Lying Down

We all lie. There are no exceptions, including the most holy, the highest and the lowest. Lying is part of our nature, our need to be accepted and liked. When someone asks us a question that, if truth be told would hurt, we adjust the actual truth a bit, but it's still a lie. And that's the truth! If lies fall under the degree factor such as big lies, white lies, mean lies, kindly lies, spies lies or protective lies, we can find excuses to forgive ourselves. But why lie at all, you say, just tell the truth, you say. We lie to do harm, but we also lie for good. We say that it is always possible to avoid the harsher truths by finding something about the person, that is the truth and relying on it to avoid the actual ugly truth. It's a kind of coloured sort of truth and lie at the same time. Politicians are the top liars and they know how to use lies to make things feel better, or at least for their electors to feel better. Politicians who lie,  can do more than turn mole hills into mountains and vice versa. We know it, and they know it, but we continue to accept it. It's one of the Human Games. Political platforms are made of lies and those who stand on them realize how precarious the planks are, but that's part of the job. It's telling the truth as closely as possible and hoping that it will reign, if not wholly, at least, in part. Political lies however, can be unwound just like Gramma's wool. The media are good unwinders. Then there are doctor lies. "How long have I got?" is never an amount. It is usually, a kind of wiggly lie that can be determined only in the filmy truths it elicits. The teacher lies to  parents, about the kid who is a class brat, but it's a good lie in a way. It's going to do no one a positive turn if the truth isn't cuddled into verbiage that softens the message accompanied by some advice. Then there are the fairy tale lies we tell our children who haven't yet hardened into the marvelous toughened adults we are. I won't get into the religious lies because, as we all know, that's covered by a huge blanket called Faith and who would be as foolish or illegal enough to argue against that? Some lies change people's lives in both good and bad ways. We can even lie to ourselves. We  can  look in a mirror and hurt ourselves by bringing in depression and anger and spite against our own persons. The real  truth about us is that we are wonders of a kind unlike any other creature on earth. No matter what the colour of our skins or what's been put, or not,  into our thoughts, we are miracles. We are looking at something wondrous that has been going on for millions of years. Our genetics go back to the first of our kind and yet, here we are, survivors of everything that has gone before: the dangers and benefits of Nature and Man. We are the result of those times past, to do with ourselves now as we please. How old or rich or smart or strong or popularly pretty we are, our potential is utterly monumental. Our will and survival capacities are in place. And that is no lie!

Social Tantrum

The media is crammed with stories about individuals in tantrum going about shooting up or driving down other people in their personal issues turned violent. The question "why" is always last to be asked in the series of journalistic queries posed. Why is this kind of public tantrum becoming so lethally prevalent? Tantrums, usually,  are best cured by isolating the tantrumer to a space where the tantrumees don't have to hear their rants. With kids, we send them to their rooms. With adults,there is no "room".  An adult tantrum can be extremely dangerous. So why do they happen and how can they be handled? Sending a child off to its room is bound to result in minor damage to the room perhaps, but when adults who can't have their way, have a "tantrum",  people can be hurt. We see many examples of it in the media,  almost daily. Talking it out is the best way to dissipate an adult tantrum. Therapists are not always available but good friends or relatives can work just as well, as long as they are listeners and not merely advice givers. Those in social tantrum don't want advice. They know all about what they ought to be doing,  but what they don't know, is how to get there, and nobody seems to be able to offer a route.  They are frustrated and explode, harming others. The saddest part of it is, that many of these misdirected souls, have no one who will listen and they find themselves alone and very angry. They turn to social media where they know they will be heard by other loners who are just as upset as they are. They feel supported not in a good way. Unfortunately, social media has become a weapon in abetting, however innocently, this situation.  "Misery loves company" has found its place at last in social media and even though protective measures are in place, there are huge loopholes that allow negativism to continue to flourish. All of humanity bears some responsibility in that what happens anywhere, anytime, is human and when it's something bad, we all react in some way. The offending individual bears ninety nine percent of the event,  but we, the other one percent, have our part, too. It's to be aware of others and aware of the implications of what happens around us even in far-reaching places. The media has a place. It informs us, or should. It should educate us, not inflame us or sadden us. There should always be hope and fairness and impartiality in what we hear and see. Investigative journalism walks a fine line, in that those involved, are often self-interested which becomes a problem in itself. Fame is not the goal. Good journalism has ethical truths to impart, while attempting to reveal all sides of an issue. When it comes to dealing with human violent tantrums, it should see all sides even though these are often difficult to look at. To fix a societal wound, you need to see it, but not be part of it. We need to reach out and listen and learn, not to chastise and preach but to consider what could have prevented it.

