Moving Pictures

One of the most exciting things that could happen when I was a child was my father bringing home a borrowed videocassette player. We had a little 13" black and white television with rabbit ears that could pick up three channels most of the time, if you were careful. Two of them usually showed the same thing, so there wasn't really much TV to watch, but a movie was something else. The average movie would run about double my usual daily allotment of TV with no commercials and no twiddling with the antennae.

Dad would bring the big yellow padded suitcase into the living room and go to work connecting this exotic piece of equipment to our TV. There can only have been a couple of wires to the TV and one to the outlet, so it can't have been complicated, but to me it was pure wizardry. The top of the machine would pop up to accept a cassette, and we were ready for an adventure.

As kids, we had no say in when this machine would visit our home and we had no choice in the movies we saw. We could watch what Dad brought or go to bed. I had friends with colour television sets, VCRs, cable vision and less supervision, but there was little sense that I was being deprived of anything. My parents generally made time in front of the TV into a sort of currency, so we could negotiate a trade in foregone viewing time for things they would have bought us anyway. I earned my first canoe paddle and sleeping bag this way, one month each.

As a child, my view of history was entirely static, so the idea that watching recorded films at home was something new, or that one day perhaps it would become completely ubiquitous didn't enter my head. Videos were rare, the machines to play them were expensive, and all I knew was that getting to watch Herbie the Lovebug's black and white antics was the very definition of a treat. If the stars aligned just so, there might even be popcorn and half a can of soda to go with it.

Fast forward 25 years and I can stream Netflix on my phone any time I want. My TV is 6 times bigger than the old black and white model, remote controlled, highly defined, and rabbit ear free. I still have a VCR somewhere, but it is unnecessary. There is a little black box that gives me access to just about any movie I could think of to buy, borrow, or rent. I do hope I can always hear my five year old self having his little mind blown that we get to watch a movie tonight, no matter how easy it is.

Smile When You Lie

Eyes shining, smile moulded into permanence, he tells of the birth of yet another son. The grandfathers, the other fathers, the other men, they nod and smile and pat him on the back like he was a liberating soldier to a long-sieged city. He speaks of the bravery of his wife, the awe in his other children, his own calm handling of this newest arrival. Everything a man could want has fallen into his hands easily, though he speaks of it now as if he snatched it from the flaming jaws of a dragon.

I smile dishonestly yet again, but congratulations stick in my throat as I look for any reason to leave. These reminders of what I do not have and cannot be come more frequently these days. Dwelling on the fact is a road to bitterness, so I do my best to force the disappointment down and drown it out with a busy life.

I generally barricade the door with forced indifference. Friends and coworkers announce pregnancy, birth, and proudly tell stories about the latest phase their offspring are going through. Social convention dictates I smile and congratulate and nod sympathetically like all the other men. I do it mechanically and try to move either myself or the conversation on. Occasionally, regrettably, I become the focus of these discussions, with questions about when or if I will have children of my own. About why I don't already have a few. As if it were a simple choice, yes or no. I equivocate, maybe, we'll see, perhaps after (insert event here)...

Three and a half years of trying, surgery, praying, timing, and supplements. If it were a choice, we'd need a school bus by now. We've tried to force the issue and adopt. We are still thankful to have not experienced miscarriage, but when our adoption agency closed down suddenly last year, part way through our file, it felt about like that. We're nearly back on track now. Still haven't sent in the stack of paperwork for the new agency sitting ready on the desk. Once bitten, twice shy, and all that. Soon.

Running with the herd

The Vancouver Sun Run was last weekend, one week after the bombings in Boston that have filled the news. I ran as team captain for my work team. As it turns out, I'm the fastest employee over 10 km, but not the fastest team member. Not even close. I'm okay with that. There were over 48,000 people participating, providing me a few observations.

Everyone has to pee before running. I got off the train, walked towards the start area, and stood in a line a city block long to get to the pink plastic porta-loos. Standing there trying to not do the urgency dance, I ended up missing the gear check, meaning I had to wear my backpack with two water bottles and extra clothes for the whole race. Not a big deal, though it was actually my wife's backpack, meaning the "waist" strap sits just below my nipples. I don't think it slowed me down, but it did bounce around uncomfortably. Next year I'll plan for more efficient peeing.

Some people really hate waiting in line. When you register for an event of this size, they ask how long you expect to take on the course. You are then issued a coloured bib with a number. The colour of the bib matches arches of balloons over the road at the start area, and you are to go to your appropriate area to wait. This way, people walking with strollers shouldn't get trampled by track stars gunning for a new personal best. I was surprised then, being in the second fastest group, to pass so many baby carriages, seniors with walking sticks, and obese walkers. One white-haired gentleman had on his glaring white Tilly hat, pleated shorts complete with black pleather fanny pack, white socks pulled over his calves, black sandals, and a hiking pole strapped to each wrist. I passed him around the 3 km mark, meaning he had been way at the front of our group. These people had registered correctly, wearing their coloured bibs identifying them as slower, but lined up with the fastest group they could.

