he had nothing to say. A tear was deposited on his right cheek. "Dad, are you trying out the walker some more? Are you working on that back strength?" How strange such questions seemed to a son who had always known the father physically strong and active. The son gulped and then launched in with the thoughts that had been awkwardly composed on the drive over. "Sometimes it seems as if you are giving up. If you did Dad, I would understand. It has been a full life. But if you see some hope unfulfilled or some continuing purpose in being a comfort to Mom, then do what you can each day." (He was gaining confidence and momentum now.) "Please know that I love you Pop. You and Mom have always shown me what marriage can be. You gave me a keen interest in sport, in the outdoors, in people, in a good day's work. It took children of my own to make clear to me how unselfish you were with your time. Your unique sense of humour was always welcome. You were patient and quiet when I made decisions which hurt you badly. You were also quick to forgive. Thank you, Pop. I would not have wanted any other father."

The eyes were shut. The breathing was deeper. Was he sleeping? Had he missed it? The one big hand reached out across the covers and grabbed the son's forearm and squeezed it. There were no more words.

THE FEEL OF THE WOOD

We have just finished cleaning out the family homestead in London (July 2010). Mom (Bev) is in a retirement home. Dad (Jack) rests in peace. Last Saturday I walked through empty room after empty room. Many rich memories. Fifty-six years of stuff accumulated there. I took particular interest in the downstairs workshop where for years Dad had worked on his beloved carvings of birds. Much steadier hands then. Much clearer eyes. The shop had a wide variety of specialty saws, files, planes and wood-burning equipment. Items now for the enjoyment of grandchildren. Also many manuals on technique, many posters and photographs and volumes of the Ducks Unlimited subscription. I found plugs of wood representing projects barely begun before macular degeneration did its ugly work. How he had prided himself in the detail of feathers and postures and distinctive markings. How he loved the scenery of loon on a lake, of Canada geese flocking into a freshly cut field, of wood ducks in a row on a submerged log displaying their overmuch colouration. (see the poems River Ducks and Northern Night) The carved birds have now been distributed as family treasures. Others were gifted to friends long ago. With appreciative hands we explore the rich textures of the worked wood, even as Dad would have done, hour after hour. 23

But the time was now up. The woodcarving and the home no longer appropriate for a man in his eighty-ninth year; a woman in her eighty-fifth. The empty rooms are just that...empty. The rich heritage, love and hope remain.

RIVER DUCKS

A walk by the river in winter My Father and I undertake. The bush is all glaze from the ice-storm, Affording a needed wind-break. The City with all its white panic Seems much farther off than in fact. The Country calls us to adventure, With lunch and hot drinks duly packed. We’ve done this before, but in springtime With wildflowers and vine in the bloom. But this day holds different promise, Somewhere in the gray and the gloom. The trees are bereft of their songsters Save only one brave chickadee, Who scolds from his perch in the low brush, My Father and I cannot see. Approaching a bend in the river My Father, with much softer gait, Binoculars pulled for a sighting, And signaling me just to wait, 24

Steps out to the clearing at shoreline, Where ice has been broken away, By storm sewer’s much warmer waters, And ducks are out there, and at play. The first that I see are just landing, With synchronized drop, skimming wake, And greeted by others assembled. What strange, raucous music they make! The mallards, mergansers and pin-tails Who CHUTTER and MUCK and RANK-RANK. My Father and I are now laughing In spite of ourselves, at the bank. He watches their moods and their movements, Their matchings and sparrings and play, Their discourse and dunkings and flappings. My Father’s their student today. And with insight gained from the outing Will turn to the woodcarver’s skill, And fashion remarkable likeness Of feather and pose, wing and bill. Now this is the best kind of hunting. To live and let live is the way. And trophies we’ll have of the visit, And memories of this good day. I may be a teen in a tempest With thoughts much too awkward to tell; But here with the ducks and my Father, I know that he knows me quite well.

OLD STYLE RETAIL

I can still see George standing by the restaurant cash register and looking out his big picture window on Dundas Street. Three piece suit. Gold chain watch. Ever present cigar. Diagonally opposite the old Hotel London. This was his street. My Dad's sporting goods store was around the corner and he would often cut through the back parking lot and George's rear kitchen to go to the restaurant. Cooks. Waitresses. George's two sons, Gus the number two restauranteur, and Gary the high school teacher. "Nice boys." Mrs. Kerhoulis, short, neat, smartly coiffed and keeping an eye on the table service. Addressing many of the customers on a first name basis. Often when I was working youth program or the swimming pool at the YMCA I would join Dad there for a lunch or Friday night supper. Meals were prepared to your specifications and the waitresses got to know "the usual" for many of the patrons. This was retail as it used to be for those like George and my Dad. Big on customer service. Full-time skilled employees. Centre of town. Courtesy. Family owned. Long hours. Real sense of community. Good will abounding. "The customer must be satisfied." My Father campaigned hard for this to continue through his involvement with the Downtown Business Association. Meanwhile the syndicated shopping malls conspired to suck the life out of the city's core with their warehouse atmosphere, zero customer service, ranks of halftrained part-time staff and location in the nameless, faceless suburbs. Tom Munro Sporting Goods Ltd. was liquidated successfully and the property sold just months before the big New Year's Eve fire destroyed the London Central Y. I remember pictures of the ice castle charred remnant the morning after. Dad's 26