Hot Hotdogs

The hotdog, spelled as such, is about five centuries old and was not invented in the USA, but in Germany.  Frankfurt, in the 13th century, to be historically correct. We all know that Germans love their sausage, and when these steaming hot outdoor delights were offered for sale, to accommodate street occasions, the fat-loaded pork "tube steaks" were wrapped in buns to protect  hands from being burned. When in Germany at a sausage stand near Mozart's domain, I found they didn't always hand out these delectable delights with bread, but merely slapped them red hot and savory, into a piece of waxy paper. Nothing tasted better than these greasy, drippingly fragrant meats. We, weary tourists wanted to wander about oogling rather than sitting at a restaurant table to eat schnitzel.  A tall, cold foamy beverage would have been the perfect go-with, but that had to wait until a sidewalk establishment could be found. Not a hard task in Germany. At baseball games, it's traditional to get hotdogs which always taste best there, in spite of the oft  lower quality, rather than any other place in the world. Mustard, ketchup and relish (I like all three) can drip down on your tee shirt and be washed out to show still, your favorite team logo before the next game out. In my teacher days, during a spate with Grade Twos, Friday was Hotdog Day. Parents came to the gym kitchen and at about eleven in the morning, the rest of the day was lost.  Wafting through the hallways came a calling far more irresistible than Pied Piper's music. As soon as that indelible scent of hotdog, entered the classroom, forget Reading, Writing and Arithmetic. Hotdog took over. Little eyes bent doorward, little hearts beat faster, little hands quivered to grab what the ladies of Hotdog Day would bring pre-ordered to our room and dispense. First, it was necessary to have the hand washing at the back sink because when the knock came to the door, that wouldn't easily happen.  I made sure that I was in a safe place when the bell rang for lunch, because the stampede to the hotdog table could be dangerous even for adults who were teachers. Principals notwithstanding. The wise ladies of Hotdog Day, supervised the onslaught by controlling what went on the hotdogs according to the dictates of each eager little client. While one lady lined up the ravenous kids, the women at the table applied with their tongue depressors, liberally to the hotdogs on hand, whatever the child's directions were. "I hate mustard", "Not too much relish, but a bit of mustard and lots of ketchup", "Don't let any ketchup touch my hotdog" and other specifics that only eight year olds understand.The room hadn't been so intense all day when the actual eating began. If you've never heard the special sounds of Grade Twos consuming a hotdog or two, you shouldn't. It's almost inhuman and primitive. It ranges from humming, to toe tapping, to actual singing familiar tunes to all-out open mouthed lip- smackings and low growls and groans. Not pretty music. At the end of it all,  there is detritus. But there is peace and quiet, when the final smeared face leaves, looking smugly sated and complete. Until next Friday.

Is Old Gold?

Old is said to be gold in historical terms. But old, even historically, isn't always "gold".  When conversing with a  British friend recently, she rather scoffed at our country's one hundred fiftieth birthday. She remarked that such a low figure didn't jibe with her, since her country was very much older. I stayed silent but it was difficult. I knew that both her country and mine, if countries belong to anyone, were both on earth at the same time even though ours had not, as yet, "been discovered". Old is gold and there are those, then and now, who seek to put that gold to use. Where are the true natural forests in Europe and other historical "ancient" countries? Over the centuries, they have been razed to use as shelter, fuel and industrial construction. Their stones and rocks and trees  have been sought to contribute to industrial ends. Man, the most clever of earth's creatures finds ways to use everything and anything for comfort and convenience. After achieving that purpose, all else is discarded in  places where no one may look at it. Places that make it easy to forget what is really happening. The waste goes into the sky, into the ground or under the waters. When one commodity goes dry, Man finds another way to solve the need, through his Science. Man's need is to make its life easier and more convenient especially when monetary values are at stake. And usually the end result is that someone is making a great deal of money. And while that thought may seem jaded and cynical, it is a truth, and not a nice one to look at. It seems the more Man invents things that are "better", it becomes less and less common knowledge and takes more and more elements out of earth to support the inventions. We need energy and resources to support our comfortable lives,  and where do we get them? Water, minerals and air plus human energy is the answer. Our reasons for raping the earth as we do, to make our lives more convenient becomes the fodder for political in-fighting and positioning, while the innocent earth continues to give up more and more of its resources. We wonder why the hills of ancient countries are bare and the field stones gone and the waters are found mostly in pipes and man-made lakes and canals all waiting to be spilled over dams to supply the energy from which it sprung. I was shocked to learn while travelling, that a lovely old village with stone homes and cobbled streets and that the caves abounding all around were dug by the populace for removal of what I stood on and admired. In my own time, not more than three decades ago, a mountain, disappeared barge load by load, the gravelly substance scooped out and away, to supply construction in another country. Once green and tall, there remained a bare brown, flattened field on the Aborigine property, its life now on roads and concrete towers. It had been a green and lovely  place to hike and drink pure stream water and enjoy wildlife and florals, while eating mushroom and berries. All gone in less than three decades. Going to the desert last winter, I saw a forest of windmills, huge turning wheels ugly against the blue sky and dry yellow hills. The great blue lake I stood above, was made by Man. Is there enough gold left? Is it too late?

