Truths and Half Truths

Justin Alfred Leonard Ling, May 2, 1923 - July 21, 2008

Justin Alfred Leonard Ling. age 85, won’t be shopping at Eaton’s tomorrow.

    As long as any of us can remember, that was Mom’s sly and gentle euphemism for the final curtain in life, and it seems fitting that we announce Dad’s passing that way.  He’d appreciate the opportunity to make us smile one more time through our tears.

    Justin was born May 2, 1923, in Saskatoon, Saskatchewan.   A skilled pilot, he was selected by the R.C.A.F. to train airmen during the war, both in Canada and in England.

    Before he went overseas, he and his pals attended a Saturday night dance near their training base in Edmonton.  It was a fateful evening.  He met a girl - Mary Lou Hutton - and walked her home.  The next day he joined her and her family for Sunday dinner before boarding the train for Montreal and the boat that would take him overseas.

    For two years, he had no contact whatsoever with Mary.  On returning to Canada, he boarded a train bound for Edmonton, where he hunted down the girl he’d met, found her, and proposed marriage.  They had known each other less than eight hours.

    In October of last year, Mary and Justin celebrated their 62nd wedding anniversary.

    While Dad’s accomplishments stand on their own - a 25 year career as a fighter pilot trainer with the Canadian Armed Forces, followed by a second career as owner of a successful small real estate company, Ling Realty - it is impossible to talk about Justin Ling without in the same breath talking about his life-long friend, partner, and wife, Mary.  The two were quite literally inseparable - golfing together, curling together, raising a family, running a business, bickering, laughing, mercilessly teasing one another, travelling side-by-side through a rich and textured life; two halves of a beautiful whole.

    When Mom began sinking into the insidious mire that is Alzheimer’s, Dad never wavered.  He patiently cared for her - making her meals, sitting with her, still teasing her, but more often gently guiding her through what must sometimes have been excruciating conversations as her memories began to falter and fade.  Through it all, he shrugged off his own battles with lung cancer and age.

    When Mom’s care became too much for one person, the family found her a place in the Betel Home in Gimli, where she lives today.  His job done, Dad’s illnesses took over.  His final battle with cancer was mercifully short.

    Justin Ling was - and he would tell you this - a wonderfully imperfect man.  He smoked, he drank, he swore.  But he was generous, playful, funny, strong, and an irrepressible tease.  He taught six children about the value of family and the power of  fierce and devoted love, lessons we still hold dear and try our best to practice in our lives.

    Justin is survived by his wife, Mary, and five children: Denise Wheeler (Robert), Kathryn Naud (Claude), Barbara Kelman (Craig), Nils (Joyce), and Andrea Campbell (Peter).   Our brother Justin (Margaret) was taken from us earlier this year.  Justin’s sister Barbara Fowler and his brother Nils F. Ling both live in BC and share our loss.

    We are grateful for our time with Dad, and for the time he spent delightedly teasing every one of his many grandchildren, all of whom adored him and who share in his legacy of love.

    For a tribute to Justin and Mary, including the inspiring story of their love, please visit http://truthsandhalftruths.typepad.com/family.  It's in development now but should be in good shape in a day or so ...

My deepest thanks to all of you who have expressed your condolences.  This has been a tough time, and your good wishes boost me more than you can know.

This Is My Dad, In A Nutshell

Andrea and Barb, my sisters, were at the hospital visiting Dad.  They'd just gotten the results back from a CAT scan and other tests: the cancer in his lungs was back full force, and now there's a growth or tumour or something in his brain that is adding to the gloomy prognosis.  According to the docs, the time we have left with Dad in this world is measured in days or weeks, as opposed to months.

He has periods of lucidity, but sometimes ... not so much.  One day, he insisted he was 55 years old - which he was, 30 years ago.  Another day, he asked my sister who that girl was who kept coming into his room.  He knows her, he says.  Just can't remember her name.  (Cue Twilight Zone music.  I'm thinking City of Angels.)

But some days, he's Dad.

This day, Andrea was asking him if he needed anything.  Is he bored?

"Not really," said Dad.

"Well, I see you looking off into space a lot," Andrea said.

"Just thinking," said my Dad.

"About what?"

A pause.

"Naked women."