The big local headline last week was that 2 middle-aged folks cheated. They cut off the course to avoid the bridge sections of the course, cutting down the distance they had to run and eliminating the only hills of the race. I don't understand the motivation to cheat on a fun run. Even if that were your thing, there are cameras everywhere, so chances of you being photographed ducking a rope are extremely high. A little more sophistication is needed to manage it these days, and even more next year thanks to those boobs.

Two years ago, Vancouver hosted a riot loosely based on the outcome of a hockey game between the locals and the Boston team. For a while, it was extremely unpopular to own, let alone display, anything that might identify with the city of Boston. Vancouverites, it would seem, are not gracious losers. There were rumours and implications that the rioters weren't from here, that they came from out of town, and even out of country. However true that may be, the courts continue successfully prosecuting locals for the chaos. Last Sunday, Vancouverites showed that while they may lose rather badly, they can be vocally sympathetic. There were blue and yellow ribbons, banner, flags, and signs posted along the route, carried by runners, and waved by spectators. Red Sox and Bruins jerseys were everywhere. I'm not sure anyone in Boston especially cares that someone ran "for Boston," but the sentiment was good and it added a bit more camaraderie to an already friendly event (cheating notwithstanding).

All in all, it was a fun event. In the end, I was happy to ride the train away from the big city back to the far edge of suburbia, where the farms and mountains meet and we can all stretch our arms without hitting someone. My poor dog was frantically happy to see me, having thought I completely abandoned her that morning by leaving in my running clothes without her. I'll be back next year. I've got at least one more run lined up for spring and I'm contemplating longer distances later in the year.

Spring

I never liked Spring. The snow would begin to melt, allowing the earth to seep muddily through like blood through a too-thin bandage. What had been expanses of ice became puddles deep enough to overwhelm our uncomfortable rubber boots. Gumboots were a good enough reason to dislike a season. replacing warm, cozy, felt packed winter boots with sloppy, smelly boots that slapped our calves raw with that distinctive galumphing sound. Just the sight of them made my stomach tense. They always came off at the exact wrong moment, and no matter how I tried, they constantly ate my socks. When that moment came, off balance in the newly revealed mud, that moment when my hands were full, when my boot was stuck and I had to make a quick step to keep from falling over, it would be a mostly bare foot landing in the still frigid muck, trailing a sock from my toes like a ridiculous ribbon. Once you get righted and your boot free, it's decision time. Slide that mud covered foot into that boot or hobble back to the house wearing only one boot. Either way, the garden hose was going to be involved, and your sock would never be the same. Small wonder Mom always bought the biggest, cheapest packs she could find for me.

There was nothing to do outside in the Springs of my youth. The ski trails were abandoned when the muddy spots got too large to dodge. The roads were still covered in a Winter's worth of sand and gravel. Even as a kid, I realized the irony that the stuff that gave cars traction all Winter was so slippery on a bike in Spring. Roller blades were out for the same reason. We couldn't ride our bikes on the trails either, because where there wasn't stubborn snow hanging on, it was just mud. Not the kind that you ride through and it sprays up and you get home sweaty and gloriously dirty, but the kind that simply swallows your tires. The back yard became treacherous as the treasures our dog had deposited over the Winter months, hidden by snowfall after snowfall, thawed and froze and thawed and froze and morphed into puddly ghosts of turds past.

I always found it impossible to dress for the weather in Spring. It would still be frosty in the morning, it might still snow all the way into May, but it might also be sunny and warm enough for a T-shirt by the afternoon. I'm told that even modern fashionable men have a hard time dressing for Spring, trying to balance old school rules with their desire to retire the Winter threads and unpack the warm weather wear. Seems like a bit of a made up problem to compound the real one, that the temperature might vary 25 degrees C in a given day.

As an adult, I live in a more temperate clime, where snow is a rarety, monopolizing conversations when forecast and causing frequent traffic accidents when realized. Spring comes early to these parts. The days never get as short as they did when I lived at home, so they get longer faster. My tulips are already four inches out of the dirt, and by early March, it will be uncommon to scrape frost from my windshield before driving to work. Trees here are much more showy about Spring, throwing out pastel petals so enthusiastically that a walk in the park feels like a cartoon movie set dreamed up by a nine year old girl, all puffy and pink.

