(ed - Nicole will be 22 years old next month and lives with her family in Sidney. She volunteers at a local marine exploration centre and has been attending The Place at Lambrick Park Church for nearly 2 years. Nicole was diagnosed with spina bifida from birth....)
There are a lot of disabled people in the world today. Some people have Spina Bifida or other disabilities; some have to use a wheelchair for the rest of their lives; others have a learning disability or developmental disability. Although these people have differences, they are all human. Some able - bodied people seem to not understand that persons with disabilities are people just like them. We all have differences, but at the same time we are all human.
Some able -bodied people believe that if someone is in a wheelchair they can not live a "normal" life like everyone else. What they don't realize is that people in wheelchairs can live a "normal" life as everyone else does. People with disabilities go to school, get married, work, have families, do laundry, shop for groceries, laugh, cry, pay taxes, get angry, have prejudices, vote, use public transportation, plan and dream, go to church like everyone else. Having a disability does not mean we have to always be around other people with disabilities. Some of us are very comfortable being surrounded by and involved in mainstream society.
Having a disability does not mean we are brave and courageous, or even inspirational, as adjusting to a disability is a lifestyle. Most of the people today that have a disability were born with it. Some people with disabilities will wonder "why me?", as if they have been cursed. What they may not realize is that living with a disability will have ups and downs. This is true for any person’s life! Living with a disability also gives the individual a different perspective on life. Things some people may take for granted, a person with a disability may have to work around to adapt to their own personal needs (same with people with illnesses, diseases, etc).
People with disabilities have encountered a lot of different challenges. Every day we have to deal with people staring at them, whispering behind their back, and hearing untrue things said about people with disabilities. Frankly, I am getting sick and tired of the same assumptions being made about me or others with disabilities. One example is assuming that we need help...Do not assume; first ask! If accepted, then proceed to help.
Today, it is not only children that say things without thinking about how it may affect someone's feelings, especially if that person is in a wheelchair or has another type of disability. "In my personal experience adults have often said things that have been hurtful or prejudicial, for example when I was in high school I was surprised by how many people said so many untrue things about me and my disability. If you do not understand something about a person with a disability simply ask that person a question! Do not assume anything as your assumption, may not be true! I am not saying that it is everyone that does this, but there are some people that do treat people with disabilities this way.
All I am asking is for people to open their minds and accept peoples’ differences. Whether a person has a developmental disability, physical disability or any other type of disability, we still can live our lives as anyone else can. So, the next time you see someone with a disability on the streets, in a store or in a classroom, even at church, Talk to them, ask them questions, and include them in everyday activities....they may surprise you!
Nicole
Thursday, February 11, 2010
Disabled in a Non - Disabled World!
Thursday, January 15, 2009
On waiting and hoping...
(Okay, I would like to caution all potential readers... All my thoughts might not be fully fleshed out. My brain is overflowing at the moment, and its hard to sort things out when the thoughts just keep bubbling over... Anyways, with that, proceed with caution...)
Waiting is hard for us (at least it is for me), because we have gotten used to having what we want and having it now. When we don't get 'it' we feel angry and frustrated.
But if we can learn to wait and hope, it will shape our lives.
Instead of settling for what I have, and trying to make myself comfortable, I want to be willing to put up with discomfort, with not belonging, even with suffering because this is not it.
I long for the day when justice and mercy will be seen in all the earth, when God will wipe away every tear. I pray "Your Kingdom Come".
And we celebrate the glimpses of it, the stories of it and the echoes of it. We love selflessness, generosity, grace, and mercy because these things are 'kingdom things'...
Recently I have been asked (quite a number of times, actually) what I hope for. I usually say that I try to stay away from hope, because I don't want to be let down. Not until recently have I realized that this isn't necessarily true... Maybe I try to stay away from 'wishing' for things, or having dreams, but, not having hope? That sounds scary.
So, over the past few days, 'hope' has been on my mind. You see the word everywhere... 'Hope' has begun to be used more loosely than it used to, often seen as synonymous for 'wish', which is something that I commonly do, although I'm not sure it is entirely correct...
Tonight I was talking to a few friends, getting their opinion on the 2 words as well... Here are some things that I (and friends) have thought on 'hope' and 'wish'...
Wish us more immediate, on a finite time line. Hope is sometime in the future, with no limitations on time. Wish is flimsy, no solid reasoning behind it. Hope has desire, it is beyond proof, and a belief that something, or someone, could make it happen.
Hope can be both a noun and a verb... 'I have hope...' vs. 'I hope...'. I think, as a Christian, I have hope. And a strong hope, which could be said to be faith.