Dad, At The Last

A couple of weeks ago the whole family went to Winnipeg for my niece's wedding.  It was a lovely event, held under a rainbow Pride Flag at her parents' cottage on Lake Winnipeg. 

At one point, I broke away from the crowd on the lawn and was just standing on the gravel road, batting at mosquitoes and having a drink.  Along came a guy walking a chihuahua on a leash (never fails to amuse me, that), and he nodded politely.  "Big wedding, huh?"

"Yeah," I said.  "Should be going for a while."

"Yesterday I was down to the General Store and I met the mother of the bride," said the fellow.

"Which one?"  I asked.

"What ... there's two weddings?"

"Uhh ... no."

A beat.  Two beats.  Then:  "Ohhhhh."

***********

A couple of days before, when we landed in Winnipeg, we piled into our rental cars and convoyed up to Gimli, where my parents live.  My sister Andrea lives a few doors down from Mom and Dad, so we stopped at her place first, parked the cars, and walked to my folks' condo.

Nobody home.

Really, we'd only expected to see my Dad.  About six weeks ago, a room had come free at the local assisted care facility, and my sister finally convinced Dad that Mom needed more help and supervision than the two of them could give her.  Everybody - my Dad, my sister, the rest of the siblings - knew that there would be a period of adjustment, but that in the end, it was much safer and better for all concerned.

(A few words about my sister, Andrea:  at one point in her life she had built a terrific career in real estate, but when her marriage disintegrated and with her kids grown, she opted for a full life change.  She moved from Winnipeg to the tiny community of Gimli, bought a condo a few doors down from Mom and Dad, and as they've grown older and more infirm, she's taken an increasingly active role in their lives. 

Andrea and I grew up almost as twins.  She was 15 months younger than I, and the two of us were "the little kids" in a family of six children, set apart from the other four by a gap of three years.  At my parents' 50th Anniversary party, the whole family was together and we all decided we wanted to go out somewhere for drinks.  One of my older sisters saw a problem with logistics, so suggested we split up into two vehicles.

"The four of us can go in our car, and the little kids can go in Andy's car."

We were in our forties at the time.

Andrea has stepped up to the plate for my parents when the rest of us either couldn't or wouldn't.  When Mom started to go into her fog, it was Andrea who would walk down in the morning, take her into the bathroom, and wrestle her into the shower.  She would see that my Mom was clean and well dressed, would make sure that Mom was getting fed and the meds were being taken.  She would sometimes butt heads with my Dad, and I'm not sure he always understood and appreciated what she was doing for Mom and for him and for the rest of us. 

But I sure did.

Along the way, she discovered something that she did well and enjoyed doing.  She now works in home care, visiting elderly people and doing for them and their families what she did for us.  It's a job I sure couldn't do, but she enjoys it and it gives her time to golf and enjoy life and you may have to have an elderly parent or grandparent to understand that she's doing some of the most important work there is.)

Anyway, Andrea guessed that Dad was visiting Mom in the Betel Home where she lives, so we all hopped back in the cars and drove over.  We met Dad at the front door of the home, coming out.

There were hugs all around, introductions to his future grandson-in-law, a re-introduction to his great grandson.  But Dad can't stand around for long, so I helped him to the car as the rest of the family went in to see Mom.  I leaned into the car as he was doing up his seat belt.

"We'll go up and see Mom for a bit, but I know she can't deal with much more than a short visit.  Then we'll come back to your place and have a longer visit with you."

"Sounds good," said Dad.  I closed the door for him and watched him drive off.

************

Mom's doing fine in the home.  I guess she had some initial distress - of course - but she's settled in nicely.

Alzheimer's is an odd disease in some ways.  Its effects aren't predictable - Mom remembered me (although she had trouble with my name), but it was hard to tell who else she recognized.  She delighted in Owen, but we're going to have to take it on faith that she knew he was her great- grandson and not just some random baby thrust into her arms.

She's forgotten that she smokes.  She's forgotten that for the past ten years, most of her days were spent sitting in a chair, trying to read with failing eyesight or watching whatever was on TV because she didn't know how to work the remote or shut it off.  In the home, instead of sitting around in her room (a nice enough room - somewhat austere and unadorned, but I'm told that's because Mom is concerned about getting her stuff stolen, so she carefully hides everything in her drawers.  An irony, as you will soon see.), she will walk the halls of the home for hours on end, often in the wake of a younger man named Terry.

