Happy Birthday to Me

I find looking at photographs of myself very disturbing. Not only would never let anyone with a face like that into my home, I find those hideous Costco passport pictures actually make me look good. But truth be told, I simply cannot believe that I am actually that old-looking. A recent wedding picture proved this point: I wondered why my daughter's grandfather was walking her down the aisle – and then I realized that it was me.

I say this because as you read this, I am "celebrating" (note carefully placed quotation marks) my fifty-sixth birthday. Literally, as in today. If you're thinking of sending a cake, please use a flatbed. I know it's my birthday today because I was I was there when it happened. In fact, I think it was even on a Tuesday.

In fact, it used to be routine that the doctor used to slap the baby as soon as it was born, something about getting everything going – respiratory and circulatory systems, in particular. Tradition has it that instead of slapping me, the doctor slapped my mom for having such an ugly baby. Okay, okay, I exaggerate – he actually slapped my brother when he was born – and when he got home, I slapped him.

Fifty-six-years-old used to be so old, so ancient. Now, it seems so young, so modern. I make sure I hang out with old people, just to maintain that young look. I even wear my pants halfway down my you-know-what for that "hip" look; but in all honesty, it's because I can never find my belt.

I can't tell you how many times I have been asked the ages of my grandchildren who are with me, when in fact they are actually my kids. I know I have written about this before, but it happened again just this past weekend. Fortunately, because I am mature, mellow, and mindful, I bit my tongue, refraining from mouthing off, as I would have at the young age of, say, fifty-five.

The other reason I bit my tongue because I was chewing the Metamucil pill too hard.

I have seen a lot of changes in these past few years – some good, some not so very good. Because of my penchant for words, I've seen some unfortunate vocabulary transitions, most of which you are only too familiar with. When I was a little younger, I had a completely different set of meanings for words such as hit, pot, peer, gay, queer, cool, and hot. A recent but brief discussion about "wearing thongs at the beach" proved to be quite embarrassing for all concerned.

It is sobering to think of what type of school I attended (public), what marriage was back then (permanent), and the type of television shows I was occasionally exposed to (clean). God bless all the teachers doing a great job, but school isn't what it used to be; any marriage that makes it past twenty years is a novelty; and good wholesome movies can hardly even make on to the Vision network.

Was it really better in the '50s and '60s, or do we just hear about them quicker? Probably a little of both, but methinks some things are clearly worse. Many of our civilization's greatest tragedies happened during the '50s and '60s. Think in terms of China, Vietnam, and Korea; try the letters KKK, DDT, and POW. Those were bad decades indeed.

In all likelihood, things are probably worse and getting worse, to be sure, but I still think we need to celebrate life the way it has been dished out to us. Education has never been more diversified, with so many options, namely, public, private, and home. Marriage and family life can still be long-term; it just may take a lot more work than in our parents' generation, because of the myriad distractions. And there are some great meaningful television programmes and networks out there; one has to be simply more discerning than ever.

The other thing is that growing mature (note the wording, please) is one of life's ten unchangeables. Acknowledge it, accept it, and adjust to it. You only pass through this life once, so you must make the best of it. And it's even better when there is a senior's discount included.

The Gospel According to Jesse Jackson

Move over, Stephen and Michael, here comes another celebrity spat. Stephen and Michael, as you may have guessed, are the real prime minister and the wannabe prime minister of this glorious Canada. Their recent verbal sparring at the Calgary Stampede was, well, interesting, if not unnecessary.

However, the new act in town, so-called, is Jesse and Dan. Who, you might ask? Well, the Jesse is the most holy reverend Jesse "I-have-an-opinion-on-everything" Jackson and the Dan is Dan Gilbert, the bitter and jilted owner of the LaBron-less Cleveland Cavaliers.

