I'm head over heels

The pride and joy of my pride and joy has arrived.
Abigail "Abby" Thérèse Ann Contant was born this past Friday. She is the daughter of my Little Bro, Dan, and his wife, Pretty Christine. The closest I've come to meeting her is via photos and webcam from Timmins, but it's enough that I'm totally head-over-heels in love. I'll gladly fill the role of surrogate paternal Grandpa, going by the name of Uncle Bob. Heck, I've already bought her a Team Canada hockey jersey.
I'm flying to Timmins Saturday to visit her. First stop after her Dad picks me up at the airport is her house, of course, then a quick trip to the mall to buy her a teddy bear, and maybe a couple other things.
Welcome to the world, Abby, my little Peanut. You will one day realize how surrounded with love you've been since the day you were born.

Waxing nostalgic

I've been feeling a bit nostalgic lately. I'm not sure why, maybe because I've been doing some writing for a history of Iroquois Falls, due to be published later this year, or because I've been listening to more classic rock music than usual.
I even had a facebook post that prompted some discussion about the top classic rock songs. There are several that I agree with, and contributed my own nomination for one that should be near the top: Dire Straits' "Money for Nothing".
That sent my thinking process onto a bit of a tangent, recalling buying vinyl records as a teenager.
Of course, Pierini's in Iroquois Falls was my primary source. Trips to Timmins always meant a stop at Circle of Sound, in what was then the brand new 101 Mall. Your record purchase was put into a bright pink plastic bag, which was heat-sealed at the checkout.
There was also Records on Wheels, on Pine Street near Second Avenue, a door or two down from the Colonial Inn restaurant, which featured phones at the tables, over which you ordered your food. It later became A&W and then Benjamin's. If I recall correctly, Records on Wheels also sealed your purchase in a plastic bag. It was a small, narrow store. I can't recall whether it was later replaced by or existed side-by-side with Two Pieces Boutique, similarly small and narrow. It was where we bought our jeans and cords in the style of the day, be it boot cut, flare or elephant pants, and the puffy-sleeved shirts to go with them, thus the Two Pieces.
I imagine what sealed the doom of all of those places was the opening of Timmins Square.

A rite of passage

I had an interesting people-watching experience this afternoon.
I went with my youngest niece, Caitlin, to get her driver's licence. If I remember correctly, she had her G1, now has her G2, and has a year to get her full-fledged G licence. Way back when I borrowed my Dad's Flintstone car to try my licence, we had the beginner's and then the driver's licence -- none of this graduated stuff.
Anyway, it was interesting to watch the young people come, Mom or Dad (or Uncle Bob) in tow. The anticipation and nerves were palpable in the young people; the pride and melancholy in the parents. Another fledgling getting closer to leaving the nest, learning to fly on their own, moving towards total independence from Mama and Papa Bird.
The only one I saw come back from a road test was Cait. She was smiling ear-to-ear, telling me she passed. A couple of the parents looked my way and smiled.
Cait was especially happy, because this was road test number three. I think she passed this time, because instead of having her older sister with her, she had her good luck charm -- me!
Of course, by the time she had walked around the building from where she had parked the car at the end of the test, she had already called her Mom to share the good news.
Way to go, Cait.

Quick! First answer off the top of your head

If you had to sing one karaoke song to save your life, what would it be?

Mine would be Barry Manilow's "Copacabana".

More of me, blog style

Hey, fellow bloglodytes! I'm a participant in another blog, a two-person effort that I hope you'll check out and post comments about.
I don't want to give too much away here, but it has to do with my new focus on weight and fitness.

www.treadmilltrenches.blogspot.com

Dear Miss Manners/Abby/Ann Landers:

If you have just reconnected online with an old classmate you haven't seen since elementary school about 40 years ago, is it polite to ask if that other person still smells like pee?

Wondering in Ottawa

Video from the 2010 Olympic Torch Relay in Iroquois Falls, January 1, 2010

I told you he's everywhere!

So I'm walking through the mall this afternoon, and who to my wondering eyes does appear? Here's photographic proof. That's me on the left.

He's everywhere these days

Everywhere you look these days, he's there, complete in red suit, with his white beard well groomed and his sleigh bells in one mittened hand.
Part of the magic of Santa Claus is how he can accomplish being everywhere, sitting kids on his lap to hear what they want for Christmas, and responding with a resounding "Ho ho ho". He does all this while also supervising the elves as they make toys in their North Pole workshop, trying to fill all those orders all over the world.

