You Gotta Start Somewhere

My current job is in some ways the best job that I ever had.  I work at an organic produce store, stocking produce in between time spent chatting with colleagues and sampling the food.   It's fairly different from my first job

My first real job, one that required a SIN number and paying taxes, was with a roofing company in Kelowna.  I was seventeen years old and it was the summer going into grade twelve.  The roofing company was a commercial roofing company specializing in tar and gravel roofing. Construction workers in general are known as being a little bit rough around the edges, this I knew.  However, what I didn't know is that in the hierarchy amongst construction workers, roofers, being the coarsest, form the bottom level.   All I knew is that the job paid $10 an hour which was at least two dollars an hour higher than any of the other jobs I saw available.  

Through persistence I managed to land the job and so I began work on a condo up on the ski hill.  The roof was getting replaced which meant there was a lot of work for a young grunt labourer.  Firstly, the old roof had to come off.  This meant removing the gravel from atop the roof.  We would shovel the gravel into a large wheelbarrow and once that was full it was wheeled up a ramp to clear the parapet and dumped over the edge of the roof.  

Before beginning this job I was a chubby teenager with silky smooth soft hands and virgin ears. Well, shoveling gravel is rather heavy work and it was well before coffee time that I was absolutely exhausted.  My shovel loads grew smaller and I dreaded having to push the wheelbarrow.  I didn't know that I could balance it properly let alone run it up the ramp and then dump it.  Somehow I made it through. 

Underneath the gravel was a layer of styrofoam insulation which was to be removed.  We, the bottom of the rung labourers, gathered pieces of insulation into a large tarp which we then bundled up like a hobo's pack, tied the four corners together and then hurled the package off the roof with the intention of landing it in the dump truck below.  

The dump truck waited below, eleven stories down, which meant there was a good amount of time to watch the bundle fly off target and hit the ground only to break open and send styrofoam everywhere.  Another guy was on the ground and his responsibility was dumping the insulation into the truck and then tying the empty tarps to a rope.  

This man, Ron, I will never forget for he might be the most disagreeable man that I've ever come across.  In hindsight I don't know if he fed me a lot of lies, but the stories he told were not pleasant stories.  They involved unwanted kittens and shotguns, or named bullets to be worn around the neck until the proper opportunity presented itself.  Whenever the tarp would miss the truck it meant more work cleaning up styrofoam so Ron would yell and curse at me.  He was intimidating because he was also the most muscular man that I've ever met.  

I wasn't strong, but I was getting there.  For Ron would tie the empty tarps to a rope that dangled from the top of the building and I would haul it up hand over hand.  An empty tarp doesn't weigh too much... at first.  Sometimes tools would be needed from the truck and then I would have to haul up a bucket of tools, hand over hand.  The roof was getting finished with torch on, a material that comes in three foot wide rolls that weighed about ninety pounds if I remember correctly.  These rolls had to be carried to where the journeymen roofers needed them and I was the ideal mule.  Sometimes they had to be carried up ladders, one hand holding the roll on my shoulder and the other gripping the ladder.  

Another joy was filling the tar kettle; basically a trailer which heated tar to several hundred degrees.  The tar came in 100lb blocks and I had to lift the block and slowly lower it into the hot, liquid tar.  I couldn't drop it because if the tar splashed and landed on me, it would burn (because it was hot) and stick (because it was sticky.)  If you touch hot tar the thing you have to do is wait until it's cool enough to remove.  The smell of the tar wasn't pleasant either.  

So while my friends were working at McDonald's or sitting on the beach I was spending time working harder than I ever had before, and working with guys who couldn't string together a sentence without the use of an expletive and who used the rest of their vocabulary discussing the primary subjects of beer, sex, and occasionally work.  Usually just a combination of the first two subjects though.  

The sweetest time of the day came as we packed up to go home.  The ski hill is about 45 minutes from Kelowna so I had a long drive to enjoy and usually sleep.  Three of the roofers would often split a six pack, I assumed that the driver was sufficiently accustomed to alcohol that he would be able to safely pilot us down the winding road.  The empty cans would be thrown out the window and would occasionally make contact with the targeted road signs.  And I would sit back in my seat and look forward to school starting again.  

