What would the subject of a New Year’s Day blog be? Should I fill the blank space before me with platitudes? Those platitudes being dusted, polished and recycled from last year and the previous? Should I speak to the moment at all? This day is, after all, only a day in the life. There have been many days and will likely be at least a few more. More for you, too. The sun came up, sort of. The coffee pot fired on the first pull. I drew my robe up against a bit of chill. I ate something light for breakfast and am ready for what comes in the next shorted day’s while. I am as ready as I can be, all my weaknesses notwithstanding. That every day is a new beginning, that I am grateful for this fresh start is not necessary to relate. It isn’t necessary but is sure a good thing to do. My gratitude is a reminder to me, a reminder to you. Yup. There is time, yet. Keep pulling a smile up out of your worn and thirsty boots!

We still have a couple puffs of the not-quite-exhausted air to take in, some sunlight above that sneaks a ray down through the constant clouds. I know it’s up there, yes. In the immediate, a remaining drop or so of clean, refreshing water awaits our parched tongue of a heart. We are weary, but that is always true. Moving from one day to the next takes a lot more of us than we usually realize. My best view is that In the main, 7 billion or so will be here for the day, doing what we are able. Not all of us have been killed and we who survived the night have our work set out.

There are dishes to do, floors to sweep, dinners to cook. We have all of that. There is a good looking young someone, somewhere, waiting for your surreptitious survey. You know the kind of casual survey that awakens the eye with another’s beauty? That kind of ‘survey’. Ha. Any gentle walk through the world reveals a thousand brightnesses, a plethora of futures. I passed a hand-lettered, blue-painted sign on my way to buy a ready-made cup of tea. Someone had a baby, a boy baby. Down the street further, a house festooned in pink balloons. Pretty ordinary expressions of joy at the gender of a new person, both. Who cares? It was joy, it was expectation, it was anticipation, it was tomorrow and the tomorrows to come, dancing on the end of balloon strings.

Maybe for you there is a caring spouse or children? A new job to start? A finished paint job to admire? A song in your heart that is making it’s way to your fingers and your voice? Maybe you will fill with joy today? For a moment? Someone will, that is certain and it might as well be you. The idea of joy, our own or another’s is lovely, I think we could all do with a share in that. I lift on your joy, you on mine, we are together. Ha. There is the other side, it is ready, too. The down side of living is only the same downside waking to the world ever has. It could go miserably awry, all of it. Every bit. Yeah. There is that. Covid slept peacefully through the night and Trump woke to a sumptious breakfast of big Mac and fries, maybe a super-size chocolate shake. There is danger, evil on every slippery step of the way downtown. A big black dog’s bark can be vicious at times. I have seen this. He is on the next block, probably. I know you know this as well.

Today, grey new year’s day — I shall cross the street to avoid the dog. He will have to run through traffic to get me and I really don’t think he’s that stupid. He is clever, patient, he can wait for a facile occasion to swipe at me. I know he will. He will get me one day sooner than I wish for. If I stop to think about it, to listen well, I can hear those sharp teeth snapping. Today, I choose not to stop and listen for snarling danger. I choose to continue.

Whatever we are still able to do this morning, remains to be done. Anything could happen, we do cut a break sometimes. There will be a piece of cheery cherry pie one day when you least expect it. My friend in England has a few more delicious pop tunes to write, whether the black dog is waiting or not. I can look forward to hearing those tunes. It is a new day and I owe myself an equal helping of cheer, I have hope. I feel lucky. I am lucky. I hope I stay lucky for a while. I hope you are lucky, too! Let’s try our luck with a nice, relaxing walk through today. Hmmm?

Congratulations!

Just made it! Whew! We are now at a few days past the shortest day of the year, the longest night (Lat. 42 Lon. -82.). That statement could also be made in a metaphorical sense. With Trump near the end of his mind-numbing reign as a foreground figure, the days are growing longer and we are tilting back toward the sun. Colour returns to Pepper-Land, everything, or some stuff, is looking up. The promise of a vaccine for the China-flu lies before us. With gratitude, I offer my sigh of relief. That the future is looking better, you would never guess by the relentless back and forth whining of the mass media. “It’s always something..” as Rosanne Rosannadanna might say. Well yes, it is always something. Today, it is cold.

