Here Come Da Judge.

There are certain precious moments in time one remembers forever, moments so dramatic, touching and meaningful that they shape one’s life. The moments I’m about to describe are not like that at all. Not even a bit. These moments were much too normal and banal to be of any consequence. Or were they? They're about my old dad, the judge.

A friend collected me at the airport upon my arrival back in Toronto, thereby saving dad the drive, not to mention any undue stress to other motorists who happened to be out just at that time on that stretch of road. As soon as I entered my parents’ apartment, after hugs, kisses and pinches, we sat down in the den; and they remarked on my nicely shortened hair and beard. My dad launched into his proverbial dissertation on the marvels of the modern electric shaver. In fact, he insisted I at least look at his. He went to bring it out from the bathroom as I peered over at mom. She couldn’t help me. No one could. Dad stood in the middle of the den shaving, telling me that I might not like it at first, but would soon wonder how I’d ever gotten along without it.

"David, he’s not interested," my mom tried to say over the sound of the thing.

"You see this part under the chin?," he called over to me. "This is the trickiest part. You have to pass over it a few extra times."
"David, if you get hairs on the rug I’ll kill you," barked mom.
"Whadya talkin’ bout? This shaver doesn’t drop hairs!"
‘Oh for heavens sake, David, put it away!"
When he came back into the den, dad sat in his chair with the Obus-form backrest and offered the shaver to me free of charge. I didn’t really respond so he started in on my future plans.

"Are you going to ask for a substantial raise from that newspaper of yours? What’s the circulation? Find out the circulation and let me know." Next day, I watched him scour the menu of a local restaurant. It was not a pretty sight. He’d been instructed by his doctor to stay right away from bread, but to eat rice-cakes instead. And that’s like suggesting that a junkie switch to Tylenol. The well-meaning waitress had no way of knowing she shouldn’t have put the bread basket right in front of him. In our haste to clear it from dad’s line of vision, mom and I both grabbed at the basket sending several fresh buns bouncing onto his lap as he just looked at us stoically.

It’s a sign of my father’s age that he’s being allowed less and less of the food and activities he loves. I can so far only imagine what it must feel like. But, during those rain-soaked days in Toronto it was clear to me that soon he’ll have to give up driving as well. I’ve known for some time that to go in the car with dad was to tax my nerves beyond their natural limits. I have no idea when he stopped looking behind for other cars before switching lanes. Many have been the times I’ve witnessed overwrought drivers, having swerved to narrowly miss us cutting in front of them, shaking fists. And he, with an expression of total incomprehension written all over his face, would exclaim, "What the hell’s the matter with them?" Many have been the times when I’ve coaxed him to go when he was wrongly stopped, stop when he was not supposed to go, pleaded with him to stay in his lane, begged him unsuccessfully to give me the wheel.

Returning from the restaurant, as lunch sat uneasily in my stomach after the drive, we pulled up in front of the underground garage to the apartment. Dad stopped on the slope leading down to the door to switch glasses. He pushed the button to activate the garage door and as it swung open he fished around for his clear glasses. "Now where the dickens are they?" he said, becoming more and more frustrated. "Oh for heaven’s sake!" Of course, by the time he finally located his glasses the door had closed again, just as we began rolling down towards it.

"Dad, stop," I yelled

"What?"
"Dad, stop."
"What are you saying?"
"Stop!"
"David, stop the car!!!," mom hollered. That did it, of course, as he somehow, miraculously, came to a sudden halt inches from the closed garage door.
"Oh for pete’s sake," he exclaimed at no one in particular. "You’d think with all the money we pay for the upkeep of this building they could fix this blasted door."
I’m reminded of how my folks had to disallow my old granddad from driving way back when I was barely old enough to sit atop my tricycle. And I know one day it’ll be my turn. 

The morning I left for Wakefield was teeming with rain, and mom didn’t want me to go. Dad took my side and even offered to drive me to where my car was sitting at my brother’s place, but I sure didn't want that. I took the bus. In a way, I’m always sorry to leave them. As well, I’ve never been

able to figure out why I always sleep so well there. In spite of our being worlds apart in so many ways, mom’s cigarettes, dad’s shaver, I feel at home wherever they are.