A Christian with no hope? Impossible, if you ask me.
Waiting. Hoping. Longing. Wishing.
Confusing.
"Live, then, and be happy, beloved children of my heart, and never forget that, until the day God deigns to reveal the future to man, the sum of all human wisdom will be contained in these two words: Wait and hope." --Alexandre Dumas
Sarah P
Wednesday, December 03, 2008
Quiet Quiet
How much do you know about that? "About what?” I said. There's a long distance between here and there and you'll never make it. "Any ideas?" "None", I said.
"Idiot", was all I got. "You idiot!" Look at your hands they look like tree limbs, so gnarled and twisted. You are wooden and truncated and you're scarring people.
Quiet quiet.
I started thinking and remembered an autumn field in Saskatchewan where I'd taken a hayride in the moonlight on a flatbed truck with thirty other students and as many bales of hay. The truck circled a small patch of field in aimless careful circles, round and round. The experience stunted, far from the vision of wave upon wave of wheat leaning in the moonlight. We were all freezing, a chafing kind of cold, circling the frozen field and I'm losing my patience, no thrills here.
And I'm poking the farmer in the back 'hey', and he looks over his shoulder, instantly I'm remembering the tepid chocolate and the Styrofoam cup and how cold we all are laughing like angels. Then the quiet, that perfect sweet prairie quiet, frozen ground as I stood on it aware I left no footprint, no footprint in all of that dark and clear silence, and feeling I had no substance either.
And since then I'd been sleeping, the adrenaline numbing the feeling in my fingertips. Every footstep sticking in the West Coast mud, every footfall making its point. And then the bark started growing, just along the arm, 'give a care, came a chiding voice. "Huh", can't feel much I said. I'm low, so low." And everything is stained, my clothes and furniture and paint on the wall, the cheeks on my face all stained. What a bore, no thrills here.
The good news is my arms are in leaf. I was marveling at the new growth - I usually kill plants. Never mind that the attributes of a tree are not normal to a person, not normal at all.
I just wanted to be dressed in a white turtleneck and soft white pants to show off my green leaves and scratchy bark. I'm tough I thought real tough, what's a little bark if I can grow these shiny green leaves.
I felt innocent and real and I knew people could see me, in a new way, more special favours or maybe not, just seeing me was enough. Radiant with my new growth like the cold pure air of the prairie.
And I was hoping for a chance at peace, the uncomplicated kind - swirls and swirls of pink frosting on high cupcakes and the smiles are innocent and gaping and it’s all play. We all look stupid and we're real and free, awkward as hell, that's my fantasy. We are all freaky and weird and out of the box.
Rhonda S
Tuesday, September 16, 2008
The Creative Process, and serving God in creative ministries
I’d like to open with my poem: “What Stars Never Say” with this scripture from:
Isaiah 14: verses 12 and 13
How you have fallen from heaven,WHAT STARS NEVER SAY
O morning star, son of the dawn!
You have been cast down to the earth,
you who once laid low the nations!
You said in your heart,
"I will ascend to heaven;
I will raise my throne
above the stars of God;
I will sit enthroned on the mount of assembly,
on the utmost heights of the sacred mountain.
Can I hear it one more time?
The sound of silence
In stars, that I
may hold
the memory more
and Love you more today
And shine brighter for you than I did
Before.
What stars have you to say?
Oh what wonders you contain?
Or will ever fade away never more
Would I shine brighter
for You ever more?
All aglitter for You falling
Falling from heavens floor?
Falling freely falling
Stars breaking through
in song
Calling, sweetly calling
longing to be beside my side
belonging
Oh what glory be
oh what sight to see!
What love You shine on thee,
it is You and only You,
how I do adore
Always shining brightly for me
Ever more!
Oh heavens star,
Stay longer, please stay longer
in height of sky dwell with me
a little longer
just a little longer
more
And in the silence,
bring heavens peace
and guide me near and I will go
where streams of living water flow.
By majestic pulse and pull
I am listening, you are glistening
I am reaching higher, nearly
touching heaven
Waiting the trumpets call
To the sound of my Redeemer
Calling, sweetly calling
come to take me home
Oh so far away, so very far
Oh so near, so very near
Beloved star
I know who You are
my Morning Star,
Light my way
Begin to say
in Silence
what Stars
never
Say.
Trying to find our spiritual gifts and ways we can serve God is process in itself, something that requires a coming forward out of the background and our comfort levels with confidence, and boldness. Creativity is something we are born with, we were created in the image of God, look at children how natural they are in creating, but something happens to us along the way, I wonder why that is?
