Rest in peace, Pete

We get so busy, that life all too often passes us by. At times, death does as well.
On this Friday, I noticed that Pete was absent from the reception area of the office -- a full week after he passed on.
"Where's the fish?" I asked the receptionist.
"Toilet," was her reply.
While the death of the office "mascot" is a sad development on its own, what makes me really feel bad is I didn't notice for a full five working days. Sure, it took awhile to notify his next of kin, thus the absence of a public announcement of his passing. But me of all people didn't have a clue. Me, the one who habitually offered to take Pete for a walk to get him some fresh air and exercise. Me -- the one who regular popped the lid of his private ocean and fed him whatever it is that fish eat. How could I be so wrapped up in my own little world that I didn't notice sooner Pete's absence?
OK, it's just a little fish. The point is I -- all of us -- need to slow down sometimes and look around. The faster life goes, the better our brakes need to be...and the greater our willingness to use them.

You've gotta love the "wave back"

I got the "wave back" early this morning and I'm still basking in the warm afterglow of that rare but most welcome development. The "wave back" is a term I use to refer to exactly what it is -- a "wave back" from another driver after you have waved thanks after he or she granted you entry into a long line of cars.
The "wave back" completes the process. Without it, the whole exercise, as generously as it's granted and as much as it's appreciated, just isn't whole. If you're a driver, you've been there. Waiting to enter that traffic jam from a side road or parking lot exit, wearing your best "Please have mercy" face. Suddenly, a kind motorist stops and grants you entry into the land of the exhausting. You nudge forward, all the while waving to the stranger in acknowledgment of his or her kindness. But you get nothing in return. Nothing. Not a head nod nor a small wave from fingers upraised from the steering wheel. Not even a small toot from the horn. Nothing. So you're left wondering maybe, just maybe, he or she wasn't really letting you in line. Maybe his or her car stalled briefly or they had a mental lapse. Maybe, oh God, maybe you just butted in.
The "wave back" confirms the whole process. It makes it complete, leaving no such lingering doubt. This morning's "wave back," from a woman I most likely will never meet again, created an instant bond. No matter where we each go, whatever we do, we'll always be linked by our mutual courtesy; an act of kindness initiated by her, taken advantage of by myself and closed out by her. In my world, strange as it is, that's about as perfect as it gets.

No excuse come Nov. 11

This year, there's no excuse. No excuse whatsoever.
Remembrance Day falls on a Sunday. No work, no pressing responsibilities. Just another lazy Sunday. Which means Confederation Square should be, must be, filled to bursting for the annual salute to Canadian military personnel -- those who didn't come home from Europe and Asia, those who have so deservedly found peace since and those now solidifying Canada's place on the world stage as a protector of basic human rights, freedoms and dignities.
This is not the time to make a political statement. Yes, hate the act of war but don't despise those whose lot in life is to wage it. They, not unlike those who gathered at the neighbouring Peterborough Armoury for deployment in 1914, 1939 and again in the early 1950s, want only to make this planet more secure for all its inhabitants. Hate the means by which they do that but never despise their motive.
There's no excuse this Nov. 11. Confederation Square beckons and we must answer in greater numbers than ever before.
We must remember. We must say thanks.

Just shut up!

It's alive. Yes, Bloginger is alive. One of those cyberspace glitches I'll never understand has rendered me incommunicado but all is now well in the land this blog calls home. It's very good to be back.
So what's the deal with Dog The Bounty Hunter? I love the dog man. His bounty hunter reality TV series doesn't make for the most compelling television but when you're flipping around, it's a car wreck you gotta look at for a few minutes. Now he's done, at least temporarily, for his little racial slur-infested tirade.
Someone, somehow, recorded a phone conversation he had with his son. Now Dog joins the ranks of Michael Richards, Don Imus, Mel Gibson et al as a card-carrying member of the Don't Know When To Shut Up Club. But it is all a bit hypocritical. I mean, who among us hasn't said something derogatory, nasty and plain insulting about someone else at some point? We're all guilty. But then not all of us have a TV show on which we present ourselves as a stalwart Christian who loves all...and makes a tidy living busting them.
A private phone conversation was taped and then leaked to the media. Obviously Dog was set up. That doesn't make what he said right. It means no one is safe from prying ears -- you, me, no one. Keep that in mind before your own tirade. Like mama said, if you haven't got anything good to say, well, shut up.

Soup aside, it's good to be back

I've been a bad blogger. The need for a little R 'n' R took me away from my computer and the desk it calls home but now I'm back, refreshed albeit a few bricks shy of a complete rest.
Helping the transition back to the world of the working was Community Care Peterborough, two volunteers of which dropped by the office bearing the gift of a hot turkey lunch, which I greedily devoured. With Oct. 22 being Community Care Day, that organization worked throughout the day getting the word out about its services, including its Meals On Wheels program.
I rarely make time for lunch, so it was a grand treat, for both myself and a co-worker. You see, I don't do soup. Never have. So she slurped and I carved my way through mounds of turkey, all the while well reminded of how vital a life line Community Care is for thousands across Peterborough city and county, even those who like soup.

The thing I find hardest to do

What's the hardest thing you've ever done, be it a one-time endeavour or a trial over a period of time?
Maybe you ran a marathon event. Maybe you returned to school for that elusive degree. Or maybe, just maybe, you're a lifelong fan of the Toronto Maple Leafs like myself. That has been my struggle; my mountain to climb, my ocean to swim.
Continued loyalty to such a consistently inept organization has been, and is, the biggest challenge. It's a family curse, really. One which took root in early 1960s when I awoke one snowy morning to find a Maple Leafs sweater under the Christmas tree. It was number 10 and a little smaller than the jersey then worn by George Armstrong.
A family curse that firmly took root over the course of the following years and countless Saturday nights in front of the television set, the Hockey Night In Canada theme filling every nook and cranny of our small living room. In 1967, I sat on Dad's shoulders as the wonderful Maple Leafs team of that year paraded the Stanley Cup on Bay Street. Who knew then it would be 40 years and counting before that scene would be repeated?
I used to wish to see another NHL championship for my Leafs in my lifetime. Then I wished my children -- Leaf fans all -- would see one. I am loyal but I'm a realist. Now I pray my future grandchildren experience the thrill a nine-year-old experienced so many years ago. Is that asking too much? It would seem. Sigh.

Up sell this!

Never have I felt sorrier for those working retail than I did Monday. Not because of their wages, which are typically much too low for what they put up with. Not because of their working conditions, which are often abysmal at best. Just two words (or one depending on your dictionary) -- up sell.
The pressure placed on front-line retail workers to sell everything you don't need is huge, more often than not resulting in customer anger and frustration. A case in point was my visit to a chain oil-change garage.
I brought my '88 Chev Cavalier in for an oil change and new filter. Alas, something was lost in the translation as my car's need was determined to be nothing short of a complete engine overhaul. Now I know this car. More than that, I know its recent previous owner, Dad, looked after it religiously. With that knowledge, I invited, practically demanded, a full check of all the fluids and belts and drives and other car stuff. The team of "surgeons" came away amazed -- this 20-year-old patient was in tip-top shape. When they suggested an engine flush just to be on the safe side, I relented. Why? Not because my car needed one. Rather I could picture this poor guy and his crew getting reamed by head office because Paul Rellinger only spent $30 when there was so much more out there for him.
I hope the $67 and change I did spend keeps them all employed. But I'll never know. I won't ever see them again.