Terry seems nice enough, but within seconds you see that he's in the grip of the same misty innerspace that envelopes Mom.  The two of them walk.  And walk.  And walk.  Sometimes another patient (client?  resident?) joins them - the three of them are the only ambulatory folks on their floor.

Which, according to the nurses, has caused a teensy problem.  See, to Mom, this is now her home.  And my mom's home is her castle.  She owns it all.  So if she comes across a pen, she'll pick it up.  If she walks past an open door, she'll go in and look around, and if anything is left out, she will yoink it up and take it back to her room where it belongs.

According to the nurses, some of the other residents don't completely see eye to eye with Mom when it comes to her walking into their room with her two pals and purloining their stuff.

The nurses, who are delightful, simply go in at the end of the day, recover the stash from Mom's drawer, and return it to its rightful owners.  But it must get exasperating, trying to keep tabs on three wandering kleptomaniacs.

That's right.  My Mom is a gang leader.

**********

We left the home and drove back to Dad's place.  We piled out of the cars and went in to see him.

No Dad.

We waited for a while, but Owen was getting fussy and after a day that started at 6AM, two plane rides, an hour in the car, a visit to the home, and all the accompanying excitement, it was clear he was at the limits of what you could expect from a nine month old baby.  We turned to Andrea.

She shrugged.  "I'm guessing he went to the hotel to play the video slots for a while," she said simply.  It was matter-of-fact to her.  She has lived with this for years.  "He may be home in a while, or maybe he'll be longer.  He does what he does on his own time."

Reluctantly - but what else could they do? - the kids left with the baby.

I stayed for a bit with my wife.

No Dad.

We hopped into the car and went down to the hotel, and into the bar where the video machines are.

No Dad.

We got back into the car.

"What are you going to do?" asked my wife.  We can't just ... leave.  Chances are ... I mean ..."

She didn't have to finish the thought.  I knew that I would never see Dad again.

And that's when I thought of Dave Barry.

Dave Barry is one of my favourite writers.  For years, his columns have been a model for me, something to aspire to.  But of all his wonderfully funny columns, one has always stood out.

I'm going to reprint it here, without permission of any kind.  I can't imagine he'd object - it's not like a quick Google search wouldn't turn up this column in milliseconds, in dozens of places around the Internet.

It's called A Million Words, and it captures exactly what I was feeling.

*************

A Million Words

It was time to go have my last words with my father. He was dying, in the bedroom he built. He built our whole house, even dug the foundation himself, with a diaper tied around his head to keep the sweat out of his eyes. He was always working on the house, more than 35 years, and he never did finish it. He was first to admit that he really didn’t know how to build a house.

When I went in to see him, he was lying in the bedroom, listening to “The People’s Court.” I remember when he always would be on those Sunday-morning television talk shows, back in the fifties and sixties. Dr. Barry, they called him. He was a Presbyterian minister, and he worked in inner-city New York. They were always asking him to be on those shows to talk about Harlem and the South Bronx, because back then he was the only white man they could find who seemed to know anything about it. I remember when he was quotation of the day in the New York Times. The Rev. Dr. David W. Barry.

His friends called him Dave. “Is Dave there?” they’d ask, when they called to talk about their husbands or wives or sons or daughters who were acting crazy or drinking too much or running away. Or had died. “Dave,” they’d ask, “what can I do?” They never thought to call anybody but him. He’d sit there and listen, for hours, sometimes. He was always smoking.

The doctor told us he was dying, but we knew anyway. Almost all he said anymore was thank you, when somebody brought him shaved ice, which was mainly what he wanted, at the end. He had stopped putting his dentures in. He had stopped wearing his glasses. I remember when he yanked his glasses off and jumped into the Heymans’ pool to save me.

So I go in for my last words, because I have to go back home, and my mother and I agree I probably won’t see him again. I sit next to him on the bed, hoping he can’t see that I’m crying. “I love you, Dad,” I say. He says “I love you, too. I’d like some oatmeal.”