I know from a vision I received in a dream the Lord is preparing a table for us all and encouraging us to have faith and to trust in Him. I hope my words are of inspiration to you in finding something God has planned for you, a purpose and from that revelation some passion that may be unleashed for Him!
I’m trying to understand the whole creative process and how it works, but all I know is that it just happens and it has to happen or I’m like a branch that bears no fruit and withers away in the hot sun.
I’ve come to realize the poems and paintings are my fruit and it always begins by a seed, a word or an idea and grows from there inspired by what stirs the heart. As a Christian the Holy Spirit inspires a watering of the seed, the seed grows and blossoms and ripens into something sweet and juicy and tasty that satisfies and soothes the soul!
A good poem is like a song, it has music of its own, it sings, grows wings and takes flight!
While I’m engaged in the creative process. There’s something magical in these moments for me. The more I engage an idea, which is more often very poetic arrangements of words, the more ideas and word images start to flow and emerge.
The writing process starts by capturing thoughts, and branches – branch out as thoughts begin to expand in different directions, searching for Light, anticipating the fruit!
The fruit always comes from seed or in seed form. Never underestimate the power of the seed, it’s where everything begins, even life itself.
As John spoke of a while back in a sermon, a few seeds of wheat from Europe became a major food staple and food source that reached global proportions today in the world market place for Canada.
The creative process too starts from a seed or idea, often with no intent at all, it’s often a surprise for me while in the process to discover some sort of meaning which later shines through. For me it has to have this meaning or it’s simply an abstraction with no meaning at all.
Creativity gives voice to the heart and soul and spirit and offers a means of understanding the world around us and for the artist himself to be understood, it fulfills the need of significance.
Dutch Sheets the author of a book I’m reading called (Roll away Your Stone), writes what he terms, “THE SEED PRINCIPAL”, which states “all TRUTH comes to you in seed form, which indicates a process of growth until fruition. The vine (Jesus) gives life to the branches (us) and from that blossoms fruit. If I do not abide in the vine, I do not bear any fruit; the branch will certainly wither and die within me. I CAN DO NOTHING APART FROM THE VINE.
This is certainly true as a Christian poet and artist and makes sense to me now, when I abide in (The vine) and in God’s Word it is when I do write and create, those other times I do not, are often filled with a broken despair, perhaps while I struggle with a life issue, the pages stay blank and empty, there is no life there to create, consumed by strife, its complete and utter writers block!
And for such soul food we crave, TRUTH - It is from the word of God the nutrients come (therefore the content is everything), the content of our work, our music, our poems and paintings shout praises is everything reflecting that of God’s word that it contains and gives life to the truth we speak.
The preacher uses similar poetics in sermon and colorful language to teach, using metaphor and other illustrations make us relate, stimulate the mind and heart to a deeper understanding, rather than just speaking gray-tones and falling asleep.
The parable; a great teaching method from the Master teacher is effective. Jesus’ form of parable is highly sophisticated and powerfully illustrative, metaphoric, and poetic… literature at its best, the bible, the word in written form, the most widely book ever sold!
Was this what Jesus had in mind with the hope that a seed in some form may begin to grow in you and germinate inside of you, Cause a soul searching, an internal dialog to examine our own hearts and souls. There is warmth that comes from comfort food. It is God’s word that nourishes us after all.
The Holy Spirit is that profound mystery and by which God’s Word and God’s truth is revealed and it is the Holy Spirit who truly inspires and encourages us.
I am leaning on the notion the (Wonderful Councilor) the Holy Spirit, may just be the best editor I’ll ever have or ever need!
Perhaps I’m coming to a deeper understanding of the unfathomable mystery in how the Holy Spirit moves in all of this for me creatively by the words Jesus say’s to Nicademus in John 3 verse 8 of anyone born of the spirit, Jesus says:
“The wind blows wherever it pleases. You hear its sound, but you cannot tell where it comes from or where it is going. So it is with everyone born of the Spirit."
As I write and think sometimes I wonder where did those words come from? But I know now it comes by abiding in the vine and with Jesus and His Word this makes all the difference, from the motivation that adds fire and flame to putting everything into perspective; why I do it and for Who I do it for?
Living a life God intended me to live and being who He made me to be, therefore, it speaks of blessing and fulfillment, and joy as the seed grows to fruition. This is a process of growth too.
There is great Joy that comes from creating, inspired by the Holy Spirit, but the greatest joy comes from giving God the glory and honor and praise to His Mighty Name. Amen!