Spring was never a colourful time when I was growing up. Brown and gray in infinite shades, and an achingly slow fade to green. It is a wonder more people did not put brighter colours on their houses, but I suppose in the 80s and 90s most people reserved bright colours for their clothing. Here, I expect to be walking in surreal clouds of pink, yellow, and purple by Easter no matter how early it falls. Half the vegetation here stays green all year round anyway, even my lawn. Actually, my grass is greener in January than it will be in July, since I won't pour potable water on the yard. I'll be tired of mowing said grass by May.

There is a lot to be said for Spring now that I'm grown and live in more hospitable country. I no longer own a pair of gumboots, or felt packs for that matter. Don't pack away the umbrella, but keep the camera handy if you like pictures of flowers. Cycling is less likely to be fatal, the sky is already lightening by the time the dog and I are back from our run, and the garden is ready for early planting. There is at least a month of good skiing left, probably more. Spring is good.

Acquired tastes

Most worthwhile things are not immediately enjoyable. Since childhood, I have been acquiring tastes for various things: food, drink, activity, music. Things I come across and do not like or enjoy right away, but see value in, or see other people enjoying, and so I continue trying them. Most people do this sometimes, or how else would there be so many beer drinkers? 

I drink yerba mate every afternoon. When the weather is hot, I drink it with ice water, the rest of the time I have it with hot water. I enjoy everything about it, from boiling the water in my old kettle to emptying the old leaves into the compost pail and refilling my guampa with new tea. I enjoy the ritual. The first tepid slurp down to the last weakened pull is something to look forward to and savour. I started drinking this tea when I was a boy with my father. I made a game of it, trying to keep a straight face while draining each bitter turn I was offered. It looked cool, Dad drank it and liked it, so it must be something I should like too. In college, I bought my own kit and became a regular drinker. If you come to my house, I will most likely offer you a turn with the horn. Most people who try it do not wish to finish it, and if they have tried before, don't accept my offer. 

Now I wonder as an adult why I enjoy this tea. It is bitter. It is consumed scalding hot from a metal straw sitting in a cow's horn. Sometimes bits of the tea sneak through the strainer and get in your mouth. It is not convenient, fast, or easily portable. Do I like it because my dad drank it in front of me as a child? Because it became a game? I have some friends and family who also partake, so it might be a sense of belonging to an "elite" group. The simple answer is that I enjoy it now, regardless of how I got here. 

Music works much the same way. Lots of music is easy to appreciate, right from the first listen. Most of that sort of music wears thin quickly, and so is replaced constantly. Nickleback or any of their copycats, that interchangeable R and B on easy listening radio stations, it is all manufactured and disposable. Not that it is necessarily bad, or always uninspiring, it is just simple and what you hear the first time is going to be the same as what you hear the 20th time. Other music, less radio-friendly, may be harder to listen to or understand the first time. There can be real joy in listening closely and talking it over or reading about it and going back to listen again, and finding the beauty or the message the artist intended, or the experience they were sharing. But, play it for someone who isn't ready to think about it or is happy to keep it cheap and discardable, and they frown and skip it, or turn the volume down.

Mama hates when I listen to Tom Waits. He's got a voice like a backhoe. I think of him like one of those musicians at folk festivals who have invented Dr Suess-ish instruments and learned to play them and written music for them. He's taken a similar approach to his voice, and it is not usually easy to appreciate on the first listen. Give it a chance, a few more spins, and there is something remarkable there. 

A co-worker asked me the other day if I enjoy running. He's been on a health kick lately, eating better, running, etc. He hates every minute of every run he goes on. It plays with his emotions, he gets bored, his body aches... Do I enjoy running? I honestly don't know. I like that I went for a run this morning, but did I enjoy it while I was out there? Would I miss it if I could stop without making the dog crazy? I think I'm still at that stage of drinking bitter tea, trying not to pull a face, wanting to like it.

Now I find myself questioning if I really like anything. If I know what I like, or how to tell if I like it. I'm sure about some things, on my way with a few things, and there are a few I'm pretty sure I'm never going to get around to liking. Brussel sprouts spring to mind. For the two occasions per year it would be relevant to like them, it just isn't worth it. For now, the weekend is about to start, and I'm pretty sure I like that.

Hunting

I may have grown up in a little redneck town, but somehow I never went hunting. My dad came from the big city, and while he did absorb some small town culture, driving a pickup truck, learning how to run a chainsaw, and getting a dog, he never owned a gun. I got a pellet gun for Christmas one year and it has claimed a couple crows and squirrels, but always only from the porch. I wasn't allowed to take it with me in the woods. I might've shot my eye out.

A few years ago, a friend and co-worker offered to take me along hunting. He was going for black bear and I was welcome to tag along. Of course I agreed, so that Saturday we headed out early. We drove around on backroads and overgrown paths in his 4X4 for most of the day, stopping a couple times to hike through promising country. I'm accustomed to hiking, but this was different. If things went according to plan, we didn't want to have to carry a carcass too far back to the truck. It was a sunny spring day, so there was only snow where the avalanches of winter had piled it up extra deep and packed it tight.

