Where Have All the Children Gone?

The winter day was pristine, quiet and clear.  The provincial blue sky hadn't a cloud in it and there wasn't a whisper of a breeze.  The sun was bright and if you put your face up, you could feel the heat, just as if you were sitting on a deck after a day of spring skiing and your face  was absorbing the sun's warm rays. 

The difference being, that on this perfect winter day on the hills, people and children were out enjoying the elements, but in our small town of  Alexandria, one could go up and down the streets, the main street, the back streets, even visit the picturesque park with its inviting frozen pond and not see a soul.  

Walking there on the pond, one could imagine the echos of children's laughter of days gone by.  But now the silence was eerie.  Had some epidemic swept the town to rob its streets and parks of the activity of youths?  Well, actually, yes!  Yes, there was an epidemic in Alexandria, and perhaps everywhere else. Its called technology: the iphone,  ipad, ipod,  Mac,  PC, Face Book,  Nintendo, Play Station, video games, TV and the innumerable games given for birthdays and Christmases.  They were the epidemic. 

What happened to the 'OUT' method?  The kids are making too much noise?  'OUT'! Kids are too bored?  'OUT'!  Too much fighting? 'OUT'! Mom, with one hand on the hip and one pointing to the door, giving the best advice to her kids to get out and play. Play is the work of kids.  They get fit, interact, learn life skills to deal with others and sport skills to play the game.  If no one is there to play with them, they learn to be resourceful and rely on their own imaginations and talents. This pays off later in life on both career and personal areas. One learns to think for oneself and find a solution to problems. 

TV and other technologies steal our children's childhood from them and they steal our children from us. Technology may be an important element today's kids, but we are misguided if we think we are being responsible parents if we let them spend all their free time at it.  

Perhaps parents slip into that routine because its easy and keeps the kids out of their hair, but it is not the best thing for them nor does it teach them the true values of life.  Spending time with our kids and allowing them to have that resourceful time to themselves is much healthier for their development.  Besides which, we live in the country!  After a visit to Ottawa, Toronto or Montreal, we realize how blessed we are to live here in a peaceful, clean and natural environment. 

Let's have more of the 'out' method for raising our kids to get the playing, fun and laughter back in our parks and neighborhoods.

The Cat and The Canary: The Great Escape

The Cat and The Canary:  The Great Escape

The cat came to me as an orphan. Since I was such a bleeding heart, I felt sorry for the little thing so I took it in as my new pet.   I lived by myself and I supposed the cat could be welcomed company.  Since it was black with a spot of white on its chest, I decided I would call it 'Tuxedo' or 'Tux' for short.   Tux and I  seemed to adjust quite well.  This smart and affectionate feline slipped into my routine like an adult child coming back home to roost.  

Tux slept obediently at the foot of my bed on his blanket.  In the morning, when he sensed I'd be waking up, he'd tip toe (cats only tip toe) up the bed and curl up on my chest.  We'd start the day with this 10 minute ritual, nose to nose, purring and patting.  One thing I really liked about Tux was that he never wailed early in the morning.  I think he sensed his life would be in danger if he did.  So life was good.   

And then I got the canary.

I had a very kind friend who thought I should have the song of a canary fill up the silence in my home. He was convinced I would love it. I was a bit hesitant at first because cats are hunters and they hunt birds and I had a cat.  I mused that the chirping of a canary might be the closest sound to what God must sound like if he had a voice. Once that image took hold in my imagination, I came to  support the idea with enthusiasm.  My sister, Susan, had a huge bird cage which she no longer needed for her budgies because, much to her delight, they died.  They were the irritating type of budgies or she would have really loved them.

I had an extra bedroom in my bungalow which I dedicated to the bird. I refrained from calling him "God" so as not to offend anyone, although I really thought it apt. I settled for "Happy'.  I rigged up an automatic door closer on Happy's bedroom door thereby outsmarting my cat. There was no way now that Tux could have access to the singing prey. 

I fixed up the old bird cage and was quite pleased with the results.  If Happy couldn't be flying free in the tropics, he would be quite content in his new home.  The mirror convinced him he had a buddy, you see, birds' brains are very small.  He loved his buddy and he sang to him with the voice of an angel, or perhaps even the voice of God. I felt endless pleasure listening to his melodious song fill the quiet, empty spaces in my house.