As Christian artists, musicians, writers, poets, anyone who serves, ministers and upholds the truth I believe we must take up a similar attitude as John the Baptist declared, in John 3 verse 30 and in that a dying of the seed happens, so that it may fall into a crack and die and the exalted soul that took place with Adam at the fall would be given up at the foot of the cross by claiming what John said:
“That joy is mine, and it is now complete. He must become greater; I must become less.”
Another good reminder in keeping focus comes from Revelations 19 verses 5-10 as John falls at the angels feet to worship him the angel says;
”Do not do it! I am a fellow servant with you and with your brothers who hold to the testimony of Jesus. Worship God!”
The point being, we are to worship God and nothing or no one else, we are not to worship art or any other idol or even idolize the artist, that’s when the puffing up occurs, instead we are creating, worshipping and praising God through the creative works of art or any form of ministry.
Finally follow the advice of Paul, in Colossians 3 verses 23-24 says it so well what kind of mindset we should have in serving God:
“Whatever you do, work at it with all your heart, as working for the Lord, not for men, since you know that you will receive an inheritance from the Lord as a reward. It is the Lord Christ you are serving.”
Part of my growing understanding about the creative process and entering into it for God’s purpose begins with meditating on God’s word and abiding in His word. “Be still and know that I am God”, brings us to that place of silence and meditation to receive God’s word. Creativity flourishes as a result when we let God’s word resound through us and through our work.
Often in the midst of the beauty of creation surrounding us we are often in awe and left breathless, this in some way requires an act of surrender, To acknowledge our Maker and give praise and thanks is an act of worship, from whose hands the heavens have been made and all the earth and everything in the earth were formed? It is just too awesome to comprehend; we must be in awe when we come to this place of worship!
God’s creation inspires greatly, we need to get out of our cities, out from behind our computers and TV’s and I Pods and examine the stars and still waters more often. In the infinite beauty of God’s creation He offers us restoration, by creation itself…
David echoes this truth when he wrote: Psalm 23, verses 1-3
“The Lord is my Shepard,
He makes me lie down in green pastures,
He leads me beside quiet waters, he restores my soul.”
When you look at the stars some nights they speak to you, they leave the eye a twinkling! You know your part of something so vast and so huge and have a big part to play because God created you. What is even more astonishing to me is God is so awesome and omnipresent and omnipotent, all in control, but He knows us each so intimately like a Father knows and loves His own child, even before the words leave my mouth He knows them, He knows our needs, our hearts desires, He loves us and accepts us unconditionally despite our sinful nature and imperfections, he has plans and a future for each of us and offers life in abundance, forgiveness from sin, redemption from a fallen world through Jesus Christ, God’s only begotten Son who died on the cross – freedom indeed! For each and every one of us, so we could have life and have it to the full now and forever with Him in eternity.
As we take part in communion today think about just how much Jesus has done for you by the cross. Imagine what it would be like today for you if His life was not given up to the cross by His blood and brokenness submitting to the will of God; for His sacrifice we shall always remember just how much it means.
Thank you and God Bless you all.
Michael M
Thursday, August 07, 2008
Running
As a veteran of the church scene, I am well steeped in the metaphors used to talk about things of God and the life of faith. One particular phrase that seems to have significant staying power suggests that following Jesus involves “walking in the footsteps of the master.”
For the longest time, I associated this phrase with the famed poem “Footprints In the Sand” as if Jesus only ever walked slowly – methodically – purposefully. But this, like many of my images of Jesus, is somewhat inaccurate.
The Jesus I read about in scripture is also a runner.
In Luke 15, Jesus tells the story of the prodigal son as a way of introducing people to the idea of how God pursues his children. The story ends with the father running to meet the errant son. Hardly the picture of a meandering God.
Even his followers appear to be more like Frontrunner 10K clinic members than slow moving couch potatoes. They ran to meet Jesus, they ran to the empty tomb, they ran to tell each other that Jesus was coming and ran to get ahead of the crowds and get the best seat in the closest sycamore tree. Even the soldier who offered the dying Christ some vinegar is reported to have run about trying to find the right stick and sponge.
The reason I have been mulling over this notion of Jesus and his followers as runners is that I too have become a runner.
It started simply as a desire to shed an extra pound or two and to stave off the genetic disposition to early death caused by cancer and heart disease.
That was three years, two half marathons, three 10Ks, two 8Ks and close to 800 kilometers ago.
Someone recently asked me why I run. It still has something to do with the health benefits. It also presents my wife and I a chance to spend scheduled time together in the middle of chaotic personal timetables.
But lately I have begun to think about what I have learned as a runner because the lessons have been many. And the more things I realize I have grasped during my fledgling running career, the more I see parallels between running and my spiritual life.