Math Memoir

The Brobdingnags of Gulliver's Travels needed bops with a balloon occasionally to get their heads out of the clouds, so to speak, just as we do, apparently. I am reminded on line that this month is Math Awareness Month. That's a new one on me. When I happen into a grocery mart, I often see as I finally arrive at the card register, little hints at what to donate to. I always do, because what's an extra dollar or two when the bottom line of your bill  includes about twenty items at two hundred loons? The one or two dollars all meld to make the world a bit better for someone else. On the counter, there are small candies, ribbons or plastic flowers as rewards to remind us about the month it us. I appreciate the nudges for most causes, but Math? When I went to high school, Math was my downfall. I will always believe that when my assessors took a look at the chasm that separated my English and other marks from the basement level Math ones, they must have thought its meagerness to be a misprint. Somehow I got into university, thanks to the possible "misprint". But I shudder at the Math memories of a Secondary School teacher who was renowned for his physical attention to those who did not turn in their homework. In those days, a good whack with a ruler was an accepted reminder to get your close attention, and the minor whack worked very well. Mr. Smith, I shall call him, with apologies to all the Smiths out there, was a teacher in our small city.  We were all forewarned about Mr. Smith. Before I actually flew out of the Junior High School into the big house, my beloved Grade Ten to Twelve dwelling for the next three years, there was only one disadvantage, and it was called Trigonometry. Algebra I did understand remotely, because to get through Chemistry, you saw the logic of it. Arriving at a wrong outcome in an algebraic formula in Chemistry might just end up exploding everywhere and ruining a perfectly good St. Michael's sweater. In  those leaner days, a sweater meant a lot of babysitting nights at twenty five cents an hour. But back to Math. Ugh. As much as I tried, desperately to fathom the use of its purpose in my life, knowing sines and co-sines, I couldn't find it. If I had chosen Physics, I am told, it would have been perfectly clear, but it wasn't, and truthfully, it still isn't. Give me Shakespeare over a book of Logarithms, and I am there. Fortunately, after high school, none of my courses included that kind of mathematical genius. We need Maths for all sorts of practical reasons but with the advent of  devices, logs, dictionaries, encyclopedias, etc are just a finger walk away. No need to put much brain effort in now. So little effort, in fact, Math is no longer in our heads but in our hands. These days, Math answers don't have a margin at the sides of pages with desperate numerical penciled workings. "And I am going to SEE how you arrived at that answer, young lady!" in Mr. Smith's commanding shout, is no longer a fear in my dreams. While we all need Math, I am greatly relieved that I seldom have to encounter it other than my budget. Ooh, I love that on-line sale sweater. Now, where is my calculator?