store was empty and suffered extensive smoke damage. I often wonder what would have happened to Dad and his partner Roy if they had still been operating with inventories at peak level for the skiing and school seasons. But the partners had decided to get out and leave the trade to the encroaching department, tire and drug stores who were "butting in". George also closed the Maple Leaf Restaurant. The Hotel London was knocked down for a banking and office tower. The complexion of Dundas Street changed dramatically. Years later my Father passed the old corner and saw George sitting on a bench in a newly established green space and watching people pass by. George looked at his old friend as if through a fog. "Jack?" "Yes George, how are ya?" Tears welled up in the old Greek gentleman's face. "My friend I have been sitting here for over two hours now, and yours is the first face I recognize." Dad joined him for a while in order to reminisce.

BEAVER VALLEY WANDERINGS

One Friday Hilary and I drove up to Beaver Valley. North-east of Markdale, home of the Chapman ice-cream people. Due south from Thornbury. Quaint little harbour town on Georgian Bay complete with Fish-ladder project to help migrating Chinook salmon and rainbow trout. Centred on Kimberley, skiers' holiday spot beside the Talisman resort. I remember years ago taking the family in our old and lumbering Pontiac to Kimberley. Seeing the shockingly vertical service road beside Talisman. Hearing Hilary say, "Let's drive up there and get a good view of the valley from the top". Poor old Pontiac almost didn't make it in whatever gear. Once begun, we couldn't 27

stop, couldn't turn around. At the overlook, after fresh water for the radiator, we had a spectacular view. Thereafter on this high westerly side we drove past cattle pastures and beautiful chalets to Markdale. On Friday we had some doubts about weather, but skies cleared as we headed north through Fergus, home of the famed August Scottish Highland Games. The gray rock in many of the Wellington County homes reminds one of the Highlands. Along Highway Six through Arthur, Mount Forest and Durham. Stopped for picnic lunch at grounds by the Rocky Saugeen River. We were surprised at the number of highway improvement projects en route. New surfacing. New guardrail and posts and crash barriers. Cox Construction out of Guelph. Miller Maintenance Limited. Both customers of my employer. It was as if Hilary were accompanying me on a work day-trip to job sites. Once into the valley we immediately got the impression of big skies, ski getaways, apple orchards, secluded artist's studios and a long breath of fresh, unhurried air. Lush stands of Carolinian bush often closed in on the road. Hawks and crows in large supply. Periodically long, ribbon-like, rolling views of the route. And then the descent to the River and the shopping and B and B delights of Kimberley. County Road 13 is a playground with happy options in any direction. Beautiful observation points for photo work. Eugenia Falls to the south. Thornbury, as abovementioned, to the north. Carolinian forests, apple orchards and Bruce Trail to the east around Ravenne. It is our kind of "fair ride". A routine set in. I would hop out of the car with ready camera. Hilary would pick up her novel for another half-chapter. Tourist literature was secured at the Thornbury municipal office. (pleasant people). This gave us some additional options. At the south end of the valley we visited Eugenia Falls, discovered in 1852 by a wandering farmer. You look a WAAAY down there from the walled observation path. Beautiful stands of cedar everywhere. Then came Hogg's Falls near Flesherton and a brief hike on rocky, rolling flagged paths to the site - a thirty-two 28

foot drop in the stream. Sort of a "courier du bois", portage feel about it all. Then west and south toward Shelburne, home of the spring Fiddle Festival. Approaching we saw acres with no less than 36 huge power generating windmills, all white and dancing, like a happy Holland scene. Chinese dinner at Orangeville at a place "I tought I would remember by sight". Nope. And the loop trip completed through Fergus, Elora (with its own beautiful gorge on the Grand River) and Waterloo County. This was one beautiful, unstructured, relaxed, low traffic volume day-trip. Think about it for yourselves. Much of autumn remains.