Just to cue things up: Mr. Gilbert wrote a scathing open letter to the Cleveland Cavaliers' fans on the team's web page a week or so ago, once King LeBron James "heard the call" to move to Miami to play for the Heat. Gilbert's outrage included feelings of betrayal, disgust, and disappointment that LaBron would leave Cleveland for Miami, after seven years of fruitless effort in getting an NBA championship.

Personally, I would leave Cleveland after seven days of fruitless effort in a getting a safe holiday.

Enter Dr. Jackson. He is the omnipresent commentator on every social, political, and moral ill that plagues America – or at least seems to, in his opinion. He shoots his mouth off at every conceivable issue, through every conceivable medium. Everything in his mind boils down to race issues. You might say that he sees everything in black and white. The case in point: He takes exception to what Mr. Gilbert wrote (and many others do), then goes on to compare Gilbert to a slave owner and James to a runaway slave who has gained his freedom.

I take great exception, not to Gilbert but to Jackson, for the following reasons:

1. James is no runaway slave. A runaway, possibly; a slave, no way. Just check his bank account for the past seven years, then look into his most-recently signed contract with the Miami Heat. If my people were slaves on a plantation a few generations ago, I would be absolutely outraged.

2. Jackson is no Bible preacher. I don't care what letters are in front of his name, after his name, or what mainline religious club he is allegedly linked with. Any man associated with the Gospel should preach the Gospel and leave the gossip-mongering and grandstanding to others. That's what God created politicians and team owners for.

3. Race is no issue here. It is completely naive to think that every time there is a rape, a robbery, or a riot, it is race-related. That's why I cringe each time I read some account and skin colour comes up. To be sure, while we have our own race issues here in Canada, but we don't generally reduce crime to the colour of one's skin. I suggest crime is a character issue, not a skin issue.

I have a few tips for the Dr. Mr. Jesse Jackson. He probably won't listen to me, but I'll give him some gentle suggestions anyway.

1. Don't feel obligated to express your opinion every time you feel the urge. You have limited and diminishing credibility. As someone once said: The more mud you throw, the more ground you lose.

2. You make me cringe when you somehow lump relation and race together, especially with your own spin. There has never been a greater bondage-breaker for the under-trodden than the true freedom that true Biblical religion brings; study the history of negro spirituals (a music genre, Horace, not a racial slur) from 150 years ago and see what I mean. It's not the tripe you're dishing out. Get back to the Book, Jesse, get back to the Book.

3. And finally (see, I know when to stop, Jesse), if that poor, downtrodden "slave" boy of yours ever needs a spokesmen, perhaps you should think of applying for a job. You seem more suited for the soapbox than the pulpit.

Just leave the playing of games to the athletes.

Lessons from a Kitten

 

I suppose one of the greatest marvels about farm life, for a city boy like me, is the natural cycle of life and death, birth and growth – especially with cows and cats. And even I can appreciate the difference between these two: You can't have too many cows, but you can have too many cats.

In other words, a cow that calves yearly is worth its weight in gold, but a cat that has too many kittens is nuisance.

For myself, I love cats; and within reason, I can't have too many – especially if they are the mouse-munching and gopher-gobbling kind. Apart from saving major bucks on cat food, wiping out local vermin is very good for the land. I have never had mouse steak or gopher-gut stew (except in a movie), but it appears that cats relish such culinary delights. Good on them.

Our recent litter of kittens has given rise to this week's column. While weren't totally sure which of our lone two cats was the male, which was the female, we now know. (And, yes, we could have turned them upside down to examine the working parts, but we didn't.) "Mask" produced two grey kittens, a black one, and an almost totally white one. In fact, the birth is so recent, their eyes aren't even open as I write this.

I never fail to marvel when I see the hand of the Creator in the whole reproduction cycle – from the point of conception, through the whole pregnancy, right up to the time when the mother knows that it is time to steal away to some secluded and sheltered spot to give birth. Then beyond that, the consistent responsibility for caring (read: nursing and protecting and training) her newborns.