Lesson One: It is easier to run if your coach runs with you.
I have recently started another running clinic in preparation for an upcoming half marathon. But unlike previous clinics, I have noticed that this one is markedly different because our run leader/coach actually laces up his shoes and runs with us. Michael never asks us to do something that he is not prepared to do himself. He sweats with us. He runs laps of the track with us. He feels the same heat, experiences the same thirst, and gets the same blisters as the rest of us. The only difference between him and the rest of us is that he is there to lead…to be the example…to demonstrate proper technique, form and posture. He leads. We follow because he is wiser than us. We follow because he cares about our success. And we follow because he has earned our respect by being with us even though his sheer athleticism could have him competing with elite runners. Yet he remains with us…the slow, the awkward, the ones trying to become like him.
When it hurts and when there are still 8K left to go – most of it uphill – there is something profoundly comforting about looking towards the front of the pack of runners and seeing Michael – showing us by example what it means to endure and showing us the way home.
“The Word laced up a pair of Nikes and stepped onto the track to run laps with us.”
Lesson Two: Endurance is not instant.
When I started running my ego wanted to finish first every time. Sadly, my legs and lungs had other ideas. I quickly learned that cardio fitness is built over time. Each lap of the track, each series of tempo runs and each wind sprint contributes to an increased ability to perform at my body’s best. There is no single workout that will make me stronger, faster, or more agile. Instead, the benefits of each run build on the previous sweat-filled odessy that acclimatizes the body to working hard.
Getting strong is a process not an event.
This has been important as I consider faith in the early 21st century. We seek our instant gratification. We want good feelings, prosperity, acceptance and love instantly. We sometimes think that placing our faith in Jesus or joining a church will solve all the problems that ail us and that life will be blessed until the rapture.
That is until we encounter the next bump in the road.
The Bible has much to say about endurance and most of it is about enduring bad situations and hard things.
The power to endure does not materialize instantly. Rather, it is the byproduct of one workout at a time spread out over a lifetime. And of learning to trust that the training already accomplished will be enough to tackle the next incline.
Lesson Three: Slow and steady is better than fast and injured
Last night’s running clinic speaker is a kinesiologist and physiotherapist – very important functions for people who run. His point was simple – most people start out running too hard and too fast. And then they wonder why they get sidelined with injuries that not only damage their bodies, but often cripple the enthusiasm for running altogether.
I grew up in a faith tradition that stressed the radically transformed life. One minute you were a “poor, wretched and blind” sinner. But say a prayer and you were given the keys to the Kingdom, a robe of white and a crown of gold. There was little mention of the life or journey of faith. It was all about going out hard and fast - joining studies, choirs, worship teams, street theater troupes, and summer counselor programs. It was as though the life of faith became the life of frenzy. But people get tired when they go too hard too fast – and fatigue increases the chance of injury.
Frustration. Resentment. Bitterness. Pressure from within and without. Unrealistic expectations. Loss of confidence. Loss of vision. Loss of love. Depression. Walking away.
The antidote to injury is slow and steady. Always building, increasing, pushing…but in moderation and under the watch of a coach who is more interested in seeing us complete the race than flaming out too early.
Lesson Four: Running in a group produces better results than running alone.
Running can be a lonely thing. For a slower runner like me, the last 5K of a half-marathon often involve long stretches of only me, pavement, and the occasional roadside encourager who is packing up their lawn chair because the steady stream of runners has been reduced to a trickle of the weary.
Running alone is hard. There is nobody to pace against. There is nobody to motivate or encourage you. There is only the sound of heavy breaths, shoes scuffing on pavement, and U2 on the iPod trying to be convincing about it being a beautiful day.
But running with people is easier. There is a comradare shared among runners that involves recognizing the hard work of complete strangers – a wave of the hand, a tip of the running hat, an encouraging word. Running with others makes the road seem softer and the road home not so long. It makes the task less daunting as the self-talk focuses on “if they can do it…so can I.”
Running is like the life of faith in this way…although faith is a solitary thing, it is never meant to be done alone. Or as Jim Wallis (one of my favorite writers) summarizes – Faith is personal…but it is never private.
I wonder how many times the disciples wanted to give up. Step off the track, take off their shoes and head for the concession stand. I wonder if the times in between the mountaintops, the walking on water, and the mass feedings were punctuated by frustration, inadequacy, and fatigue. And if they were on their own odds are they might have drifted away back to their nets and flocks.
But experiencing things together – in a group – makes the impossible seem possible. It provides the motivation to see things through, the encouragement to endure through the hard times, and guarantees someone is there to share in the joy of hard fought accomplishments.