So I go back out to the living room, where my mother and my wife and my son are sitting on the sofa, in a line, waiting for the outcome and I say, “He wants some oatmeal.” I am laughing and crying about this. My mother thinks maybe I should go back in and try to have a more meaningful last talk, but I don’t.

Driving home, I’m glad I didn’t. I think: He and I have been talking ever since I learned how. A million words. All of them final, now. I don’t need to make him give me any more, like souvenirs. I think: Let me not define his death on my terms. Let him have his oatmeal. I can hardly see the road.

© Dave Barry

*************

We went back to my Dad's place.

Dad was in front of his house, sitting in his car, staring into space, having a cigarette.  He does that, I guess.

Dad sits a lot in thought.  I remember him as a man of action.  I can still see him walking to work at the Air Force base (Dad was an instructor for jet pilots), strong, powerful, that military bearing you never quite lose. 

I remember him teaching me how to golf.  I'd hit the ball and slump along like a ... well, a teenager.  "Come on," he would say.  "For God's sake, walk with purpose!"

Dad walked everywhere with purpose.

Now, his body ravaged by a stroke, lung cancer, and age, Dad doesn't walk anywhere with purpose.  He totters and shuffles - that old man walk where no step is longer than 6 inches.  As he walks, he wheezes and gasps for air.

Dad is bent by age and by the mileage on his body.  But he's also bent by the emotional toll that is exacted when someone you have lived with for six decades is taken away.

Mom and Dad got engaged after having known each other less than eight hours.  In my entire life, I only knew them to be apart for six months - and that, unwillingly.  Mom spent half a year in the hospital for tuberculosis when I was ... I don't know, five years old?  That time aside, they were forever joined at the hip.

In my mind's eye, I cannot see my Dad without my Mom.  And the thing is ... I don't think he can, either.  And it's quite literally killing him.

I went over and tapped on the window of his car.

"Where were you?"  I said.  "We were going to meet you back here.  The kids had to head back into the city."

He shrugged.  "I went for a little gamble."  That was it.  No other explanation necessary, as far as he could see.

I helped him out of the car and into the house.  We stood in his living room and talked a bit.  I honestly can't remember if anything of substance was said.  So - probably not, huh?

I hugged him, and told him I loved him, and he told me he loved me.

And we left.

***********

My sister Barb found Dad last week on the floor of his bathroom.  He thought he was in bed.  He was taken to hospital - weak and confused.  Tests showed he'd had some sort of "heart incident", and possibly a stroke.  He's been in bed ever since.

The nurses say he'll probably never go home again.  The process of working through the waiting list at some extended care facility - hopefully the same one as my Mom, but no guarantees - has begun.  Andrea's keeping me posted.

Now and again, the thought of going back crosses my mind.  But there's really not much to do.  No idea how long things will stay the way they are. 

I don't need more time with my Dad.  I have no unresolved issues with him.  We were friendly in the last 30 years of his life. We golfed together.  Sat and talked.  I drank with him and smoked with him and sat and listened as he patiently explained how the world was supposed to work if only they'd put him in charge.

I wish my girls had known him better when he was himself.  They were too young to remember how vital and strong and smart and funny and mischievous he could be, how he filled a room just by walking into it. 

They've seen parts of that in me, I guess.  It'll have to do. 

They can take my word on the rest.

"Hurray. Hurray! The First of May! Outside screwing starts today!"

For as long as I can remember - and I have the best memory of anyone you know - that was always the first thing I heard my Mom say on this day. 

She would say it to each of her six kids as we came down for breakfast; she would say it to her friends when they came over for coffee;  she would cheerfully answer the phone with that greeting, not caring who was on the other end.  There was always a big grin on her face and a mischievous twinkle in her eye.

My Mom - and I have noted this before - was a woman of surpassing beauty (although we were, of course, oblivious to that). This is a picture of me and my older brother Jay and Mom from sometime in the 1960s - I'm going to guess she was in her early forties, although ... funny, huh? ... I can't wrap my head around looking at a picture of Mom and imagining the woman in the photo being younger than I am now.

On the morning of every May 1 since I moved out of my parents' house, I would call my Mom.  Every one of my siblings did, too.  We'd call just to hear the music of her voice as she answered the phone with "Hurray, Hurray!  The First of May!  Outside screwing starts today!"