"Phone when you arrive," was the last thing I heard my dad say as I closed the apartment door. And I suppose that’s just about the way it’s supposed to be.

The New Age.

(first published in 2000.)
 

Having wrenched my knee playing basketball with boys half my age, bigger and just plain better than me, was bad enough. But, to have a Reiki treatment thrust upon me made matters a little worse. It made me cranky. 

I do believe Shelagh, a lovely twenty-year-old Australian lady, truly believed her healing vibrations would help. Unfortunately, suffice it to say I was just not open to it. She was staying with the same friends I was visiting in Chelsea, only I merely dropped in for an hour and was compelled to spend most of the time with her hand strategically placed on my knee. So there we were, my boyhood friend, his wife and I, chatting as normally as can be with a very young girl sitting next to me on the sofa with her hand on my knee. Discussing world politics just seemed strange under the circumstances. After at least twenty minutes she opened her eyes and said, "Whoosh. That was powerful. Did you feel it?" "Not really", I said, looking over at my friend, "but if you had moved your hand up a few inches I probably would have".

Where my cynicism concerning this New Age comes from is unknown to me. There’s a part of my mind, in spite of all that I’ve seen in my life, that remains more than skeptical in the face of Tibetan singing bowls, crystal healing, numerology, astrology, palmistry, tarot cards, sand-box therapy, levitation, astral travelling... I almost had a psychic girlfriend once, but she left me just before we met. I must add, however, that every now and again something happens that reminds me to never close down my subjective little mind entirely. I have often felt a vague feeling of a guiding hand in my life, never stronger than as I made my way by ‘chance’ to Wakefield.

Not long before I left India, for example, I waited in a long line to garland my teacher. It was part of a tradition in India for the occasion. I couldn’t help noticing that most people exchanged a few words with him during their turn. Some appeared to be having full-fledged talks: chatting, laughing, posing with him for the camera. I noticed how each person initiated their little interactions, so I began to wonder what I could say. It’s not usually a situation I find easy. I certainly didn’t want to be the only jerk to kneel speechless in salutation before just slithering sheepishly away.

Finally, I decided I’d simply say that he was looking especially nice and see where it would lead. As I inched towards the front of the queue I practiced my sentence over and over again inside my mind. "You’re looking especially nice today, Swamiji. You’re looking especially nice today, Swamiji. You’re looking ESPECIALLY nice today, Swamiji." It may seem slightly overdone, but I wanted the moment to go off without a hitch.

As I goose-stepped closer to the front, my sentence repeated itself in my mind almost involuntarily, more and more quickly until eventually there remained no one between us. I stepped forward with my garland: shiny purple, green and silver tinsel with its little tassel, and draped it over his head. I knelt down and was about to blurt out my icebreaker when Swamiji said, "How are your parents?" Taken quite by surprise I quickly said they were fine, a little too loudly perhaps. Then he said, "Have you heard from them lately?" I felt as though I shouted out that I’d spoken to them on the phone just recently and that they both wanted me to convey their regards. By then I was on my feet. I thought it was time to move on. Swamiji, however, asked how my cousins were since their visit to India and I turned back even more flustered and said, "They’re great. They write every day, every week, I mean every month or so". Then I began moving away when I heard Swamiji call out to me, "By the way, you’re looking especially nice today."

On the eve of the Psychic Exposition at the Ottawa Congress Centre, which I intend to check out and report back to our readers about, I offer these observations only in order to bring this great New Age into perspective. And you can believe me when I say that there’s a lot I don’t know. I don’t know how to drink a lot of booze without turning into a moron. I don’t know how to change a spark plug, or go dog -ledding, shoot a moose or build a house. But, in the field of mysticism, spirituality and especially meditation, I know a little bit.

What I want to say today is that, if at all one wants to be a great sage of this wonderful New Age, I believe the matter has everything to do with love.