No wonder Jesus instituted the church. I think its because he knew the power of running clinics.
Daryl T
Coming Next...Lessons Five through Eight
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Skunk Hollow and Uncle Hugh's Fish Bowl
Norma Jean and I moved to the island and into grannies beach glass bungalow far away from the prairie and the foul temper of my father. There I met my first and truest friend, a dog named Dingo. Dingo was some kind of terrier, the kind that skips and skitters through it's life always managing to find a kitchen floor or vacant pavement to tap dance along. I can't say I cuddled Dingo or fell in love with him but, you could say he was plain and comforting . In a time of high surrealism, where all the colours were a little too bright, he was perfectly ordinary. It was my mother's fairytale family that carried all the richness and brilliance and even out dazzled the glass bungalow they were all like glass prisms and they all resembled movie stars .
My grandmother Lillian with her porcelain skin and flaming red hair was Tahlula Bankhead, her husband Art was definitely Humphry Bogart, uncle Bill was Ernest Hemmingway, Norma Jean was of course playing herself, Uncle Jim was a ballroom dancer and a collector of pistols and he was very Paul Newman. Uncle Bud was a 1950's comic book hero only he wasn't any Captain Marvel, he was more the quintessential Clark Kent - khaki pants and horned rimmed glasses a man of his generation and that left Uncle Hughey - the dark horse, Uncle Hugh's face bore the scars of an inner crucifiction and sorrow. Hughey was the drunk, he was Montgomery Clift without the big Hollywood break. Uncle Hugh got no respect because he was a lush. And his brother from the Captain Marvel magazine hoisted him out of the gutter on skid row and rushed him into rehab every decade or so. Uncle Bud thought that his brother drank because he had a love affair with the booze, he didn't understand that Uncle Hugh was isolated and lost or maybe he did . There is no halfway house for isolated and lost.
My mother's name sake Marilyn Munroe had made a film called the Misfits and in the movie more than anything a pathos emerged and despite their best efforts using all their celebrity my mother's family was hung with a veil of depression and there was no Clark Gable around to show them how to not give a damn. They were overc-ommers and had all risen out of the ashes, that is all but Uncle Hugh. They were survivors of an early childhood growing up in a very funky landscape called Skunk Hollow in East Vancouver. I asked my mother one day why they called it Skunk Hollow and she said because the only thing that would grow there were skunk cabbages. The air reeked of them in the steaming heat of the summers.
Bogey drank all the money he made from his machinist trade and the children seldom had enough food. The ironies were piled thick and high for they were hungry kids and got to smell the bog of inedible skunk cabbages cooking all summer long in the blistering heat. Tahlula sharpened her knives in their scabby kitchen because if she'd had a dollar she could make a marvellous meal out of it. She had fabulous culinary skills.
At some point Bogey put down the bottle and took a look around his family and noticed the scaring his lawless appetite for drink had done . Finally Tahlula went to the market for fresh meat and poultry and took to buying her vegetables from an old man in a very old truck who came right round to the door. Tahlula bought rhinestone cigarette holders to smoke her home made rollies in and made salmon loaf, and black bottom pudding, pork roasts and apple pies. There was Neapolitan ice cream and scalloped potatoes made with evaporated milk, and real Irish stew. The table was groaning everyday with cream pies, and salads of every description and in the end all the movie stars amazed each other with their conservative successes and their good lives, all except Uncle Hugh.
Uncle Hugh was a vagrant of the most romantic sort. All of my mother's family were good looking and they all resembled movie stars and Uncle Hugh was no exception. He had a lustrous head of auburn hair and a soulful silence that easily upstaged the boisterous performances of his siblings. They were all good dancers and moved around their individual dance floors with an easy grace in lush costumes of tweed and silk, cotton twill and organza. They became what they wanted to be, despite a father who drank all their innocence. My grandfather was the downtown equivalent of Humphrey Bogart riding the little ferry from North Van to East Hastings of a Saturday morning sipping a cocktail of methyl alcohol and milk on the ten minute ride, and by the time the tiny boat docked he was loaded. And on those occasions, those appalling Saturdays, my mother would bring along Clark Kent and Paul Newman. It was acting of the mannerist school and Uncle Hugh was not in the cast, but rather it seemed he got to be the boom boy or sound engineer. He had no role to play, Uncle Hughey never got in front of the camera.
My mother a small girl herself held the plump hands of her movie star brothers tiny bit part players though they were and followed their teetering dad through the scariest part of downtown Vancouver at week's end each and every week. Norma Jean never let on that any of them ever met with foul play left as they were to hang around the back door of whatever drinking hole Bogey staggered out of. She said they were always safe.