It never occurred to me that this little bit of doggerel was in some way "inappropriate" to teach young children.  That's a label that has sprung up relatively recently.  I don't think any one of us was poisoned by what we heard.  It amused my Mom, it amused us greatly, and it became as much a part of our family fabric as any nursery rhyme we ever heard.

I didn't - and won't - call my Mom today. 

I know where she is right now, as I type this.  She's sitting in her green chair, across from my Dad's chair.  Dad is up in bed - he sleeps late now.  The TV is on, although if you asked her, Mom wouldn't be able to identify the program.

She'll probably sit there all morning, waiting for Dad to get up.  Now and again, she'll reach for her purse and fumble around inside it, looking for ... something.  She'll carefully undo each of the zippers and sift through the contents of the pockets of her purse.  She'll re-zip every pocket just as carefully, and set the purse down.  And in a few minutes, she'll pick up her purse and start looking through it again.

I'm not going to call, because Mom is sitting right by the phone.  And she will answer it.  "Hello?"  And it will once again break my heart.  And there's been quite enough of that lately, thanks.

But this morning, when I realized what day it was, I grinned and remembered.  And later today, I'll phone each of my girls, and when they answer I'll say:

"Hurray, hurray!  The First of May!  Outside screwing starts today!"

Seriously? Almost May.

Last year on this day I shot a respectable 83 at Stanhope Golf And Country Club.

No golf today.

On Being A Good Parent

In two posts, first here and then, in a follow-up, here, my friend and fellow Island resident Rob Paterson has asked some valid questions about what constitutes being a "good parent".  The posts - and the articles quoted - focus on what today's parents do to keep kids safe - and how relentless efforts to protect children from danger actually end up "protecting" them from living a full and rich life. 

As a corollary, there's the suggestion that adults who micromanage children's play time are doing more harm than good.

I couldn't agree more.  I get as exasperated with over-parenting as I do with neglectful parents.  I fear we're producing generation after generation of kids who won't have stories to tell about their childhood that don't start with "One day my Mom and I ...". 

The world is filling up with kids who have been so protected from danger and failure that they cannot enjoy risk and success.

                                       ***************

When Erin was about 9 or 10, she signed up for baseball.  They needed coaches, so I agreed to help out and ended up with a clot of pre-teens eager to draw from my vast knowledge of the sport. Well, good luck with that.  I've played softball and baseball, and know the basics - but that's about it.  I figured at that age, the basics would be enough, and I was more right than I expected.

We got to the first game and learned the League Rules.  In order to foster self-esteem among the players, the main rules were 1.  Every Child Goes Up To Bat In Every Inning; and 2.  Every Child Gets To Hit The Ball. 
There was no such thing as a "strike" or a "ball".  The pitcher kept pitching to a kid until that child made contact and felt the joy of running to first base.

Brilliant. 

How long do you figure that first game lasted?  It started at 6:30PM and went till 9:15 ... when it was called for bedtime.  In the goddamn fourth inning.

I mean, how could it not go that long?  Little Johnny or Janey would arrive at the plate, and anything that was thrown in his or her general direction was fair game.  Ten feet over your head?  Swing and a miss.  Ball thrown behind you?  Swing and a miss.  Whiff.  Whiff.  Whiff. 

Same kid at the plate for five minutes at a go, everybody - him, his teammates, the coaches, the spectators, everybody - praying that by some miraculous turn of events this child could accidentally make glancing contact with the ball so that it could dribble off the tip of his bat, squib to its resting place four feet in front of the plate, and dear Lord we could have another batter.

It was excruciating.

The next game, I called the kids over during warm-up.  I said, "How many of you signed up to play baseball?"  Every hand dutifully raised.

"Who can tell me what a strike is?"  Everybody knew.

"Who thinks the game we played the other night was real baseball?"  Not one.

"Who wants to play baseball, and not that game?"  Every hand shot up without one second's hesitation.

"OK.  Here's what we're going to try.  You can have as many balls as you want - the pitchers aren't that good.  But three strikes and ... what?"

A little red-headed kid ventured, "You're ... out?"