My earliest recollection of Santa is from television, on CFCL in Timmins, and his daily visit during the weeks leading up to Christmas.
The search light would scan the snow-covered hill behind the TV station, waiting for Santa to come running in, after parking his sleigh somewhere beyond camera range. As he arrived at the back door of the studio, he would be greeted by Mr. Announcer Man, and sweep the snow off his boots, reminding all the boys and girls to do the same when they came indoors.
Then, for the next magical half hour, he would read letters from those boys and girls. And he would bring his magical telescope at least once a year, and look around CFCL's broadcast area, commenting on the good boys and girls he could see through the scope. One time, he even spotted my sister, and commended her on helping my Mom with household chores, at the ripe old age of three.
Sure, it's magic, but the Jolly Old Elf needs just a wee bit of help to accomplish it all. It seems that he has a volunteer in every community, taking care of the logistics of all of his local activities.
In the case of Timmins when I was a kid, it was a firefighter named Art Eby. I know this, because Mr. Eby and his wife were friends of my parents. He and my Dad served on a regional body for their credit unions, and the two couples travelled together once or twice, to provincial conventions in Toronto.
I met Mr. Eby a few times. The most vivid time that I can recall was at our house early one winter. As he and Mrs. Eby visited with my Mom and Dad, the three of us kids just did regular kid things. My sister, being a little busybody, was even trying her hand at washing dishes. In fact, now that I think of it, it was specifically dish washing that Santa mentioned, when he spotted Dale through his telescope.
Some 25 or more years later, when I was six o'clock news anchor at that same Timmins TV station, I actually got the opportunity to fill in for Mr. Announcer Man on the Santa Claus Show a few times. During a break, I spoke to Santa about Mr. Eby, who had died by that time, and how another firefighter, Sonny Farrell, took over his duties to make sure Santa's visits went off without a hitch. Santa spoke very highly of Mr. Eby, and how he passed along his organizational skills to Mr. Farrell.
While we all too often forget what Christmas really is all about, there's room for fond memories such as these, and the magic of the season.

Back to life, back to reality...

Just back from an amazing week in the Mayan Riviera, where I attended the wedding of my all-time best friend, Bill and his love, Lise Anne.
We lost a day at the beginning of the week, thanks to Hurricane Ida and Air Canada's reluctance to fly to Cancun. But I think we made up for it. We had a great group of 25 people who toured and partied all week long.
On our last night there, we attended the show at Xcaret Park, right next to our resort, Grand Occidental Xcaret. It was a marvellous, colourful depiction of the history of the Mayan people. Here's a video of a very small part of the performance:
Another favourite part for most of us was the hockey game, with a flaming coconut substituting for the puck, thusly:
I wouldn't have been anywhere else in the world last week, especially on Thursday, when my buddy got married, and I was one of four official witnesses. We have been best buddies since we were about 15. We're almost polar opposites of each other in so many ways, which might be the basis of our friendship. We just "get" each other.

Among things for which I'm thankful

...and the list is endless.
But here's one for which I'll be immensely thankful for the rest of my life.
This is the first photograph of my soon-to-be Little Niece or Little Nephew (I have a bet with her Grandma that she'll be a girl -- Isabelle). Yes, you are looking at the first sonogram of Little Bro Dan and Pretty Christine's baby, who is due to arrive on or about March 6, 2010. It was taken during the 12th week of gestation.
See her little head and priceless little hand, to the centre right of the pic? Isn't she beautiful?
Happy Thanksgiving, Isabelle -- and everyone else, too.

Misha Garcia, 1990-2009 R.I.P.

I just learned that Misha died this afternoon at 2:35, surrounded by family.
It will take a while to gather my thoughts. What I do know is that I'm a stronger person for having witnessed the strength of the young guy who lived less than half as long as I have.
Thanks for being part of my life, Mish. I admire you and will never forget you.