The Price of Love

The last two visits I made to Kelowna were made because of my grandmother.  The first visit in November was because she was taken to the hospital and if I wanted to see her again, I knew that I should quickly make the trip.  I went again over Christmas holidays, this time to attend her memorial service.  Both times I saw love personified in the actions of my grandparents. From here on in I will refer to them by the Frisian terms for grandpa and grandma, Pake and Beppe, because that is how I've always known them.  

I remember on the first visit, dropping in at the hospital to find my grandparents holding hands while my Pake (grandpa) read a book to my Beppe.  You don't hear it much in weddings anymore, but the vows of "in sickness and in health" came to mind.  While my Beppe was in the hospital, my Pake would visit her several times a day and on occasion wake up and visit her during the night when she was scared or lonely.  

That's the thing about love, it's about giving.  Love isn't some feeling or emotion, or at least not true love.  Love is sacrifice.  I recently asked my Mom what family life was like growing up.  She told me that although everything said about Beppe being a wonderful, loving, and caring wife, mother, grandmother and great grandmother was true, there were times when she was quite difficult to live with.  That of course is true of everybody.  What then, kept my grandparents together for nearly 58 years?  

If you are going to build a tower, don't you first estimate the cost to see if you have enough money?  Likewise, if you enter into a relationship you should estimate the cost; love isn't cheap. I don't think love is splitting everything fifty fifty.  Love is always a gamble.  Love is giving everything in the hope that you will win love in return.  Love means dying to yourself.  

My grandparents loved each other.  No doubt about it.  They gambled and won.  Nearly six decades they spent loving each other, even in times when it was hard.  For better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health until death did them part.  Now perhaps, my Pake is paying the hardest price of all because love can't halt aging and death.  After a lifetime, he is now alone with thoughts and memories.  

If one were callous they might ask him whether it was all worth it.  A life spent giving and giving of himself only to lose in the end.  A life without a wife and subsequent children would probably have been far easier and definitely cheaper.  Instead, he choose the expensive cost of loving another with everything that he had.  The price of love is high, but love is what we were made to do. 

Tragically Hip Misogyny

I was eating lunch today at work and listening to the music that was playing.  Since it was in the back employees can choose any sort of music they want.  Playing today was some sort of electronic dance music.  It incorporated some sort of repetitive electronic music and repetitive lyrics sans melody.  If you haven't gathered by the repetitive use of the word repetitive, I'm not a huge fan.  However, it wasn't the music that got me so angry today.

I can't exactly remember the lyric exactly though I should, since it was repeated for an extended period of time.  The lyric went something like, "I'm a pimp and you my ho."  If that isn't the lyric it certainly is close to being the theme.  It was a sort of boastful claim.  Now I know that music needs to push the limits in order be considered new and edgy.  I also know that the limits have been pushed to a great extent so not much is taboo anymore.  However, I found myself being incredibly offended by the song.  

I know that the term pimp is roughly synonymous with "cool" but I find it to be nothing more than shockingly ignorant and callous; because of course, the word is also a word to describe a man who controls prostitutes.  I am of course, woefully ignorant of the world of prostitution and pimps.  I wouldn't hesitate to say, despite this ignorance, that the relationship between pimps and hoes would best be described as master and slave.  

If some artist wrote a song bragging about having black slaves picking cotton for him he would be severely castigated, and rightly so.  Why then is there absolutely no censure for bragging about what I can only see as fleshmongering?  Maybe I am missing so new definition of the terms pimps and hoes, but I don't think so. 

What is so cool about the pimp and ho lifestyle?  Why is that when dance clubs have their pimp and ho nights, they are widely attended and enjoyed?  Do the guys not see how offensive it is to dress as pimps?  Do the girls not see how degrading be the mindless, trashy dressed, property of the guys?  Do they not care?  

I don't think that I will let the term pimp slide by in conversation anymore.  So unless you're desiring a diatribe on the evil of pimping, I would avoid using the word in my company in anything other than the original, contemptuous context.  I'm not the most ardent of feminists, but I think this is one place that I draw the line.  