"That's right.  Three strikes and you're out, just like real baseball.  So if you swing at a bad pitch and miss it, that's one strike.  Swing at one over your head, that's two.  Swing at another and miss, you come back and sit down till your next at-bat.  Is everybody cool with that?"

They were.

I explained what was happening to the opposing coach, who looked doubtful.  "That's not how the league says we should do it," he pointed out.  "It's not fair to your kids.  I think we should play it the way we're supposed to."

"Oh, I'm good with whatever you want to do with your kids.  They can have as many swings as you want.  But my kids want to try this."

"Fine.  But I feel bad for them."

The game started, and our first batter was Luke, a big, goofy kid with a perpetual smile.  The first pitch was a mile high, and he almost fell over reaching for it.

"Strike One,"  I said.  His smile faltered.

The next pitch hit the dirt about five feet in front of the plate.  Luke swung and just missed tipping the ball on the second bounce.

"Strike Two," I said.  Luke frowned.

The next pitch was way outside, and he swung again.

"Strike Three, Luke.  Go sit down."  He looked back at me, eyes wide.  But the next batter was already prising the bat from his hand and Luke walked slowly back to the bench.

The next kid had seen what happened to Luke.  When the first pitch came in high, he didn't move a muscle.  Just like his heroes on TV.  He looked back at me and grinned.

Three or four pitches later, he got a good one.  He swung and made solid contact and I wish you could have seen his face when he arrived at second base ... the joy and excitement and sense of accomplishment just radiating from him.  He hollered back at the bench:  "It's easy, guys!  Just wait for a good one!"

And they did.  There were a few strikeouts after that, but they were honest cuts at good pitches, for the most part.  But almost all the kids got hits, and not little doinky hits off the top of the bat from swinging at a pitch three feet overhead - good, solid hits that rocketed through the infield.  Singles, doubles, even a couple of error-assisted home runs.

I felt sorry for the other team. By swinging at every ridiculous pitch (as their coach told them to), they were hardly able to propel the ball back to the pitcher.  Those times they  looked ready to wait for a good pitch, their coach harangued them to "SWING!"

The game was over in an hour and a half. We kicked their ass.  They were playing by rules set up by adults to "help" them, and they just could not overcome that obstacle. 

And when they did get a hit, there was no enjoyment in it.  They saw what we all saw - that their hits were mere chance, the law of averages coming into play. 

By protecting them from failure, the adults had managed to rob them of the opportunity to enjoy success.

                                      *************

When Erin was 13, she and her piano teacher Carrie-Ann decided she would do the Royal Conservatory of Music Practical Piano Exam.  It meant learning and performing a collection of difficult scales and short  compositions in front of a panel of judges.  Scary stuff, when you're 13.

The exam was on a Saturday.  On Thursday, Erin came home and said "I'm not ready.  I haven't practiced enough.  I don't want to do the exam this year.  Carrie-Ann says it's okay if I wait for a year."

"But you've known about this exam for months," I said.  "How can you not be ready?"  Erin shrugged. 

I knew what the problem was.  She has always had my work ethic, poor dear.  And what she also knew for months was that if she wasn't ready, she could back out.  Escape hatch.

I thought for a bit and said,  "No.  You're taking the exam.  We paid for it, you agreed to take it, and if I let you back out, what am I teaching you?"

She argued.  She cried.  She begged.  She promised.  She yelled, slammed doors, flopped on her bed, wouldn't eat supper, called me all sorts of names.  But nothing she did would change my mind.

Later that night, I heard her practicing.  She woke up in the morning and practiced, and when she got home from school on Friday she went right to the piano.  The pleading didn't stop, but when she met the brick wall she resigned herself to doing as well as she could.

Saturday came, and I drove her to the  exam venue.  I waited while she went in - no spectators.  I listened through the heavy doors as much as I could, and I heard some good things and heard some clunkers and it didn't much matter because I don't have anywhere near the musical knowledge to tell if she was doing well or sucking like a Hoover.

So I waited, wondering if I'd done the right thing.  If she did this and failed, would her confidence be shattered?  Would she give up piano?  Was I being a good parent, or was I trying to expunge some sort of childhood guilt of my own here?

She came out, and when I asked her how she did, she said,  "I don't know.  Some things I did okay, and some things I screwed up.  They'll mail us the results."