Then the inevitable happened.

I was only half awake at the time and still can't remember the reason I got up out of bed in the middle of the night to go into Happy's bedroom.  It was dark and whatever I needed to do took less than a minute.  I climbed back into bed and slept till morning.

When I awoke,  I thought it a bit odd that Tux wasn't on the bed so I got up to look for him.  I dreaded opening Happy's door, although I knew it would have been next to impossible for Tux to have gotten in.  Ewww, there he was, on Happy's cage, traumatizing the little bird.  

He had apparently, slipped into the bedroom in that split second that the door was opened.  He should have been sleeping at that time of the night, but I suspect his radar was on 24/7 and he wasn't going to, and didn't, miss the chance to get at Happy. 

Tux, looking smug, was perched on top of the cage and Happy was sitting on the bottom of the cage, trembling. I took Tux, henceforth  referred to as 'the cat', and unceremoniously, threw him out of the house.  I called the vet, wrapped up happy in a small blanket  and was on my way. But Happy didn't make it to the front door.  I was heartbroken. 

Shortly thereafter this psychic cat of mine, knew our relationship was over.  I glared at him. He glared back. He no longer slept on my bed. He started howling at 5:00 in the morning.  This cat was done.

I called Susan with the sad news of Happy's demise and asked her if she'd like another cat for the barn. She reluctantly agreed. I dressed 'the cat' in his Sunday best, a purple velvet color with rhinestones.  We decided the transaction would take place like this.  The family was meeting the next day at my Mother's retirement home for a luncheon.  I'd bring 'the cat' in a cat box to the residence and Susan would transfer  it to her truck and the dirty deed be done.  

But, once there, as I was leaving my car in the parking lot, I had an idea that turned out to be so bad, I have to call it a brain fart.  If I have many more of these, my skull will cave in.   

For a tiny instant, my compassion for 'the cat' came back and I felt badly leaving 'it' in the cage for two hours. I got the brilliant idea to tie it on a long cord attached to the car. So this I did.  At least it could move around a bit.

When I came back from lunch, the cat was no where to be seen. The rope was taut.  I followed it to the engine of the car.  I still could not see it.  I opened the hood and looked in the crevices of the engine compartment. There they were, two large green eyes staring at me. 

But 'the cat' would not come up, 'the cat' would not come down. I cajoled it from above and crawled under the car to coax it down.  It would have none of this. I checked the motor for moving parts and none seemed to be around it.  I figured if I turned the ignition on for a second, this might inspire 'the cat' to leave its hiding place.  I proceeded to do so only for a short second - a convincing move, you must agree.  Well,  need I tell you, I didn't even see it flee into the nearby woods.  It was gone.

I spent a couple of hours calling it and searching for  it amongst the  woods and neighboring homes but to no avail.  An ad in the local paper produced two results.  The first one was not the right cat, but the second one was more promising.  

As I was making my way to the front door, a neighboring lady approached me to tell me how much this woman who had found 'the cat', was so happy with it as she had just lost her own cat.  I said, "Aww, really?"  thinking all the while, 'Oh good, this'd be great'.

I knocked on the door and a nice lady answered.  She invited me in and went to get 'the cat' for identification. The purple collar was the definitive calling card, so I was sure it was the right cat.  She called and called, but 'the cat' was not showing its face. She insisted, "But he was right here a minute ago".  

This happened on two more occasions and I came to deduce that 'the cat' knew the sound of my car, or at least my voice, and didn't  risk seeing me in case I would take him with me.  

It was content in its new found digs and I was glad it could spend his other 8 lives far away from me.

Damon and the Baseball Mitt

It was a sunny summer day in Pointe Claire and Damon and Tyson  were playing in the park.  Damon was about ten years old and Tyson, nine.  We lived in a big house that looked like a fort, until we painted it white, and then it looked like a princess must have lived in it.  It was located only a half a block from the neighborhood park, so it was easy for them to meander down the quiet street to go there and play. It had all those enticing things to delight a kid: slides, sandboxes, swings and a jungle gym. But on this day, the park held another treasure.