Time's Up.

It's a little too reminiscent of Patch Adams so I decided against it, sort of.  What I thought was to start this blog with a list of euphemisms such as: bought the farm, kicked the can, pushing up daisies, shuffled off this mortal coil, passed away, went to a better place, met their maker, et cetera ad infinitum.  Point is, there seems to be a necessity of avoiding words like death and die.

This point was driven home on Tuesday.  On Monday night my grandma, or Beppe as we call her, went to the hospital with complications arising from cancer.  She has had cancer for years now but it has been kept under control through a specialized treatment that is only available, I think, in Amsterdam and Edmonton.  Because of this treatment she has lived a fairly regular life for the past several years despite having cancer.   

The happy ever after fairy tale seemed to be ending on Monday though.  She became quite sick and suffered from vomiting and other symptoms of malaise.  The doctors told us to "prepare for the worst" as I'm sure they euphemistically put it, when some fluid entered her lungs.  Her children put everything on hold and rushed to be by her side while I sat helpless in Calgary re-appreciating how important this woman is to my life.

Tuesday I spoke with her for what was presumably to be the last time.  This is what spurred me to later think about death and its euphemisms.  My mom had told me that Beppe was at peace with death and obviously understood the severity of her condition.  I was aware and wanted to make sure that she understood how much I love her and how much I appreciate the important role that she's played in my life.  The problem is that there is the unspoken rule that prohibits people from speaking about death.

Death and taxes right?  Everybody knows that it's inevitable.  But consider the following hypothetical situation.  While driving you come across an accident.  You rush to help and discover the driver alive but sufficiently injured that there is obviously no hope whatsoever of survival.  Now in times like these people have a powerful desire to have some last words, to tell friends and family how important they are and that sort of thing.  There are thoughts that need to be vocalized prior to death.  The stereotypical, "tell _____ that I love her" sort of thing. However, when you come to this doomed person do you ask, "Do you have anything that you want me to tell your loved ones?"  or do you lie and say, "Hold on, you're going to be OK."

You might ask the first question but I'm sure that the instinctive reaction is the second comment.  There is almost an imperative that you can't admit death as if it is somehow shameful to die.  Speaking with my Beppe I tried to tell her how much I love her and what she means to me but likely I stated it awkwardly because the whole time I was trying desperately to avoid any words that implied she was about to die.  Thus the past tense became entirely taboo.  I love you is easy but when I tried to tell her how important she's been in my life it sounded too final, like she was important but those times are ending.

She told me that she knew where she was going.  What do I say to that?

Well at the time it was assumed she hadn't long to live but she survived the night and doctors were more optimistic in the morning.  But no matter how optimistic they become she's still mortal.  Hopefully I'll get to speak with her again but it's certain that one day I won't be able to tell her anything more.  I fly tomorrow to go visit.  I will try harder to say what I feel.

The question of this blog is, "why are we so ashamed of death?"  I think that this is a direct quote from Patch Adams, maybe I just can't escape that movie.  That's the question of the blog but I'm instead going to answer a different question, or at least hazard a guess, on the question of how to live life with the knowledge of death. 

I read a great quote by G. K. Chesterton the other day.  It wasn't entirely about this question but it is such a cool quote that I'm going to force it in here anyway.  He said to, "desire life like water and yet drink death like wine."  Writing this quote I see that it fits even less than I had hoped.  He was speaking of courage and how a soldier must act if he is surrounded by enemies and needs to escape.  

In the case of living though we must love life and live to the fullest.  We must desire life like water.  However, the knowledge of death must always temper our actions.  Death has the fantastic ability of focusing on the important things in life and removing the minor details. Nobody on their deathbed stresses about what colour flowers they had at their wedding though many stress about it at the time.  Proximity to death makes things like friends and family of the utmost importance.  My Beppe was at peace because her family was with her on what was believed to be her deathbed.  Her family was there and there was love so she was happy.