It took a month for the results to arrive.  When I found them in the mailbox, I had to wait for Erin to get home.  I wanted her to open the letter.

She got home, took the letter from me, and went down to her room to open it.  I waited.

She came up, beaming.  She had passed.  Just barely.  Not  Honours.  Not with Flying Colours.  She had squeaked through, but it didn't matter.  She had passed.

The thing is, she didn't need to take the exam that year.  I could have protected her from the risk of failing it, of having to go back and practice all that same stuff all over again.  I could have let her walk away from the fear.  But then what?

She's an elementary and middle school music teacher now.  She has a Black Belt in Karate and teaches that, too.  She does some things knowing she might suck but not afraid of sucking.

And she keeps her word.  When she says she's going to do something, she doesn't bail.

                                     *********

The point of all this is not "Oh, look how smart I was," or "Oh, I was the best parent ever!".  I was like any other parent. I screwed up more than I'd like to admit and sometimes it feels like my kids survived and thrived in spite of me rather than - as we all would like to believe - because of me.

When people ask me if I'm proud of what my kids have done, I demure.  Their accomplishments are not mine, and while I can admire what they've done, I won't appropriate their pride in it.  The risk is theirs, and the pride is theirs.

But I am proud of them as people - as decent, kind, productive human beings - and proud of the job we did in staying out of their way so they could become everything they are.

And that's the key, and the point of all this.  We stayed out of the way and demanded our kids take risks on their own, that they not play things safe, that they face the spectre of failure one on one and do their best to beat it back.

Being a good parent isn't about protecting your children from danger.  When we create a society where children are kept captive by their parents' paranoia, shuttled from activity to activity, shielded from the bogeyman in the darkened bushes or the possibility of failure or disappointment or falling short, we cheat both our kids and ourselves.

Our kids, because they lose an essential element of childhood.  And ourselves, because we foolishly squander the potential they once possessed.   

On Being Bald

As many of you noted, on viewing the picture of me and my grandson in the previous post, I am bald.

I have what is called male pattern baldness.  (Note that I "have" it.  I am not "afflicted" by it.  I do not "suffer" from it.  I am not "fighting a battle" against it.  I am not applying for a handicapped parking tag for my rear-view mirror.)  I started losing my hair in my late 20s or so and although I'm no longer keeping track, for all I know I am still losing it.  If I left it alone, I would have a smattering of fine, sparse hair on the top of my head, but I use a razor to tidy that up.

Like any guy (and there are so many of us) who has grown up with this, I have  heard every bald joke in  creation.  And really, there are only so many.  They're not particularly fresh or clever.  Men have been going bald since the dawn of time, and people have been trying to make them feel bad or inferior about it since the very first follicle hit the ground.  When you make a bald joke, you are ploughing very tired soil.

What always interests me about bald jokes is the motive behind them.  I mean, when someone who despises me makes a bald joke, I get that - they want to let me know that they feel superior to me because they were able to arrange their genetic structure in such a way that they won't experience male pattern baldness.  As you might imagine, this doesn't work as well as they hope.  Instead, I sort of feel smug about their inability to grasp simple scientific concepts.

But what bemuses me is bald jokes coming from my friends.

See, bald jokes aren't the kind of thing where you're "laughing with" someone.  If you're making a bald joke, you're probably not bald.  Because of the way society views baldness, you probably know that the person you are making the bald joke at has spent years being pitied, mocked, dismissed, overlooked, or teased for his "affliction".  So, when it's your friend ... why would you do that?

The thing is, I don't think it's a mean-spirited effort to hurt.  But there's a fascinating short circuit in our social wiring when it comes to baldness. It's as if my baldness - in and of itself - gives you permission to sneer about it.

Most of us would never dream of mocking friends about other notable genetic characteristics they have.  "Hey, leave some air for the rest of us, Big Nose!"  "Nice map of Albania on your forehead there, Gorbachev!"  "Wow, is that your ass or are you shoplifting an ottoman under that dress?"

But baldness?  The bar is, evidently, open.  Curious, that.

Look, I know I'm bald.  And I'm not defensive about it.  I'm not defiant about it, I'm not embarrassed by it, I'm not proud of it.  I'm not anything about it.  I don't have hair in the same way that you do have hair.  I don't notice it - or, I guess, I don't notice not having it - until people try to make a funny joke about it.  And even then, it's not my baldness that's the issue to me - it's them.