Damon came bounding home as if he were on a cushion of air a foot off the ground, full of excitement and holding something in his arms as if it were something that would break into a million pieces if it were to fall.  He was cradling it with a sense of ownership that silently said, 'This is MINE". I think Tyson got the message that this was not an object that would be borrowed but sharing was allowed so they played with it in the back yard until it was time to come in and help get ready for supper.

Don and I were intrigued by this new find.  "Hey, Damon, what have you got there?"  "Its a baseball mitt, found it in the park."  "Oh really?  Let's have a look".  I took the large, well made, Rawlings baseball mitt into my hands and felt its smooth leather and imagined how estatic the child owner must have felt when he received this for his birthday or Christmas, or for some special occasion. How they must have longed for it and then how they must have felt to actually get it!  Did they go shopping for it especially?  or was it wrapped up with paper and bows and ribbons and was it a surprise?  One thing for sure, it was brand new and hadn't even been broken in  yet. I looked in all the nooks and crevices in between the stitches to see if I could find a name or a phone number or any information that would reveal the true ownership of this masterpiece. But there was nothing.

You could see an expression of doubt creep across Damon's face like a mask or a veil. Whatever was going on, he didn't like it much.  Just to be clear, he said, "I found it.  So I can keep it, can't I?"  I tried to make him understand, "Damon, someone has lost this and it must mean a great deal to them". "But", he protested, "there is no name or number so I don't know who it belongs to."  "Well", I said, "after dinner you're going to have to go door to door and ask if  anyone has lost it. Remember, Honey,  whatever you do in life, the same comes back to you.  If you find the rightful owner and return the glove, one day, when you lose something precious to you, you may get it back, but if you keep it and don't even try to find the owner, then that day may have a different outcome."

So after supper, Damon reluctantly, but dutifully, made the rounds in the neighborhood, knocking on each door as he had been instructed.  Each time he knocked, he felt apprehension and a sense he was going to be disappointed and each time he felt a sigh of relief when they would shake their heads and say "No, that doesn't belong here".

Then, unlucky for Damon, but lucky for little Richard, the inevitable happened.  The door opened and Damon saw a woman and a young boy standing there.  Even before he spoke, he knew he had found the home of the glove because of the look of amazement and surprise on their faces.  "Oh you found Richard's glove!! This is so wonderful!  He just got it for his birthday and has been crying for hours since he lost it.  He thought his father would kill him when he found out he'd lost it.  We just can't thank you enough!!" Damon handed over the glove.  The door closed. Damon felt downhearted. He thought to himself that he should feel the same as he did before he found the glove, but he didn't. His experience as the owner of the glove, however pleasurable, was brief.  His short-lived joy was gone. But it was starting to be replaced by something much more meaningful.

He  started to walk slowly back home along the sidewalk, kicking any little stone in his path. A smile came to his lips.  Yes, the joy of owning the baseball mitt was momentary, but the pride he felt in himself for pleasing that young Richard and returning the glove to its proper owner was a feeling that would stay with him forever. His pace quickened and his smile broadened.  It just felt like he'd done the right thing.

But that's not the end of the story. This all happened in 1985.  In 1991, Damon found himself with his Dad, in a far off  island where Napoleon Bonaparte had lived, in a place called Corsica. Damon had just made $400 laboring on the house we had bought in France. That was a lot of money in 1991.  With this hard earned money, he decided he would spend it all on a fancy camera, a Cannon 'Rebel' which he did and which he had brought with him to Corsica. He was so proud of this camera.  It had all the up to date features and he was so excited about it.   Damon and his Dad had gone  to a small bar-restaurant to grab a bite to eat and when they left, Damon froze when he noticed he did not have his camera with him and realized he  must have left it hanging on the chair he was sitting in.  His Dad went back immediately to fetch it for him while he waited in the street. When his Dad came back empty-handed, Damon's heart sank.  He felt sick.  His father felt sick.   It was gone and there was nothing they could do about it.  Damon's Dad suggested Damon go and ask the staff again.  He thought they might have some compassion for him.  Damon was pretty shy then and this was a very difficult thing to ask.  Well, he went in and with teary eyes, explained where he had left the camera and how he had spent all his money to buy it.  But, no, no one had seen it.  Then one kind- hearted waitress took pity on him and said she would check in the back.  Damon was so sad, it was like he forgot to breath.  You can only imagine his relief when the waitress appeared with his camera cupped in her hands. "Is this it?" Damon's smile must have almost touched his ears.