So as we live our lives we must be cognizant of death without fearing death.  Look at a clock with a second hand.  Each second that ticks is a second less of life.  The amount of time left is unknown but it is certain that each second that ticks by brings us one second closer to our last. What are you going to do with your time left?  What am I going to do with my time left?

I don't entirely know the answer to the question but I do have a partial answer.  I wish to live so that if I'm denied the opportunity of having last words it won't matter because my friends and family will already know that I love them.  (Because I lived out my love, and to drive the point home, I regularly told them.)

Life Is More Exciting For Cyclists

Cyclists and drivers are a bit like boys and girls in a grade two classroom.  They are thrust into the same space and told to get along, yet the gulf between the two mentalities is so great that neither side really likes or trusts the other.  I have rejoined the world of cyclists and have once more embraced a car hating attitude.

   

 The main problem with cars is that they are bigger, stronger, faster and you know that the driver isn't paying as much attention to the road as to his cell phone, radio and hair.  The problem with bikes is that they are slower, harder to see and you know that they are being powered by someone who is slightly insane.  

   As a cyclist I need to proactively guard against careless drivers because I don't really care who's at fault when I'm run over.  Staying alive is a very real priority while biking.  One of the dangers when riding is when people pass when there really isn't room to pass.  Calgary doesn't have a lot of shoulder room on a lot of its roads so at times I feel most comfortable riding in the lane so cars have to change lanes to pass me.  There's a chance that I will delay the driver by half a minute but if that half minute of their time means that I don't die, I think that it's a good deal.  

Today I was biking from the university to the Currie Barracks which conveniently lets me bike down 29th Ave by Foothills Hospital.  This is a great road because there's a fun hill that allows me to get up to high speeds.  I powered past a hapless cyclist while cruising beside the hospital and then started down the hill in a devil may care, hell bent, balls to the wall 60+km/h manner, tucked down so that not one extra molecule of atmospheric friction would delay my trip of insanity.  

I think that drivers often feel the urge to pass a cyclist as soon as possible, even when the cyclist is going above and beyond the speed limit.  On this hill I get going fast enough that often vehicles slow me down so I didn't feel bad at all about leaving the shoulder and riding behind a van in front of me.  I was flying down the hill when the van inexplicably began to slow down.  

It is easy to become accustomed to high velocities, it's a familiarity breeds contempt sort of thing.  Well it's also very easy to quickly become re-aware of the danger of high velocity, just try and stop in a hurry.  

I always figured that a bike should be able to stop twice as fast as a car, but going down that hill the van was definitely slowing down faster than I was.  I was braking as hard as possible without skidding and the van was suddenly very big and very close.  If the driver happened to look in her rear view mirror at that time it probably would have been quite rewarding.  A human face far closer than expected upon looking in the mirror, and a face wearing an expression of panic.  

However, I doubt that she looked back until too late.  I imagine that she looked back just after upon hearing a thump as she was rear ended by a cyclist.  Luckily I had managed to slow my bike down enough; my front tire hits bumper and stops immediately, my inertia compels the back wheel to depart terra firma and I'm airborne, briefly.  Soon, gravity being what it is, I'm reacquainted with my earthbound tendencies.  A quick, ungraceful roll and I stop.  I immediately try and get up, though I think it took a couple of attempts.  

The people in the car behind me ask me if I'm alright, I indicate to the positive.  The car I hit drives on, either unaware of what occurred, or uncaring.  I think that I might have scuffed their bumper so maybe it's good that they didn't stop.  

I regain my senses and try to put my chain back on.  However the back wheel isn't spinning.  A quick inspection reveals the wheel to be bent, more than a little.  Looks like it's the bus for me.

So end of the incident tally.

My body-small scrape on arm and leg but otherwise fully intact

My bike- presumably fine except for the damage to the wheel

My pride- wounded, though strong enough to handle greater damage than that.  Dare I say it? Pride suffers after the fall.  

  

Blogging Takes Friggin' Practice

I don't want to do the same old thing that so many of my latest, though by no means recent, blogs have done; speculate the reasons for the declining number of posts that I have been doing.  I went to writing multiple times a month to have multiple months pass by without any new posts.  