Eventually all the little stars made good, Clark Kent got a degree from Oregon State University, Paul Newman got one from UBC and Ernest Hemmingway developed a love for cats and took over the family business. Norma Jean took very good care with her appearance and married my father a real scene stealer. He was a man's man he had a part in all the best clichés and he was brilliant and finally Norma Jean had deserted him to his petty genius.
On that faithful day it was Ernest Hemmingway who came to gather us from my curious father and his up and coming lifestyle. Uncle Bill loaded up his green station wagon that day and we left while my father was at work and none the wiser. I was a little girl and an accomplished stealer of ice cream and was violently scooping the stuff out of the bucket when Hemmingway bound in the kitchen that day in the early morning causing me to drop my spoon and tip over the stool. As we drove my mother let me sit in the front seat with her brother and I was afraid to look at him for the shame I carried at being discovered at stealing the strawberry ripple. Marilyn had no shame and she never looked back.
Uncle Hughey married no one and realized no ambition. Instead he was the disenfranchised, the rejected, and the embarrassment. Where the others grew character Uncle Hugh grew a sponge to sop up the rivers of cheap wine he drank to take the edge off.
Midway through life Humphrey Bogart discovered the secret to real happiness and began to build a credit rating. His aim was to buy a family bungalow to welcome in his children and grandchildren - it was a tour de force in denial. The beach glass bungalow came with one bedroom and my grandfather built a second one in the form of an extension off the back of the little home. He liked to fly by the seat of his pants and used ingenuity to build the new section as opposed to a silly old foundation any common builder might start with. After some time the second bedroom began to sag a bit and moisture crept in. It was meant for guests and it was the room that Norma Jean and I stayed in when we escaped the heavy restrictions of my father. I would lay awake at night in that room black as pitch and smelling like freshly mowed green grass, the lawn teasing it's way up through the floor joists, waiting for my mother to come home. First came the acrid aroma of her cigarette and then I could see the pilot light on the end of her smoke signalling that Marilyn Munroe was coming in for a landing. It was there when the moment hung and I would lose time and space and fly to the end of that cigarette like Tinker Bell and make myself like nothingness, and pray for fairytale tomorrows.
Bogey built a guest house in the back yard for Hughey, it was only big enough for a single bed and no bigger. It was a tiny building with a big picture window and a flower box and granddad had added some ornamentation that made the whole thing look like a ginger bread house come fish bowl. Uncle Hugh would navigate his minimal quarters in full view of the good actors in the family, that way he could be watched as though he were on television. Here Uncle Hugh was kept until like a lemming he responded to a mysterious call and hurried away to the skid row of Vancouver to live out his father's legacy.
The summer I arrived at Tahlula's and Bogeys' bungalow seemed like the hottest and brightest of my lifetime. When the sun hit the house the effect was dazzling and hypnotic, the multicoloured shards of broken glass mixed into the mortar became rubies, sapphires diamonds and peridot. The yard was full of hybrid fruit trees, 2 cherries, 2 plums, a winter king apple, 2 pear trees, blackberries and raspberries, all tangled up and rubbing up against each other in the back yard. Tahlulah had a clothesline darting across the backyard one end off the beguiling cottage the other attached to Montgomery Clift's fish bowl cabana in the back yard. My grandmother seldom went outside, she was too pale and cool and didn't like the warmth of the sun on her skin and would teeter precariously on the end of the imaginary back porch and gingerly string her delicates out on the clothesline, the ash from her home made smoke free-falling off the end of her cigarette holder. The front yard of the house was overwhelming, roses and rhodos, giant daisys, and willow trees. Granddad had a double lot and had also bought the house next door with it's big lot and huge willow tree. No one trimmed the willows and their graceful limbs would woo little children in under a dreamy canopy of cinnabar green. There we'd lay on our backs and let our imaginations fly up through the ladders of branches up, up in to the great blue beyond. The roots of the great willow had bumped their way up through the green grass making cradles in the earth. And in that wholesome way children have of ransacking their environment we'd tear the slim branches off that swept the ground and make blankets and costumes out of them and so there we would lie wrapped in the arms of the giant willow and laying in the cradle she'd provided, and we'd dream in safety. I grew to love the music the tree made as the winds would shift, parts of the tree sounded a melody as the leaves moved in the breeze. On occasion in the summer a very windy day came around and I would run away to my secret place under the willow cocooned in a blanket of gentle arms and listen to a full orchestra of the green kind.