With a great amount of gratitude, Damon sincerely thanked her.  He put the strap over his shoulder and cradled it, much like he had cradled that mitt he found in the park years ago. He couldn't help remembering that baseball glove and thought to himself, I'm really glad I returned that glove to little Richard. Life, after all, does reward us for the good we do to others. Damon never lost his camera again and as far as I know, he continued to do good to people and life gave it back to him in spades.

The Before Times and the After Times, Till Death do us part.

2000

When it happens that you lose a child or a mate, or someone close, your life is forever divided into the before and the after. When the after times begin, the before times take on a lightness of being, an almost enviable innocence, that seems lost in the after times. A weight now lives around the heart, feet move more slowly, speech is softer and with all this comes a Hercilian sensitivity to the world around us.   Birds singing, blue skies and starry nights seem to offend in the shadow of our tragedy as if we question how can any of this be enjoyed now?  This life-altering experience comes like a thief in the night and no matter how prepared we think we are, it always ambushes us.

This is how it was with my son, Tyson. In his 23rd  year he was to be graduating from University, but he graduated from life instead. He had been fighting a vicious cancer in his body (melanoma) for a year and a half.  For me it was a year and a half of disbelieving, of denying the sinister possibility that his illness promised. 

It was inconceivable to me that, in the grand scheme of things, that such a kind and wonderful person could be taken from this earth that so desperately needed him. Well, he passed away  on June 7, 2000.  

I realized then, that we are not meant to understand anything.  Nothing made any sense. The questions were so unanswerable, I just put it down to the mystery of life and began to believe that if there is a master plan, we have no idea what it is and are not meant to figure it out.

Life had engaged me in a dual and won. I was to feel my wounds for more than 2 years and,  after that, feel the scars forever. It's funny the way life carries on.  You think this pain you carry with you would be visible to anyone who looked at  you.  But actually, it resides, hidden,  like an unwelcomed guest in  your gut. I felt as if I'd been initiated into a club I didn't want to join and I had a life time membership.

When enough time had passed, I was able to be comforted by the memories of Tyson.  I was grateful to have been his Mom.  I could appreciate that I had been blessed with an angel. Tyson was really the most wonderful child.  I don't  ever remember having to discipline him.  That makes him an angel, doesn't it?? How many Moms could say that? So, yes, I was blessed to have had him in my life for 23 years.

Such a special person needs to live on and inspire  even after they are no longer with us. With this in mind, I established the 'Tyson Murray Kind Spirit Award' at his high school, Tagwi Secondary School, in Avonmore, Ontario. The Award goes to the student who most exemplifies Tyson's qualities of kindness, thoughtfulness, compassion and tolerance.  The deserving student receives $1,000 and a plaque. 

I know Tyson would be so pleased to know he is continuing to influence people in a positive way.  For me, the Award acts like a bridge between the before and after times.  And as the years pass, the place in my heart for Tyson melds from pain to pleasure, from grief to pride, from questioning to acceptance. Life will never be the same without him. I will never forget the before times but I have to make the best of life with out him in these, the after times.

Published in 'There is a Story in Each of Us"

Published in 'ArticlesBase.com'

Published in 'Ezine.com'

Christine Dorothy, Intro

As life unravels mysteriously, I would like to share my corner of it with you and with my grandchildren, Joel, Ella and Charlie.  As experiences come and  form the tapestry of my life, philosophies emerge, change, and some new ones are born. It is important to me that my grandchildren can read about their grandmother and have some insight into her life.  Here is where they will discover things about me that they wouldn't know otherwise and in the process, I'll be sharing with you.

                       "A better attitude becomes a great day
                         Which becomes a great month
                         Which becomes a great year
                         Which becomes a great LIFE!"