It is a bone-chilling cold and a steely grey sky outside my little barely-warm place. I shiver. What cold I feel is not that deep February chill, it’s more the ‘about to do the freezing rain bit’ kind of low temperature. It has been said that In the far north, folks have a bunch of different words for snow. The words are very particular to the kind of snow. It turns out that it isn’t quite true…the truth is that there are a bunch of different languages and they have blended at times so that it appears there are ’50 different names for snow. We do need a special word for today, something better than lengthy descriptive phrases. Maybe ‘pfreeze’, meaning pre-freeze? ‘.

In the far-north, there are many different kinds snow, they are the same different kinds of snow that near-north English describes. I discover this with a Google search. I am chagrined. It was a poetic idea, thinking about multiple variations, multiple single word descriptions of the snow’s quality, something that would encapsulate…’crisp, more crisp, super-crisp, soft, more soft, super-puffy…etcetera. It gave me a sense of how the Inuit are much more connected to their environment than we might be. That fits with my world-view, my stead-fast liberalism, my ‘snow-flake’ belief system. Inuit are inherently good…europeans, bad colonialists. Truth be told, Inuit aren’t necessarily more righteous, I see them whizzing across the tundra on snow machines. More truth? Europeans aren’t necessarily evil. We are equal in human strength, human weakness. We have an equal number of faults and an equal number of names for faults.

Long ago, I saw a movie called ‘Smilla’s Sense of Snow’, based on a book named ‘Miss Smilla’s Feeling For Snow’. The advertisments and trailers for the film suggested the idea of multiple, more accurate descriptions of snow. It promised that the film would have a certain depth, a certain poetry. Turns out the movie was just about killing and fucking and tracking someone through the wilderness, like all of our movies are now. It did have an interesting snow-twist and some nice location scenes, but… (It also cost 35 million to make and earned 23 million at the box office…oooops)

All of the above notwithstanding, it is kinda chilly today. Looks nasty out. I shall attempt not to warm myself with a nice hot donut and cup of chocolate or a piece (large) of warmed up apple pie. There are, indeed, fifty words for fat…

December 29, 2020

I watched birds for a while this morning. There was a thin film of ice on the marina’s stilled, environmentally protected water and several gulls huddled out of a light wind there. They weren’t sitting on the dock, warming themselves in the bright sun? What odd creatures they are. Skinny legs, puffed breasts, tucked in wings, my thought is that the poor things aren’t well escaping the cold. Why do they hang out, sitting on the ice? Is it a form of protest? Do they intend to sit there in silence until all birds are free? Are they protesting Thanksgiving in support of their turkey friends? Have they got a good game of telepathic bingo going on? (It must be telepathic, I heard nothing.) I wonder that because, on occasion a gull will fly up jubilant and circle the group. “BINGO!” Maybe that isn’t why. It could be not. The upward jump may have a more practical purpose. If my bum were parked on the ice, I wouldn’t last long before I took to the air and warmed myself with some good ‘ol wing flapping.

The feathered ones weren’t social distancing, as they were a day before. That day, they were lined up in a single file across the floating dock, about three feet apart. For birds, a little less space is required than for us larger creatures. Their wheezing, half-teabag sized lungs only spread droplets a few inches. They can cough at will without raising a wing to cover it and I haven’t seen that they can touch their faces, so must not need to be concerned about repeatedly washing bony feet. As proof of that supposition, I saw no bony feet sanitizers, no signs in bird-speak-squawk warning of the possibility of an uncaptured cough spreading disease. I saw no signs threatening legal repercussions or barring entry to the unmasked, either. I noticed not whether one bird arrived after another left, keeping the number of parked birds at an ideal. I guess Leamington Marina dock is the Walmart or big-box store for birds? The remaining unfrozen seaweed and tiny fish mean that the Marina is an essential service sort of thing.

These gathered birds were paused in a good sized group but they WERE outdoors, on the dock. It had to be uncomfortable a little, I saw no portable heaters, gas or electric. There were no plastic igloos. I didn’t witness it but I have to assume there was drinking going on since there was a bit of open water and that’s how birds are. They are indiscriminate about drinking, being the sort of beasts/creatures who follow the moment, who seek liquid pleasure where it can be found. They probably consume marijuana gummies as well but I haven’t seen that, either. Today, I imagined I could even hear a bit of rock music, the sexy kind, going on. Yes, I am sure of it…the open water of the lake splashed up on the tumbled stone jetty rhythmically.