It was always me who went to the freezer with Montgomery Clift for the Neapolitan ice cream and on occasion I would walk with him along the railway tracks not far from our house. On these meandering silent trudges both of us sharing his blanket of sorrow, I felt a peculiar initiation taking place. It was my first introduction to the long silences where despondency lives, the catatonia of despair. This was the road in that Uncle Hughey had made and so this is how I first experienced that dreamy landscape, a lost soul at home. It was all in the eyes of Monty Clift the look of a ravaged spirit.
And then one day Uncle Hugh would just disappear and then he'd come around when he was short of cash. Soon his visits were non existent as the booze ate him up. Many years went by before any mention was made of my dark horse uncle. Finally, I'd gone to see Uncle Hugh because Clark Kent and Ernest Hemmingway said he was not long for this world and I felt relief for my Uncle Hughey and went to the halfway house to see him off. My mother and her celebrity brothers wore their yoke of tragedy like a lovely waltz when they got together branded as they were with that soulful kind of grace.
Uncle Hugh wore his grace like it belonged to someone else, it seemed to me everything he had always belonged to someone else, or what he had got taken away from him. He was teased mercilessly and the little movie stars liked to push him around. Then Hughey turned inward and so my mother Norma Jean says. Tahlula was a bit of a sorceress in her way and liked to air her bitterness and rage out by telling terrifying truisms to small children. Hughey sopped up the mess without complaining. Tahlula always took the call when Uncle Hugh phoned in from skid row with one of his stories and she'd quietly go to the drawer where the guilty money was kept to send Hughey off more cash.
One thing I know for sure that hearts broke for Uncle Hugh in the end and he'd said his good byes in the quiet way.
Norma Jean has only Paul Newman's hand to hold now, as the curtain came down some time ago for Montgomery Clift, Ernest Hemmingway, Clark Kent, Tahlula Bankhead, and Humphry Bogart. Heaven is a cool cool place called Skunk Hollow, where Tahlula has real gems in her cigarette holder and the cabbages grow tasty and big and there are beach glass bungalows for everyone.
Rhonda S
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
My “Place” Persons tribute parody song
(sung to the tune of “Hey there Delilah” by ‘plain white “t’s”)
We all know a girl
Who lives in Victoria city,
She says our prayers and leads communion
And always looks so pretty
yes it’s true,
She sees right through to you
There are so few
She does ballet, jumps around and she likes cheese,
She loves everyone she knows
And is so good at saying please
When the time arise(s)
She wears her soul inside her eyes
It’s no surprise…
OHHHHH it’s Janet Doherty, OHHHH it’s Janet Doherty…
OOHHHHH it’s Janet Doherty, OOhhhh it’s Janet Doherty
She looks so pretty…….
We all know a guy
Who lives in Saanich city
He talks a lot and says big words
And often is quite witty
When it’s due
He thinks he might be smarter than you
It’s prob’bly true
He loves his wife and kids
God, lacrosse and hockey
It might not be in that same order
‘cause it’d make his life too rocky
Be his demise
He is a little disorganized
It’s no surprise
OOOOHHHHH it’s Pastor Randy, OHHHH it’s pastor Randy,
OOOOHHHH he loves Philosophy, Ohhhhh it’s Pastor Randy
He loves Theology…….
Bridge:
There are so many who work so well
At keeping us from going to hell
Every Sunday they give all their heart and soul….
They lead worship, teach and pray
Watch our kids without any pay
Good community is their only goal…..
They go to meetings without any fuss
Organizing stuff to include all of us
Even though it takes a lot of their time
They hardly get a dime……
OHHHHHHHH it’s Dr. James Prette
OOHHHHH it’s Jason Nassi
OHHHHH it’s either a Kingsley
OOHHH it’s Simon Prittie
It’s Penny or Kristy
It’s Janet Doherty
It’s anyone who ends with “ee”…
Anyone who ends with “ee”…
OHH , OH OH oh oh OOOOOOOoh oh OH OHHH, OH OH….
OHH , OH OH oh oh OOOOOOOoh oh OH OHHH, OH OH….
OHHH It’s Pastor Randy
he loves orthodoxy……
Launa Kremler
Thursday, July 26, 2007
Hear My Reply
Song fills the air:
A new melodious song,
An attempt to quench.
Your deep soft voice
Whispers to my soul,
“Come and be baptized.
Hear a new song,
Leave the sea behind;
I am the jungle.”
Chaos! Hear my reply.
The jungle cannot still
This melody of mine;
Instead, united as one,
We can joyfully sing
From nature’s awesome song.
My spirit soul sings
The song of the
Sea; the elapsing waves
Create my song’s melody.
Miles P