GREY HIGHLANDS PERSPECTIVE

Split-rail weaving The golden-rod and purple*. Split-rail riding The moraine up-and-down. Split-rail barring The grazing beast from garden. Split-rail luring The wanderer from town. Split-rail telling The truce of farm and wood-lot. Split-rail boasting The skill of antique art. Split-rail hosting The bluebird's sweet domestic. 29

Split-rail keeping The corn and beans apart.

Split-rail etching The shadows at the margin. Split-rail launching The hawk's flight overhead. Split-rail framing The lattice of the harrow. Split-rail guarding The markers of the dead. Split-rail edging The gravel path to cabin. Split-rail foiling The season's amber, rust. Split-rail drawing The heart to hardy forbears. Split-rail adding A living touch to dust. 30

Split-rail backing The pumpkins at the lane-way. Split-rail squaring The hillock and the pond. Split-rail soothing The feathered horse at sunset. Split-rail mapping Our trek, and much beyond. (* Purple-stemmed aster)

ALL THINGS ARE YOURS

It’s a story That came to me, Late spring, early one Thursday evening. We were walking The university grounds. (Still hoofing it 31

Or busing or taxiingNo car in the driveway.) We had been to the Main Library. Hilary dabbling in Huguenot history, Celtic folklore, Charles G. D. Roberts’ Animal stories for the kids. I, following the canoe Of Grey Owl, Or the letters of My beloved Rutherford And Scottish Covenanters. The evening was Lazy-warm and the Leaves on the maple and oak In full splendour. The little campus stream Was trickling toward The duck pond, And the two of us Leaned on the aluminum Bridge rail, Arm-in-arm, silent, contented. Watching Mother Mallard Convoy her paddling brood of nine Toward overhanging bushes. No students passed. (Campus population at A seasonal minimum.) Waterloo traffic noise 32

Muted through Surrounding wood-lots. I was impressed by A suggestion from within: “All things are yours, And ye are Christ’s And Christ is God’s.” (A morning’s reading Had prompted this thought Some days before… Seems a little house-maid Worked in a large mansion. Many rooms, exquisite. Lots of dusting, cleaning, polishing. She reserved a special time Each day to enter Her employer’s study to work. There it was. Four-by-five oil-painting Of the Scottish Highlands. For him, “a good investment Picked up on tour overseas With his wife. Last appraisal – hundred and twenty-five Percent jump in value.” To the maid, this scene Was Heaven. Multi-coloured Heather, dramatic variable skies, Distant snow-capped peak, Ruddy little Highland cattle, 33

And one old Jock following With plaidy and staff. With such a feast for the eyes Work became a luxury, Day’s chores completed with joy. Now who owned that painting?) Hilary tapped my elbow: “This is nice, isn’t it.” The two of us headed down The path, Fragrance of lilac from Somewhere up ahead.

MATTERHORN

Was it just for joy That he pulled the sleigh From the rafter of the shed that day? Leaving wife abed Early Saturday To be on his way. 34

Was it just for joy That he found the track In the sagging spot in the fence out back? Crunching hard-cap snow Past the tamarack He was going back. Had it been this crisp In a former time? Had the sculptured ridge been this hard to climb? Had the cardinal sung In three-quarter time? Then, when in his prime? They would pick up speed As the hill drew near. Yes, and once right there they had spotted deer. And perhaps a crow Would announce, "They're here!" My, the view was clear. Then the reckless rush To the vale below; As the sleigh would hiss o'er the yielding snow. And their breath would steam In the upward tow. They had loved it so. Was it just for joy He had come again? To their Matterhorn, to their Crystal Glen? To rehearse a play 35

Staged for little men, But it's half-past ten! Was it just for joy? Or a missing boy?

Note: The preceding document may or may not get large circulation. I just wanted to leave a record of some of the trials and joys of the past as I have seen them; my upbringing, family, failures and hopes. Not at all a hero. Thankful beyond measure that Jesus has invited all sorts of people to the banguet, good and bad. Such is grace…if one accepts.

And finally…

A SON TO HIS FATHER

Yes, Father. I have sought your face. I have heard your voice. I have found your will. I have delighted in following. 36

As a youngster at home. In the carpenter's shop. As the Romans came to town and went. At the Jordan with John. Stretched in the wilderness. In the teeming curious crowds. Alone, and seeking in night hours. With the sick. With the cynical. When challenged as to my service. When challenged as to the Kingdom. When disappointed by friends. When weary of their ambition. In Gethsemane. Troubled and sore amazed. Telling the Governor the truth. Enduring the pain, As one wretched thief Acknowledged our plan, And you seemed removed. But the plan was sovereign. I sit again at your side. We have glorious fellowship. We hear from the family. We delight to bless. And oh, dear Father, They are coming. Your sons, daughters to the feast.