I thought about what the birds would do if the police arrived to break up the party. Being able to take to air and rise up out of the reach of uniformed predators would be magnificent. My fine friends might be capable of such a facile escape. It isn’t often that you see a viral video on Facebook of birds being whacked on the head with a wooden baton or tasered, no gif’s of them being shoved rudely into a paddy wagon. It does happen, I am certain of that, since that is what happens to us if we don’t toe the line. In the case of assembled birds misbehaving, the police reaction doesn’t seem to be ‘news’. I did a Google search for birds having to defend themselves and found nothing beyond a few comedy film clips. There was nothing about marching birds carrying signs. Perhaps the Conservatives have squelched this information. I don’t trust them at all. There is a blue wave of misinformation and confusion traveling the world. It is the true ‘deep state’ at work and what happens to our bird friends just one further element of their evil plan. Today, as I watched my shivering friends gather illicitly, I wanted to shout “FREE DONALD!” (Duck, I mean..not the other one.)

A Great Start For a Monday

Oh, the days, the long and fruitful days, (when butchered prose gets caught, in my throat sideways)… haha. It is with sub? human effort that the keyboard resounds of clicking and scratching noises. I have to force my fingers across the little plastic pieces that are physically connected to some of the electronics. I am a rut. Not in.

My job as overseer to the laneway has morphed into something awful. At first benign, my interest is now morbid. During this latest lockdown, i’ve little that is required of me to do. In the absence of any more worthy effort, I sit and notice things. I see, I know, I tell. I have to blab, now that the Mayor has released her firm grip and has some sort of grippe. She did grouse a bit when I cheerfully greeted her a day or two ago but she cannot gripe. She is wearing a mask. To get the laneway management done, it is up to me and whom am I to speak of the goings on about the area? Has M. Trudeau annointed me Governor General? No, he has not. It would require effort on my part to obtain privelege and position. I haven’t spent the time or money to inquire of the PMO about possibilities. Nothing has been granted. I stand alone and …Je me souviens! Next time there is an election…

In the meantime, I watch as any Mr. Ordinaire might do. It should be a casual overview. It is more serious. I approach old age and, as an elderly wanna be, I am reduced in everything but curiousity. That is all left remaining to me. I am a mere resident, a no-person, a non-ya business provocateur. I blend in with the community background, yet questions come to fore: Where is M. Pussycat? What is my neighbour doing? Why all the pounding and hammering? What is the source of the low hum noise? Shall I stick my head outdoors again? Where is sneaky-walk guy – in jail? Does that squirrel indeed have on a tiny hat? Hmmmm.

There are, of late, no pussycats where there were several. What happened, was it a mass migration? The squirrel is not wearing a hat, gloves, shoes or anything sensible. Why not? My youthful neighbour was not off for work until 8 a.m. after which time, he quickly returned. Has he been covided out, fired…is he just taking time off to work on his construction project? What is he building? Where does the Mayor sneak off to? Who is the ‘dog fancier Lady’ with the illegal fence? Is it going to rain or snow? Is any of this Gladys’ business? “Why, no..” comes the answer. Is there something I haven’t eaten yet? Yes. More coffecake.

Well friends, that was a Christmas or Channukah or general celebration to remember. For all persuasions, all around the world, we have a little something to remember. The days around this time of year will take on extra significance in each of our private histories. Grandmas and Grandpas will have stories to tell, “Remember that Christmas we were so broke?” (Auntie Mame) I am given to understand that winter solstice is a pagan celebration, that Christianity hijacked the celebration, that Channukah is usually a minor celebration in the Jewish calendar, that Ramadan only sometimes occurs near mid-December, that Kwanzaa and other events may not be high holidays or occur near the solstice. I don’t even know what the Hindu do? Whatever it is that we do separately, whatever it is we usually do, we all did it but we did less than in previous years. We cooked less, we ate less, we bought and gifted less, we drove less. We flew less. I can imagine that only a few folks put on sack-cloth robes and gathered at the Stone Henge. There were fewer turkeys sacrificed, a couple of pigs lived to wallow another day. There were latkes left over to put in the freezer.