Bob

To Misha:

I've been hoping for some me-and-you time, but I am so impressed with the large group of family and friends you have surrounding you.
There's something I've been wanting to tell you, but if I don't get a chance to do it in person, here it is:
Religion hasn't been a big part of my life, but I am a firm believer in fate, and how it decides whose paths you cross in your life.
In our case, fate set up hockey as the means for our paths to cross the first time, and for that, I am so grateful.
When I first heard of your illness and you accepted my offer to buy you a hamburger, I was so impressed with your maturity, your outlook, your determination and your overall attitude. You told me that you were volunteering with other kids at CHEO, trying to instill the same things in them. You'll also remember telling me that you couldn't understand how some of those kids would receive a diagnosis something like yours, and immediately give up.
Mish, I'm more than twice your age, but your determination taught me so much.
Ultimately, that determination wasn't enough, and your disease returned. But I take comfort in knowing that you squeezed two-and-a-half years out of life, when your doctors wouldn't commit past six months. Come to think of it, you said you weren't sure how long you would live, that it wouldn't be as long as if you had never had cancer, but you wouldn't accept any more prognoses from the doctors.
Now, my young friend, as hard as it is to accept, I think it's time to concede a bit, and let your determination down just a tiny bit.
That's what I meant tonight, when I whispered something similar in your ear. Let the doctors and nurses make you comfortable with morphine or whatever else it takes. You deserve it, and it doesn't mean you're not tough or strong. You are both, and will continue to be.
Again, I am so glad to have met you and to call you my friend. And that's a designation that is forever.

Bob

Sometimes, not even determination can beat The Big C

Just over a year ago (June 25, 2008) I posted here about my young friend Misha, who had had brain cancer, and refused to let anything get him down. I was amazed and inspired by his spirit and determination.
He told me then that he didn't know what his long-term prognosis was, and his doctors quit telling him such things, because he refused to accept anything negative. He had already proven them wrong by surviving surgery and chemo, and walking, when they had told him that was all doubtful.
Misha did say that time that he knew he wouldn't live as long as if he hadn't had cancer, but he didn't know how long that might be.
He told me all of that when we went for lunch together. We stayed in touch via facebook and he came over to my place for supper one night this past spring.
I hadn't heard from him in a while, but have now learned why. Misha is now at Roger's Place, a palliative care centre for young people here in Ottawa. Simply put, he's dying, at the ripe old age of 19.
I've been in touch with Misha's father, Angelo. I met both of them the first year I lived in Ottawa, when I signed on to be trainer of the hockey team that Misha was a goaltender for, and Angelo was one of the coaches.
Angelo tells me that Misha has been spending a lot of time with family and friends, and that me visiting would be just fine. In his email to me, Angelo says that Misha "keeps on smiling which is always amazing to see" and that he's "facing this final challenge with a lot of courage".
I'm going to go for my first visit on Wednesday. Sure, I'm a bit apprehensive, but a lot less than I would be, if I hadn't had lunch and supper with him those times, and chatted online other times. I'll approach it the same way we've dealt with each other as trainer to goaltender and friend to friend: Head on and very frankly. In fact, Misha might not know it, but he taught me how to do that.
Am I upset that he's dying? Of course. He's only 19, for crying out loud. Things aren't supposed to be this way.
Am I still inspired by him, and expect to be inspired some more? You bet.
I've been a trainer and/or manager with almost two dozen hockey teams over the past 30 years or so. The goaltenders have always been my "pets" because while they're not really different from the other kids, they each march to their very own drummer and to their very own tune in their heads. I think that's another foundation of the friendship I have with Misha.
Angelo's going to tell Misha that I'm coming Wednesday afternoon. I told him that Mish and I will take it from there, and I'll visit more often.
I'm going to ride this out with my buddy, with a very selfish motive. I'm already a better person for having known Misha and sharing a bit of his journey with him. Riding it out with him to the end will make me that much better a person.

Something to chew on

I've never bought organic products, mostly because of the cost factor. Now I don't have to feel like I'm getting less nutritional benefit for less money. Here's an excerpt from today's Globe and Mail:
Consumers who choose organic food are often willing to pay a premium, but it turns out added nutritional benefits may not be included in the hefty price tag.

A new analysis has found organic food has the same nutritional quality as crops grown under conventional methods.

“There's no evidence that organically-produced food is nutritionally superior to conventionally-produced food,” said Alan Dangour, public-health nutritionist and senior lecturer in public-health nutrition at the London School of Hygiene and Tropical Medicine.

“You can buy organic for other things, but there's no evidence you should be buying it because there's enhanced nutrient content of organic food.”