A recent birth of another calf in my little world has likewise prompted a myriad of questions: How do they know how to deliver? What gave them the drive to protect their young? How do the young know where and how to feed off their mother?

Personally, I have been sadly disappointed in science for years where looking for these answers, both when it comes to origin of life and rationale for living. When I see design in the sky, land, and sea, both in animate life as well as inanimate things, I become more and more convinced that there must be a Grand Designer out there. Apparently, faith and science don't mix, but for me, it take a huge leap of faith to think that something came from nothing.

We see it here everyday, from the seed in the spring to the harvest in the fall, from the application of water to the growth as a result, from the lessons that calves and foals and kittens teach us about natural life cycles. One doesn't need a science degree – or a theological degree, for that matter – to appreciate such wonders.

I don't know whether you come down on the side of chance, fluke, and millions of years, or you reckon something – or, better, Someone – is behind this great plan and order. When I see the creativity in the flora and fauna, I think of an Awesome Creator. When I see the details of even one cell, I think of an Competent Detailer. When I understand the mechanisms of all the human systems (eg., digestive, muscular, circulatory, etc.,), I have no doubt there is a Divine Mechanic at work.

No building, organization, or system would work effectively if there wasn't a blueprint or agenda. Likewise, whether I am marvelling at Mask's adorable kittens, or I am enjoying the bounty of my labour in my garden, it looks to me that there was an intelligent plan somewhere.

Personally, I sleep better at night, knowing that I am simply not a blob, a collection of cells that intriguingly function well together. Being right on original design adds worth to each individual human and animal and plant on our planet. It makes me take my role as a steward of this earth very seriously.

You see, a fluke makes everything cheap; a purpose makes everything valuable. Even a kitten.

Greedy yet Needy

 

As I sit here in the brave solitude of my remote office, I dream of better days. I dream of starting over again in a career that pays me outlandish money (in a game where most jocks play for beer), or over again in a land where foreign government handouts allow me to build a mansion in the Middle East.

I am speaking, of course, of the obscenity that is also known as free agency – basketball or hockey, take your pick (though I believe basketball is the greediest of all); I am also referring to the land of Afghanistan, where it is reputed that Afghan nationals with international ties are pocketing aid money and building mansions in Dubai.

To be sure, I am not sure who is more culpable, team owners desperate to get a winner (as opposed to the players themselves), or foreign governments who pour money into third world countries with seemingly no strings attached. If you have read this column over the past four years, you are fully aware of my angst of non-accountability.

You'd think that the way money was being recklessly thrown around, Barack Obama was running one of the NBA teams.

Whether King James goes to Chicago, Miami, or stays in Cleveland, I could care less. He can't go to the New York Knicks because they just dropped $100 million on another power forward. During this Summer of LeBron, as they have dubbed this transient season, we are still waiting for another $100 million-dollar baby, Ilya Kovalchuk, to make up his mind as to where he wishes to play hockey – New Jersey or Los Angeles. Poor baby - decisions, decisions, decisions.

Me? I'd be happy to play in Groton for a mere $500,000.

The other disturbing and correlating news I just read is about the graft in Afghanistan. As our people are literally dying for their people's freedom, some of their other people are skimming money somehow, taking it out of the country and building Roman-like villas by the seashore in the Middle East. Earning one's own money honestly, then spending it as you wish is a bedrock of the free enterprise system; taking money that is not yours and lavishing it on yourself in another country is nothing less than criminal.

The least they could do is build the mansions in their country, thereby giving their people the employment and their government and businessmen the necessary revenue.

It is really hard to digest these figures because most of us commoners will never see a fraction of that in a series of lifetimes, let alone a short five-year contract or brief spending spree. The irony is not lost here, either: Our own government is bailing out many area farmers who were wiped out in the recent floods, families have have laboured for years – possibly decades – to put food on their table. Good on them; that is money well spent.