It was not a bad time at all. Each of us made it through, or we didn’t. That is the way of it. At every juncture the whole of our existence there are the same conditions. Some of us make it through, some don’t. There is plenty to eat or there is not. There are many people dead, there are many survivors. I glow today. I am feeling odd today. I am feeling that this is the way of life, that no time is better, no time worse…we only have different times.

This winter solstice was different than most. In one huge wave, we flowed sort – of together. For one moment, one season, one year…the entire of human beings were slowed down together. It is world-wide and synchronized. We each had to stand clear a bit, stay home a bit, keep distance and do less…a bit. There were fewer planes, fewer cars, fewer horse or ox-drawn vehicles. The skies were clearer, the moon brighter? Nay, probably not that much. There was, though, less of everything and it was universal. Interesting. We have proven that an advanced creature can work toward the common good, once, for a brief time. It’s a win. A small win. Infinitesimal but a win.

I had a good time, this late December and I hope you did, to. I ate less, traveled less, saw way fewer people and treasured the time all the more. I guess I was pretty lucky.

Aha. Folks are beginning to bother the baby jesus out of me! In righteous, Christmas mood fashion, the arse-holes are out in force! Grrrrr. “Merry f’n Xmas to you!” Okay… so I left it late, as well. I am as Covid jammed in as everyone else. “Who gives you the right to sneak around the end of the barrier, Mr. GuY!” “Okay, lady…you can’t reach your gas cap from this direction anyway, so why are you blocking my forward progress through the lane? Hmm? Hmmm?” “Okay, go ahead and screech your tires as you speed around me! I am only waiting in line like the other reasonable folk!” oh, and…”Don’t you dare cut in front of me to get to the auto-teller first! I am a former American! Do you know how dangerous they are?” Grrrrrrrr.

“Stuff yourselves, I’m feeling grumpy…fa la la la la, la la la la…” Haha.

And, after my foray into the wilds of the marketplace…I discover that I forgot the raisins! Darrrrnnnnnnn it! Well, I have to go visit the butcher anyway, so…off I go. The butcher is so handsome and friendly that I go there now, just to have a lift in my spirits! I think I am in love, though It does tire me out, the rapid batting of my eyes and the coyness. He might be suspicious. I ordered a steak just to keep him in view, bending his backside towards me! I suppose visiting his store is financial foolishness but who cares what a steak costs?

Here comes a blank Christmas holiday. The first time in some thirty-odd years that my younger brother and I will not be having lunch at Habb’s. Shoot, that sucks. I love that little place! Every year they have the exact same Christmas tree up, with it’s red lights and opaque frosted glass ornaments. Every year the same appetizer bread, the same pewter bread plates! So lovely. I will miss that. Yeah, it is only a day. It is only one day in the year and I am not even so committed a Christian. What is the grief in waiting until next year to drink too much Canadian Club and sing too loudly? It can wait while we sort out how to work around the little bugs that wreaked this havoc. Just the same, it is a super huge drag, isn’t it?

As in olden days, I have tasks laid out that will keep me busy all the rest of today and most of tomorrow. My bad. I had plenty of time. I dragged my feet. I arranged for my last Christmas gift only yesterday afternoon! Since I had to send it, it won’t arrive in time. Whoa! Now, I am committed to a series of exercises (somewhat military) in the kitchen. With luck, I will be too distracted to write my MP and complain about stuff. I won’t have time to send a letter of disaffection to the editor, either. What a botheration!

Merry Christmas, everyone! Happy holidays. If your holiday doesn’t align with Christmas or you don’t do holidays – have a pleasant day anyway! (just get outta my way…I gotta get some f’n raisins!)

I am engrossed with writing a poem and have no idea about where it is heading. It has evolved from ‘Why Am I So Mad at God’ to ‘Am I Mad At God?’ Hmmm. I am enjoying the writing but it is work. I have to approach it like a job, of all things. Ha. A creative job? A job that requires me to get up in the morning, have breakfast, have a schedule? A job with planning? One problem I have with creative endeavor is planning. I often start with a vague idea or a vague sound or a vague direction that evolves as the words appear on paper (well, not paper – a back-lit screen). I am not truly aware if other folks do that. Do they? I should research the question and quiet my mind.