I don't look into a mirror - or look at that picture of me and Owen - and cringe about my lack of hair.  If I did, would I ever stand in front of a camera?  Nope.  I'd be one of those annoying people who makes a huge fuss and draws attention to him or herself whenever anybody gets a camera out, all "Oh, don't take my picture, I'm so ugly, I never take a good picture, but please feel free to compliment me and cajole me into having my picture taken by telling me I'm not as bad as I say I am." 

(Why don't we just let them take the damn picture?  It would shut them up and - given the type of passive-aggressive bullshit maneuver they always pull to make us compliment them - it's not like they add value to any memory the picture preserves.)

I don't wear a hat to hide my baldness.  I wear a hat because I got nuttin' up there to protect the highest part of me from the sun, and if you've never had a sunburn on your head you can't appreciate how painful it is.

Other than that one practical consideration, I don't notice my baldness until you say something about it.  And what you say doesn't make me feel bad about my baldness.  It kinda makes me feel bad for you, though. 

Because I'm not bald by choice.  But you?  You stopped to think, then you made that joke.

Some people noted that Owen and I had the same hairline.  He may grow up to have male pattern baldness.  Or he might have a full head of hair, like my brother did.  His hair might be white blonde like mine was when I was young, or bright red like his Dad's or thick and curly and red like his other Grandpa, or ... well, lots of possibilities, I suppose.

I don't hope he has any particular colour of hair, nor do I much care whether he keeps it his whole life or loses it in his 20s.

I hope he'll be healthy.  That he'll have lots of friends and will treat them well.  That he'll grow up surrounded by love.  That he'll make good decisions, find something he's passionate about and pursue it.  That he'll never stop learning and loving and laughing about life.

But his hair?  Sort of low on the list of things to care about.

Same as mine, ya know?

I don't want people to stop teasing me, or taking the piss out of me, or laughing at me.  I dish it out, and I really do love taking it.  But I tease you about what you do or say, how you act.  Try that with me.  No end of fertile ground, and if I can break you of the habit of making bald jokes, the world is a (slightly) better place.

And if you did make a bald joke, and are now feeling mortified and hurt that I didn't understand you meant it in gentle fun - stop.  I do understand.  You're a friend, and you really - really - didn't hurt me.

It's just not the best way to go.  And now you know. 

Finally, I'll leave you with words from Christine Lavin, one of my favourite singers:

Everybody know it's testosterone
That turns a bushy-haired man into a chrome dome.

But testosterone's what makes a man a man;  the more that he's got, the more he can

Do the things that make the women go "Oy!"

I'll take a bald-headed man over a big-haired boy.

Big-haired boys make very good friends, but they cannot compare to bald-headed men.

Me 'n My Guy

Some moments in this life are so sublime.

It's Been Awhile ...

... and I'm not quite ready for words yet. But some things are worth a thousand words ... so here's 3,000 or so. Words to follow ... at some point.

Signs, Signs, Everywhere There's Signs

My friend Laura at Vitamin Sea invited us to do a meme about signs around our town.  Since I'm a collector of signs - especially goofy ones - I thought I'd play. 

You may have seen some of these in previous posts, but they amuse me and fit the theme, so I'm including them here.  Click on the pics if, like some people, your eyes are starting deteriorate with advancing age.

First, a dire warning on the dangers posed by the physically challenged:

Be very careful - they bite.  Fortunately, they can be outrun.

(I sent this picture to my friend Patti, who has been terrorizing innocent citizens from her wheelchair for decades.  She was disappointed that here on the Island, we're on to her and her ilk.)

Next up are a pair of pictures of a now-defunct restaurant in Charlottetown, run by a certain type of pirate.  Arrrrrrr, Billy.  Have you ever been to see?

And my final picture isn't from "my town", so it's a bit of a cheat.  It's one of my favourite signs from my various tours in the U.K.   I found this sign in Llangollen, in Northern Wales, and it shows better than words ever could just why the Welsh are unlikely to ever rule the world.

Go to Laura's blog for links to other signs, and if you want to play, leave a comment there so she can link to your pics.