If I were James, Wade, or Bosh, would I turn down a sizzling contract that would set me and mine up for life? Probably not. You see, I am just as fallen as any athlete, owner, government employee, or country leader. Each one of us can easily succumb to the lure of greed, and all its incumbent vices. It has brought down countless societies before us, and we will be no exception, if we're not careful.

But I don't think it is sour grapes, either, on my part. I am sincerely alarmed at an economy out of control, both stateside and elsewhere (hello Greece), on the one hand, and this sort of fraudulent, self-seeking lifestyle, on the other. Someone needs to stop this mayhem before its stops us cold.

Leaders should be aware, whether they are leading a team or leading a country: One day, they will get to the end of the proverbial rainbow, looking for an even bigger pot of gold, only to discover an empty shell of a destroyed culture.

We can't seem to control our own urges; history is one long memo of that weakness. Some day I would like develop the hypothesis that people who recognize said failing, and turn it over to the One Who made them, become the people who will make a positive difference in their world – regardless of the sphere they have been called to.

You see, they too are investing in a mansion, but it's on a different shore...

A Walk in the Park

 

Tell me, please: What is cheaper than drugs, better than aerobics, and closer than Hawaii? If your answer is Wal-Mart, I suggest your life is in serious trouble. Likewise, if you snorted something like: "Nothing is cheaper than drugs, better than pizza, and closer than Hawaii," I have a have four-letter word for you (and don't get your hopes up, I'm not going to swear).

The word is (drum roll, please) P-A-R-K.

Park, but not a verb, as in "park the car"; it's park, a noun, as in "a walk in the park." Park, as good green growth in the middle of a town or city park, such as Henderson Lake Park in Lethbridge, or a national park, as in the Waterton Lakes National Park. (No, Horace, I didn't make a spelling mistake - it is Lakes, not Lake.)

About thirty-seven columns ago I suggested four or five features that should be found in every small prairie town. These included a graveyard, golf course, pub – among other things – but I should have included a park. Even if it is a small green space with a couple of swings, two or three picnic tables, along with a "him" and a "hers," that would be a healthy start.

Parks are certainly therapeutic for me personally. A walk in the park, especially if there are woods involved (hello, Echo Dale), somehow gives me perspective. Throw in a small stream or lake (again, Echo Dale or Henderson), and all is peace with the world.

I was marveling at the draw that a park has the other day when I had some of my kids at Henderson in Lethbridge. There were young families, young lovers, and even the odd businessman, although they weren't all that odd. The frantic yet positive energy, the gulps of glee, and the measurable tranquility was worth the stopover alone. In fact, I think I was the one gulping for glee – or was I just catching my breath from chasing kids?

Apart from the green space advantages (and I can say that without endorsing Greenpeace), I think the greatest plus with having as many parks as possible are the emotional and physical benefits. Those of us who live on acreages may not feel the same urge that city people have, but there still is the sense of peace that seems to come over me when I take time to hang out in a park.

Maybe it's the lack of bins, fence posts, and quonsets that does the trick for me.

I know in the bigger centres, and that includes both Lethbridge and Medicine Hat, that parks are like magnets for all sorts of illicit behaviour and transactions, usually after dark. This is, of course, a tragedy, but it shouldn't take away from its positive usefulness. An after-dark curfew would be one possible solution, but that seems so draconian to me.

If we can't get to a park to find a sense of balance in our life, maybe we should turn our lawns and gardens into parks. A pond here, trees over there, and of course, lots of walkways. And don't plant grass; plant rock gardens, instead: No park is complete without a variety of rock gardens, so you would need to put away that lawnmower, weed whacker, sprinkler, and trimmer. (Ah, I see you're warming up to the idea already.)

Less time manicuring that lawn of yours would mean more time enjoying the greenbelt that has replaced your lawn, or an actual park just around the corner. Think of the hours and dollars you would save. In fact, it would be cheaper than drugs, better than aerobics, and closer than Hawaii – or did I say that already?

Must be that park-like fresh air getting to my brain.