I remain uncertain of my value as a writer. Until I sell my first million copies, it is just a hobby. Until Margaret Atwood calls and asks me to dinner, wanting to pick my brain over a tough-to-produce story line, writing is a thing I waste time with. I have good friends who tell me otherwise. It has even been my good fortune to have a creative writing instructor and a paid/published/experienced writer tell me, “Hey, I think you should get this stuff published.” Whether I am good, whether I am not, the truth is somewhere in between and has something to do with educated opinion. I don’t trust my friends, they love me and don’t want me hurt. I don’t trust the professsionals because I assume they were being encouraging and kind. I guess opinion doesn’t count to me, unless it is a negative opinion. It’s best when I hear, “This is crap.” I always say that. Then I get lost in “Why bother to do this, you don’t know what you are doing? You idiot!” Then, I stop for a while. Sometimes, I burn the pages or delete the files to free up space on the computer for important things, like recipes or horoscope charts or little stories for my journal about the neighbours and squirrels.

There have been long years between bursts of creative ambitions. Once, fifty years ago, I burned every last page of the writing I had done over 10 years. At least, I thought I had burned them. Turns out that a family friend had kept a couple pages of my very first writing. Something I had written at age ten or so, was held safe. The family friend wasn’t particularly close and I will never understand why they had the pages or why they kept them? Weird. My first impulse is to believe that the pages were kept as a sort of ransom. “Ha, this crap will embarrass him badly some day. If he gets lucky and gets rich, we can extort some money. Good idea!” Then, they got bored with waiting for a miracle. Understanding the lack of opportunity, they simply called my brother to come and get the crappy one-page, two act play called, ‘Go easy on the Elderberry, Nero!’ “Get this out of here,” they said.

I am frustrated by my miserable efforts, in part because I have so many good friends who really shine. My gosh! I have a music friend that moved to North Bay who has played drums and guitar for folks like Jeff Healey, for goodness’ sake! He is a great jazz guitarist and I am sure an even better drummer since he tends to apologize that the guitar isn’t his primary instrument. I have a woman friend who isn’t classically trained but who has a natural talent, a real gift! Her abilities are completely amazing and she learns quickly, to accompany herself on the ukelele. Jazz Uke? Oh, yeah. She writes deep and soulful songs. I also have friends with amazing resume’s. One couple have been very high up the musical ladder and yet choose to live here and be my friends. They are wonderful musicians and keep us all thrilled with their work. I know a guy who uses the microphone stand as a bottleneck slide when he plays guitar! Good looking fella, too! All these folks let me hang out with them and sometimes tolerate my guitar or piano ‘stylings’ ha.

What strikes me is that I don’t have writer friends in person. The friends I have who write are mainly ‘facebook friends’. I know two who have published several works – well written things. They do care what I think but are distant, as FB is. My guess is that I haven’t taken my writing seriously enough to bring it out on stage or show it to anyone other than Facebook. While I can sing and play (knowing that no one is taking it seriously helps) I can’t bring myself to stand up in front of others and make literary noise yet. As a result, I haven’t dared ingratiate myself with a ‘writing’ crowd. Ha. Me so silly.

It sure is chilly today. Right to the bone

December 21, 2020

Oh boy. Those were my Dad’s nearly last words. I don’t remember what else he may have said, it couldn’t be much because immediately afterward, he dropped into a coma and emerged just once, for a brief flutter. The short swim up into consciousness was to express disgust at an embarrassing physical incident. He was fully awake a second and I leaned in to hold him out of the mess, reassured him the nurse was coming to clean up. He returned to Morpheus’ embrace and died about 5 days later. As to actual last words, there could have been something further, I guess. I don’t remember. Memory fails on all the details but I do remember he said, “Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy”. He repeated that phrase in urgent whispered, rapid succession. He knew what was going to happen, I think. Beyond that last expression, the aware communications I had with him were twice and of non-verbal nature. The first, he looked at me in a very child-like way, smiled and gave a little-boy cheerful wave. It was later he woke to frown and show utter disgust. I think I shall remember only the sunny little boy wave he gave me.