There are, of course, other reasons for buying organic. For instance, I have friends who are trying to up their family's intake of organically-produced products, because their eight-year-old daughter is already showing signs of puberty. They believe it's from the hormones and other nasty stuff in non-organic fruits and veggies.

Meet my new neighbours

These are Bud and Rose. They recently took up residence in the garden just outside my front door.
The previous owner left me with several perennials. She must have known what she was doing, too, because the flowerbed takes on a new appearance and character almost weekly.
There is also a flowerbed in the backyard, which is far from as nice. I decided to let it go wild, and boy oh boy, did it ever go wild! No, I will not post photos of it.

My vacation from my forced vacation

I spent last week in the Iroquois Falls/Timmins area, taking a break from the frustrating job hunt (nothing after four months on layoff). I stayed at the cottage, reminding my Dad that I don't go up there in the summer to stay at his house, which is a ten-minute drive from the cottage.
The mosquitoes are monstrous, thanks to the cool, wet summer, which held true to form for the entire week I was there.
I did, however, have some close encounters with wildlife. On the drive through the Ottawa Valley, a bear ran in front of my car, between Petawawa and Chalk River. Yeah, at shortly after ten o'clock on a Saturday morning! Then I saw a dead moose on the shoulder of Highway 11, between Marten River and Temagami.
Heading into Iroquois Falls via Monteith Road, there was a young bull moose on the side of the road. I pulled over, dug out my camera, but the damned batteries were dead.
Then one morning, while I was still asleep and my Dad was in town, Stepmama saw a moose walk up from the lake, alongside the cottage, and out to the road. This is a photograph of a footprint I took later.
I also saw a couple of foxes near the cottage. It might even have been the same fox twice. They all look alike to me.
It was nice to spend some time up North for the first time since last summer. I relaxed a lot and got to visit some friends and family, but one week isn't enough to do it all. But I have to keep job hunting, because severance pay isn't gonna last forever, and a man's gotta eat, pay the bills, feed the cat, etc. If things get bad enough, I might have to eat the cat. Anyone got any recipes?

Dear Dr. Freud:

Here's a dream I wish you could interpret for me.
I'm appearing as a guest performer with the Rolling Stones, playing guitar and singing. But as in real life, I can't play guitar and my singing has been terrible since puberty robbed me of vocal control (when I was young, I was a pretty decent singer, singing solos in the church choir and even being cast as a principal actor in Bye Bye Birdie in Grade 9).
Back to the performance with the Stones: I fake it, mostly by strumming on the guitar and either lip-synching or singing low enough that my secret is safe.
I do, however, enjoy the backstage area, and all the free beer and food -- mostly egg salad sandwiches.

Thanks for any interpretation you might provide,
Bob

P.S. Okay, okay, I'll indulge you: "Am I crazy? I am? I want a second opinion. You say I'm ugly, too?"

Three months in

It will be three months tomorrow since I was laid off.
I'm doing well, just really, really bored. Financial pressures are still in the future, thanks to the 54-week severance package I received. I'm proud of the foresight I had when CTV bought A-Channel, asking about the 15 years of service I had with CTV before coming to what was then The New RO, owned by CHUM. My severance was based on 18 years, instead of three.
I've been actively looking for work, which hasn't been easy, due to the mess the economy is in, among other factors. I came really close to what would have been a great job, but crapped out when it came time for French-language testing. My French skills are not as good as I thought they were.
A couple of weeks ago, I finally decided it was time to take advantage of the services of a career counselling and management company that CTV set us up with. So far, I have revamped and modernized my resumé, and taken testing to see what I should probably be pursuing. It turns out that my career thus far has been exactly what my best fit is. That's no big surprise, because I've always loved the type of work I have done.
So that at least confirms that I should try to stay in broadcasting, journalism or a related field. Now if I can just get the stars to align properly, so that I can find a job, preferably in Ottawa.
No one said it would be easy. And I was born on a Saturday, and as the old poem goes, "Saturday's child works hard for a living".
Life goes on...

Here's something cool for a warm day

http://www.thestar.com/news/world/article/639459

It's a New York Times article about Zamboni
"skating through the recession". Interesting to note how it's written for an American readership, necessitating mention of Lord Stanley, "whose trophy goes to the NHL champion". It's also interesting to note that Zamboni HQ is in a residential neighbourhood of Los Angeles, with a Brantford branch plant.