Thanks, Jerry and Jane

Learning to read is something I must have done so early that I can't recall when. It was before I went to school and when I went on to Grade One, I was thrilled to receive a "reader". We could put our reader into our desks. The way the reader smelled is a memory I still love. The book had in large simple print, little stories about Jerry and Jane, Laddie, their dog, and Snow, the cat. The magic of that first reader lives intimately with me as being the best book I ever read. These days school children have updated versions of Jerry and Jane, but even doing a spurt of teaching reading to Primary kids, the two little children of my blue and orange reader, remain as the epitome of  a classic. Where I lived as a child, was a mix of heritages and colours and since I came from a home that never differentiated one person from another, and why I don't know because we were a normal English speaking family of four, in a largely French Canadian neighbourhood with all kinds of races living there.  I just took each other kid in my class as that kid, period. I read books to my friends sitting on our fire wood pile. One happened to wear a "hat" in my little mind, and when someone at school, pulled his turban off and made him cry, I didn't understand why. Children are not born with prejudice; it's something learned. When it was explained to me, I still didn't get it. But time passed and all that is fuzzy now in my memory, just as hearing many languages then, I didn't understand. It just seemed what the world was like and it was perfectly perfect. It was all just day to day life but life's best gift to me, was reading. I loved my books. I had few, but the library which my father took us to every week while my parents shopped, became a temple of  the greatest fun anyone could love. Books became, as time went on, a voyage to other places and people. The fairy tales were all believable, too. When a "big" kid in Grade Six at my school, said that the puddle we passed on our walk home, was actually a giant's deep footprint, my sister and I were terrified into paralysis and couldn't walk one step more for fear of the giant coming. Only our mother who came to pick us up, convinced us there were no giants. At least not in our neighborhood. As life went on from child to teen to youth, my reading grew also, and one summer when I was thirteen, my farmer grandfather,  bought me, in a yard sale,  a huge cardboard box full of English Literature classics. I discovered the very best books by accident. From then on, I became discriminating about the kind of language I loved, and the complexity I needed out of my reading, from those wondrous books: Hardy, Dickens, Dostoevsky, Shakespeare, Eliot, Dumas, et al.  Throughout my life, reading books whether they be ebooks or print, didn't, and doesn't matter. I am there inside that book looking intimately at what is happening. No matter what is going on in the "real" world, what's in the book is my world. Reading is my "special place", my medicine, my tranquility, my greatest pleasure.  Reading is one of the skills that comes first for those of us who are fortunate enough to have learned to read. What of those in our vast world, who have been denied this great privilege and pleasure? How very sad for them.

Pride Hurts

I hear often, " I am never going to speak to that person again" or others who say, "I haven't spoken to that person for years and I don't care" and none of the voices are happy about it. Not truly happy. Evidently, it bothers them enough to talk about it. One of the tales I heard, was a woman who was angry that her father had given her brothers funding for university education, but not to her. She stopped seeing her father for the rest of his life. She looked devastated  when she told me that she didn't regret going to him when he was dying as he had asked. I could see that she grieved. It was too late for her to fix it, therefore, she had a burden to carry for the rest of her life. I did a hiatus once that lasted  twenty-five years and it was seldom out of my mind, all that time. There were good reasons why the silence went on, but the idea that a wall had been built that got higher and harder, year by year, was worse. It didn't mean that we would resolve anything by saying hello, it just meant that we could end the impossible silence. I waited until a special event came along, one that we were both attending. I decided that enough was enough. I approached and said hello, how are you? The person reached out and took my hand. I will never forget how that hand felt at that moment. It was all over. A simple hello and a couple of other polite words, made the wall we created, fall down into the dust it was. No one had to resolve anything. It was just a simple gesture, but it meant so much. We didn't have to play the foolish game of not speaking any more, and it was more important than what actually caused it.  Our pride is why we do these things, just like in the old Get Up And Shut The Door tale. "Shutting the door" is so easy, but we hold off in pride, and it only becomes harder and harder to do the more we leave it undone. Pride is really fear, fear of our egos being threatened. But logic says that if we are strong enough to deny ourselves when we hold back with pride, we are just as strong enough to overcome it. There are so many things held back by pride. Think of all the jobs or positions denied because  pride made one feel they might be embarrassed by being inadequate in the position and thus didn't try for it.  Recall, the times we wanted to join a group or get up and speak our minds, but  pride denied us the courage. We tell about it with "I wish I had done that because I know I could have".  Lovers shy from taking a chance on meeting the person they want to be with, by fearing to approach them. Accepting rejection is part of life. It makes us stronger. If we don't give  something a try, how do we know it won't work for us? To break out of our fears of being what we are or want to do, by cowering away from it, is unhealthy and can wear us down, causing depression and stress. How do we put aside our pride? A clear plan works. We bravely consider the options and  what will happen when we go ahead with our plan. The aim is to unburden ourselves, and that's not a bad thing or an impossible one. It is a right to take the step to free oneself of pride, but it means also accepting the consequences, good or bad. Being confident knowing that we are strong enough to withstand whatever the outcome is, means victory over pride, and that victory can set us free.