My dad was an ordinary man, a good man fundamentally. That means, at the base, at the foundation, he was a good man. He had a lot of flaws, lots of weaknesses. Maybe more than others? I don’t know. Most of his flaws came back on him, not anyone else. Some of them involved us, of course…that happens in families, but his flaws didn’t involve allowing hundreds of thousands of people to die. His flaws didn’t involve imprisoning innocent people who ‘snuck into the country’ illegally. My dad was a racist who knew he was wrong in that and never exposed his children to that point of view. He tried to change. I think he did, in the end. My dad was a homophobe, too, yet when I sat him down to tell him I was gay, he said, “Oh! Well, you were so nervous, I thought you were going to tell me something serious.” He acted with love and his heart changed. My dad was able to work around his flaws and be decent. His last words meant something.

The last words I heard from Ed’s mom were, “We are glad you came!” She spoke carefully, with certainty and meaning but one word at a time. It was Christmas and we were at the dinner table, finishing up. Some of the guests already had their coats on, having additional engagements in the busiest season of our Christian year. Mum thought the party was breaking up and she was saying her goodbyes. She didn’t remember who I was and I knew that in the moment. She didn’t remember my name or what my relationship to her was but she made a point of saying those words to me. She was nearly fully aware and she wanted me to know how she felt. It was sincere. When I returned a day or so later to visit, she no longer spoke, she just smiled or frowned or sighed contentedly. I treasure her last words to me. When I am too much for myself, I can try to remember what she said to me and I can keep going.

Ed’s mom was ordinary, she wasn’t rich or well-educated or glamourous. She didn’t cook brilliant meals. You were invariably going to have pot roast, sliced tomato, thin sliced cucumber, mashed potato and jello for dessert at her house. She wasn’t brilliant in the kitchen but she was giving, she WANTED to cook and do for others. She might have seemed common to many but her talents were great. She was remarkable in her own fashion. She kept an incredibly clean house, was great at mathematics and she was honest. Honest to the bone. She never used her skill with numbers to screw people she owed money to. When she said something, she meant it and everyone loved her for it. Her last words were the most important she ever spoke. (…and she did love to talk!)

My own mother’s last memorable words in my prescence were, “Well, it must be worse than I thought. You are ALL here.” That revealed her true wit and cleverness, summed it right up. The remainder of her communications were all matter-of-fact, “…yes, another blanket…could you ask her to turn the television down…no, I am not really hungry.” My younger brother was in steady conversations with the nurses after that, since the home was locked down and none of us could visit. We couldn’t do window visits or even Facetime visits. No one was available to move her to any window we could have seen her from and she us. The border quickly closed and I couldn’t travel after that. Complicating matters was that she wouldn’t answer or talk on the phone and was never much bothered with any other, newer technology. The nurses had to relay her condition and concerns to my brother. Her care-givers were good to her and they were the only ones to hear her final words. I think those words could honestly have been, “…may I have something to make me sleep?” as reported by the nurse. The humility of those words rings out loud and clear.

Mom was always respectful, always polite, always well mannered and intelligent. She, too was an ordinary and flawed person. Her flaws kept her in a dark place the whole time she was living. Her salvation was the love of reading, the love of knowledge, the love of handwork. She was a master at knitting, crocheting and sewing. Her upsy-downsy finances never allowed her to buy much of anything. If she needed something, she had to make it. She would not be Barbara Striesand’s favourite person, in that she never accomplished much, apparently. There was the matter of personal survival, though. Mom did that extremely well. In her surviving life, I don’t remember a time she was ever rude or selfish or cruel. No matter her own situation, she never put herself above another soul. She didn’t have much but she had that and it’s so much more than many do. It’s more than many so-called ‘important’ people have.

When I woke today, the first shot of news was frightening. The province goes back to full lockdown, Christmas Eve. We will be back to the initial frozen movement in just a few days. Then, two minutes later, came news that an extremely contagious variant of the virus is breaking out in the U.K. We are in it deep, my friends. My great fear is that things are just beginning, not nearly ending as we thought. I was allowing relief to creep in (on little kitty-paw feet, Like Sandberg’s fog). I was relaxing. I wasn’t thoroughly fearful before but am becoming so, now. (Oh boy, oh boy, oh boy).