We had seen bear sign (poop) all day, and plenty of deer all day. It was getting into the afternoon and we had just decided to call it a day when Marc suddenly hit the brakes and killed the engine. Way up the open hillside on our left was a black bear foraging for dinner. If she knew we were there, she wasn't bothered by us. Marc grabbed his rifle from the back seat, slid in the bolt and a shell, and lay down on the side of the road. I stood there not quite sure what to do, but completely excited. I'm normally pretty level, but watching him aim a lethal weapon at this living creature overloaded my calm little brain completely. It was all I could do to keep from dancing from excitement.

Marc had been hunting since childhood. He saw every animal that day before I did, and tried pointing out some I never did find. His guns were a mix of quality inherited pieces and quality stuff he had bought for himself. He took better care of his hunting gear than he did of anything else he had. He was also a dead shot. So, in my mind, as he lay there lining up a difficult long shot up a steep hill, I had no doubt that he would make it. He didn't disappoint. The bear made one mad dash in a small circle and fell still before the echo of the shot was over. I found myself arguing internally about whether or not it was okay to be so excited about what we were doing.

The bear was kind of small, but that is the risk you take with hunting for black bear. They don't change proportion noticeably from young adult to senior, especially from a distance. We skinned and cleaned it and slid it into a special sleeve to keep it fresh until we could get to the butcher. Apparently bears are lousy eating as steaks or roasts, but they make a wicked sausage. The pepperoni was as good as any I've ever had.

I haven't hunted again since that day. I enjoyed myself and would go again, but I was also shocked and even a bit embarrassed at how exciting it was. There is a primal part of our brains that has learned over thousands of generations that killing an animal is a really good thing because it means survival of the self. My primal brain had been dormant until that day, but I'm glad to know it is still there. Spring is coming, maybe I'll get back out there this year.

Climbing high

I've always been a climber. Every kid learns to climb: furniture, stairs, Daddy's legs... Some take it further; I took it outside. There was a big tree next to the house we lived in until I was seven. I remember it being huge, and while it was taller than the house, probably not actually that big as fir trees go. I could see up the trunk it was like a ladder going all the way up. The problem for me was the lowest branch was too high for me to reach. Ever watch little kids try to jump? All spastic effort and no lift, especially for spindly white kids. Dad said I could climb it when I could get up it myself. He probably figured he was teaching me some life lesson about independence while saving my mother's nerves.

I was more obsessed with that tree than Dad realized. Thinking that as long as I didn't have parental aid to the first branch, I would be abiding by the terms of the climbing rules, I talked my sister into giving me a boost. It was as glorious as I had hoped until Dad figured out where I was. I remember getting in trouble at the time, but soon after there was a rope hanging there so I didn't have to stand on my sister anymore.

My friend and I would climb up and down that tree, popping sap blisters and getting properly sticky. Sticky wasn't so bad, but it picked up all manner of dirt and didn't wash off with soap. We'd have to rub butter on our hands to get rid of it. Mom nearly had to cut out clumps of sapped hair after a long summer day in the tree.

That tree had a natural limit for climbing. Just below the level of the roof peak, maybe about 20' up, there was a thick mat of sticks and debris that somehow collected there. We would sit up under that mat and spy out the neighbourhood. Eventually, I got bored of only going to the sticks and had a closer look. I decided I could get through, and I was right. I only stopped when the branches became what I felt was dangerously small for holding my little seven year old frame. There wasn't much between me and the very top. Being quite proud of myself and not being a really forward-thinking child, I decided to shout and wave to my mother when she came into the backyard. That was the second time I got in trouble for climbing that tree. If that tree hadn't been so close to the house, I think she might have cut it down before my dad came home that night.

We moved when I was seven and I searched in vain for a new fir tree to climb. I did find plenty of aspens, and I figured out that I could shimmy up even the skinny ones. I wasn't nearly so high as the old tree, but these ones were so bendy, I would hang on as high as I could reach, and jump out. The tree would bend me all the way to the ground and then whoosh back upright when I let go. I quit doing that when one of the trees broke off as I was still a couple feet from the ground. I was still hanging onto the top half of the tree as it cracked me on the top of my head.

Now it is mountains, an occasional rock face, and my roof to clean the gutters, but I still love to climb. In a couple months I'll be out pruning my plum trees, climbing around hacking off branches, feeling like a little kid again (except now I'm allowed to play with axes and saws all I want). I should have bought a ladder years ago, but this gives me an excuse to swing around the branches and get in touch with my inner child/primate.