My failure to post regularly has ironically been partly due to that, I wanted to post a new blog but I couldn't really think of anything to write about other than why I'm not writing much at all.

Well with the idea that beggars can't be choosers, my readers, should there be any of you left, will have to be satisfied with what I put down here.  

I actually found my way to my blog today through a hyperlink on my church's website.  I don't know how I feel about being linked from my church's website.  I mean, my blog isn't really a Christian blog though I do at times write about Christian themes.  But it's similar to my reason to not want a Christian fish or bumper sticker on my car, I don't want people judging Christianity by what or how I drive.  I also don't want people judging my church from my blog.  In both cases I don't really think that I project a bad impression, but it's not the honest impression.  Rather than read my blog, people who want to know about my church should come out and attend. 

The other day in philosophy class we were discussing the end of man by which we mean the end meaning for the existence of humankind.  For example, some would say that pleasure is the ultimate aim, others power, others wealth.  We were discussing Aristotle's view that this ultimate goal should have no further reasons for being a goal.  For this reason he choose happiness as the ultimate end.  Because while you could say the goal of attaining wealth would be to buy things, the desire to buy things would be because owning things makes one happy. But why does one want to be happy?  Well the answer is to be happy.  There are no further reasons.  

Aristotle figured that the ultimate aim needs to be able to stand alone.  He didn't like the idea of an infinite chain of reasons for every action.  One student speculated that perhaps there could be a chain of reasons should the end of man be the satisfaction that comes with achieving each goal.  The prof listened and then said, "So in this case the chief aim of man is to get shit done."  

So really these last two paragraphs were a long winded explanation for this one simple point.  I want to write my blog without worrying that I may cause offense because I'm linked to a church's website.  Should I feel the need to include a curse, I want to do it.  Well I'm not going to worry.  Judging by the quality of this post I should worry about whether people are going to read my blog at all.

Where Did I Lose the Touch?

It is interesting, to me, to consider the songs of the Beatles. One thing that they all have in common is that they are AWESOME! However, it's interesting to note that when the Beatles split up all four members went on to solo careers and none of the music that they did afterwards was as good as what they did together. Granted they put out some good songs but nothing compared to their Beatles material. It was almost as if their was some magic that they had when working together.

I didn't start this blog to teach about the Beatles though. It is just that they are never a bad place to start and I want you to remember the theory that Paul McCartney is only a great songwriter when working with John Lennon and vice versa and that only with George Harrison and Ringo Starr did they manage to create such timeless, universally appreciated music.

I started blogging October 24, 2004 back when Myspace was trendy. My very first blog went as follows:

"This may work.

I will just try to get something actually posted. My last two blogs seem to be lost somewhere in cyberspace. Weird. So don't criticize me if I don't say anything intellegent here. If you are reading this it means I have already accomplished a lot. That is relatively speaking of course."

I posted perhaps every month or so for the next year, my blogs generally being about the same length and quality as that. In late 2005 I moved to Calgary from Kelowna, in early 2006 I moved in with Calvin and Lisa. My blogs grew longer and I feel the quality improved. Later Kevin moved in and, in my opinion, my blogs grew better still. The Chateau Rockingham stage began and my blogs reached a zenith.

Early this year I went traveling and I started posting fewer blogs but I figured that it was due to lack of access to a computer. Later I was tree planting and I wrote fewer and the quality showed a remarkable drop. I thought things would improve upon finishing my season and yet her I am, with a rather poor excuse for a blog. Today, like many days in the recent past, I was thinking of ways I could rectify this yet I have been unable and somewhat unispired to write the simplest of blogs. I wondered what could possibly have changed when I remembered the Beatles. So now I offer to you the conclusion that I am not responsible for any of the great blogs I wrote, it is more the result of the wonderfully creative environment that I was so priviledged to share.

So, that is why my blog now stinks.

I should quit blogging but I was doubly inspired recently. The other day I used a friend's computer and noticed that my blog was bookmarked. This was good for my ego. As well, the other day I got a comment on an old blog that was very flattering indeed. I hope that I will one day write another Great Blog.