The U.S., particularly, is in dire shape. I believe that the fibres are separating, the fabric rent. The leaders, the bright, the influential, the supposed ‘best of’ are not that, they are more common and seem to be lower than dirt. If (and I do sincerely hope the otherwise comes true) leadership fails, the fully exploding country will spread a wicked poison around the world. I am mindful, fearful of that as Covid also moves it’s way around and insinuates itself. A great number of us ought to be writing our last words or planning them. We can make them famous or we can make them infamous – as some other ‘last words’. The other words I mean are those of the would-be triumphant king, Donald Trump. I can be honest and say I hope there are no more of his words disseminated! He is a paradox. He is everything our society despises, all wrapped up in a package that claims to be ‘larger than life, the best, the most superiour, the greatest ever seen’. He and his cohorts drip with everything negative that was ever said of my Mom, my Dad and my dear Mother-in-law. I hope that his last words were “It’s just the flu, it will disappear…just like that” …because I can’t hear any more!

My writing software just sent me Christmas greetings? I am not sure I like that. I prefer my machines to just shut up and perform a function. I, without a sense of shame, prefer my machines to look pretty and keep out of the conversation but I don’t expect my machines to bring me a drink, not even if I tap an empty bottle or cup on the table and raise my eyebrows. I am a modern, equitable man and don’t think my machines should have to light my cigar, though I don’t want my machines to offer their opinion, either. My software is a typewriter, as far as I am concerned. It is a machine. It is not an intelligent being. It does not owe me anything beyond the parameters of typewriters that organize type accurately according to my bidding. If I am typing, then I do not want my typewriter to ‘suggest’ corrections, I do not want my typewriter to know what day it is, I do not want my typewriter to ‘greet’ me. I don’t want my typewriter to ‘autofill’ and complete my sentences. Worst? I don’t want my machine to say ‘Merry Christmas’ in Times New Roman, 12pt. If I am typing, I want my typewriter to print letters in a neat, orderly, legible fashion and in a font of MY choice,completely disregarding what time of year it is. Period.

That much aside, I usually feel bah/humbug around this time of year anyway. It’s easy enough for me to be overwhelmed by what presents I should give and to whom, or how much of which type booze to drink and whether it should be mixed or straight, how many cookies to make for others, how many for myself. When I have all of these electronic devices informing me what holiday is coming up, that just makes it worse. I turn on the computer, a reindeer and sleigh swoop across the screen. I open the microwave door, a little jerky motion Santa displays on the L.E.D. screen? I open my Christmas card and get a soulless midi version of, “We wish you a Merry Christmas, we wish you a Merry Christmas…” until the best thing for it is to get a hammer and put these things out of my misery. If such magic as an appropriate seasonal greeting is possible, why do I have to re-program day and time whenever the power goes off? It ain’t right.

Sigh.

I can almost imagine how it must be for our fellow humans of other religious indoctrination. “Yeah, yeah.. Merry f’n Christmas to you and by the way, Happy Kwanzaa, a pleasant Solstice and Happy Hanukkah!” (which holiday is spelled 24 different ways, according to the Oxford English Dictionary and does not occur on December 25. Just imagine how difficult it is for a software designer to figure out which way to spell Channukah in blue light? No wonder they can’t get the electric boxes to figure out what time it is …and, the Islamic calendar is lunar, not solar so what then? Their microwaves and writing software must have to guess whether it is Ramadan or Eid or, or…) It is little wonder that most people get grumpy when the days get to their shortest length of the year.

I am grumpy, too.

My treat-loving squirrel must be resting the last few days. I see no imaginary tiny hats on a furry head, no one scampers across the skinny neighbour’s garage roof. The tree is empty of more than just it’s leaves, with the resident beast not out or about, not resting on the big branches. His/her part of the parade past my window has changed, tilted slightly. M. Squirrel is… absent. There are no further daily mysteries to report upon. I have no dried out cookies or doughnuts at my doorstep today, none yesterday. I am concerned.
I would call the authorities, excepting that my understanding is they will not search for and I may not report one gone missing for at least 48 hours after the event.

It seems that %90 of missing squirrels return on their own within a 48 hour time period. According to the cops, It’s true of people as well. The men and women in blue (or red blazers and funny hats, depending)may have a point when they caution that creatures slip out of their habits occasionally. I had an uncle who disappeared for days, months at a time every little once in a while. He went to Chicago sometimes, to Florida once. Maybe M. Squirrel is in Chicago? That must be it. M. does not need to go to Florida, he hasn’t gone bankrupt and won’t be able to take advantage of the quite liberal property laws there. I read that in Florida, Jared and Ivanka may keep their primary residence safe from creditors. It doesn’t matter how lavish or pricey the primary residence is, the creditors may not seize it. M. Squirrel could have a primary residence there, too, if it were necessary. It is not. M. has no issue with the banks, being quite independant and frugal. He may act ‘squirrelly’ the way J. and I. do, but he is a much more careful manager. He stays off twitter and out of the newspapers.

I do worry about M. Squirrel and hope he hasn’t gone off to some sort of rendezvous with accident. Such alignments are our fate as living creatures (and I consider myself of that ilk). Accident abounds, waits in the bushes for us. Accident drives too fast down our little laneway and catches up with it’s title. (Bear that in mind, new renters! I see you Zooming by my window!) That is just part of it. Though we are each integral to the scheme and important in our own ways, accidents do happen. We go missing for 48hours, sometimes for more. Sometimes the missing part is permanent. There are folks who blame God when accidents happen but I don’t. God didn’t create accidents – read your bible. He created the heavens and the earth and all the walkers, crawlers, swimmers and birds of the air but there wasn’t a mention of accident. I don’t even think that Satan created accidents. Accidents are called accidents for a reason – they happen by accident. God may smite you or Satan may get you to sign a contract but it won’t be an accident. I have been smitten, I have signed contracts and I know.

Poor M. Squirrel. If something untoward has happened, I don’t know what I would do without him. He is a part of the story of my laneway neighbourhood. He is a part of the ‘fabric’ as they say. This entire ‘fabric’ is called Otton Lane but might as well be called ‘Sesame Street’. I say ‘Sesame Street’ because M. Squirrel used to leave a sesame seed bagel on my window sill every little once in a while. At first, I thought it was possibly a gift from the ‘Mayor’. A gift meant to erase hard feelings between us. A gift meant to say, “I apologize for doing a Google search and analysis of you and telling the other neighbours what to do”. It wasn’t. I discovered this recently. One day, I caught M. Squirrel banging a hardened sesame bagel on the brick to break off a piece for lunch. He was making more noise than the Mayor claimed I was. The sound made was a curious tapping, or rapping, somewhere near my front door and I went to check. It was M. I miss that irritating sound already and it hasn’t been more than 48 hours.

M. Squirrel is(was) one of many creature characters here. There are other similarities, like that, to the TV version of Sesame Street. For example, M. and some of the others here have fur, notably Skinny Shirtless Guy with his little beard, but none have blue fur. None have yellow feathers and stand six feet tall. None are green with webbed feet. As well, only M. Squirrel eats/ate cookies messily. There is no person or thing named Bert and none Ernie. I should say that with reservation because I haven’t learned the name of Skinny Shirtless Guy or Mysterious Sneaky Slouching Guy. Either of them could be a Bert or an Ernie. Lastly, there is me. Though I am not on the TV version of Sesame street, I am here. I direct things from my seat by the window. I make up little stories about the folks and beasts, their trials, tribulations, successes.

Here on ‘Sesame Street/Otton Lane’, I am the only resident celebrity. I am the famous writer who can’t get published and can’t get book tours anymore, so I live here. The people who watch ‘Otton Lane’ don’t know who I am though I am still famous. The producers say I lend an air of ‘respectability’ to the proceedings. There are times I invite another celebrity over to sing a couple songs about the letter Z…(that’s not true. I do have celebrities over but I can’t figure out how to get them to play or sing. I am working on that. I think they probably want to be paid.) When my celebrity friends are here, we tell stories to each other so the people watching can learn about M. Squirrel and M. Pussaycat. It eases the monotony of singing, “A – a deer a female deer. B – a drop of golden sun…” for them. Plus, we aren’t supposed to sing anymore.

If I think about it, I suppose M. Squirrel could have legitimate, unrelated to accident reasons for being absent. Under the latest Covid restrictions, M. might be in quarantine. That explains his absence. He/she must be watching Netflix and eating the bagel or cookies or doughnuts alone. Next time he is out and about, I bet he weighs more than I do. We will have a weighing-in contest. He will get on the scale, then I will. The first one of us to cause the scale to make a creaking noise wins. I can hardly wait for the 48 hours to be up so that I can report M. missing, if he still is.