Stories from South of Detroit

How many toxic bosses will it take?

When I began my first fulltime job back in 1976, it became obvious on my very first day that my new boss was toxic. They didn't use that word for bad bosses back then, but this woman's behaviour sure checked all the boxes. She yelled and screamed at me, called me stupid, hit me and threw something at me. All before lunch. 

Because I was young, inexperienced and afraid, I put up with it for almost two years. When I finally ripped up my time card into a million pieces, tossed them into the air and walked out for good, I swore I'd never work for someone like that ever again. 

Easier said than done. 

In my decades of employment, I've had more good bosses than bad--but sadly, my first toxic boss was not my last. 

This week, after a scathing independent review of her conduct as Governor General of Canada, former astronaut Julie Payette resigned.

This seems to have come as no surprise to anyone, not even Payette herself. During her short three-year tenure as GG, it became known that she left both her previous positions with the Montreal Science Centre and the Canadian Olympic Committee amid allegations of mistreating colleagues and subordinates. 

According to credible news sources, it appears the Prime Minister's Office did not consult Payette's former employers during the hiring process. Given the reluctance of all employers to give negative references out of fear of legal recrimination, it's not clear that even proper due diligence would have raised red flags--or if this knowledge would have prevented Payette's appointment as Governor General.

Multiple sources have told CBC News they were stunned by Trudeau's decision. 

"A number of us were blown away when she got appointed," said a former board member at the Canada Lands Company (CLC), the self-financing Crown corporation that owns and operates the Montreal Science Centre. Payette was vice president of CLC and chief operating officer of the Montreal Science Centre from 2013 to 2016.

It's hard to understand why toxic behaviour is not only tolerated--but celebrated--in today's workplaces. Television shows like Hell's Kitchen come to mind, where hothead, verbally abusive celebrity chef Gordon Ramsay just keeps on keepin' on. His cookbooks sell millions. His restaurants are always booked.

And yet, he's a giant asshole. Talented? Yes. But kind? Considerate? Fair? Approachable? Understanding? A big fat no to all five.

I don't care what anyone says about it all being an act. I'd bet a paycheque it's not.

The toxic boss has coloured many a comedic book, television or movie plot (The Devil Wears Prada, we're looking at you), but as anyone who has really toiled in a toxic workplace will attest, it's demoralizing, discouraging, debilitating and highly stressful. Funny? Not in the least.   

It's bad enough in the private sector, where toxic workplaces have existed for centuries.

And it's nothing new in the not-for-profit, political or public sectors either. True stories abound: after the CEO of a Canadian mental health charity was removed by the Board of Directors for fostering a toxic workplace, this individual then went on to contaminate a symphony and several other charitable organizations at the CEO level. For all I know, they're wreaking havoc on some poor, unfortunate employees somewhere.

A word to the wise: most organizations that enable toxic workplaces to thrive go to great lengths to justify keeping bad bosses. They get results. They make money. Somehow, that makes it okay if they treat people terribly.

Two of the most toxic bosses I ever worked for did not interview me personally or make the final hiring decision. In hindsight, I think this was strategic. It was well known by others in the organization that these bosses were bad. But by the time I figured it out, it was too late. I'd already quit my former job and started my new one. The thought of starting yet another job search and having to tell everyone that I was looking AGAIN--so soon--filled me with shame and dread. But if I'd met either of these bad bosses even for ten minutes, I'd have run from the interview room and never looked back. 

Trust me, now matter how badly you want or need a job, working for a toxic boss is just not worth it. It's not easy to pick yourself up, dust yourself off, and find other work. At first, it seems easier to tell yourself that you'll change, you'll do better, you'll figure out how not to make them so mad. Trust me, you won't. Get out as soon as you can.

How many toxic bosses will it take before businesses finally get it? An eternally unanswered question.     

 

 

 

Reflections on Life During COVID

Little did I know that when January 2020 dawned, life would be so different come March. Up until then, COVID had been in the news for months; it had already ravaged Italy and was well on its way to ravaging New York City.

I started writing "COVID Chronicles" on Facebook, posting about the sights, sounds and situations that were emerging: long lineups outside stores, poor behaviour (cutting in lines, arguing to the point of fisticuffs with other human beings, masks discarded in parking lots and sidestreets all over town, etc.)

And then the judging started. Seems everyone and their mother was a COVID protocol expert, someone who knew more and better than I did. I stopped posting "COVID Chronicles" because I just couldn't stand the preaching and prosletising.

When the first lockdown in Windsor happened in early March, I was just about due for a hair cut and colour, as well as a gel nail manicure and regular pedicure. The salons and shops shut down. I watched a YouTube video on how to remove gel nails at home. It made it look so EASY! But suffice to say, the next YouTube video I thought I night need to look up was how to amputate your hands at home. I made such mess of my nails I wasn't sure they would ever recover. 

While several of my friends took the plunge and let their locks go grey during the lockdown, I discovered that this was not an option for me. My grey was not coming in in any sort of uniform pattern; it came in in random clumps here and there, reminding me of a Blue Merle collie. But hey, where was I going anyway?  Nowhere. Who was I seeing? No one, save for my Hubby, mom, sister, stepdaughter and two friends--all of whom have seen me in various stages of not-ready-for-primetime. 

This self-proclaimed Luddite was dragged kicking and screaming into COVID-inspired technology. First, the dreaded ZOOM call. Who in their right mind (and who isn't already a t.v. star) would want ANYONE to see them in shitty lighting through a shitty t.v. camera? Not me, thank you very much. I was able to get by not being on camera for a couple of work-related calls, and the Hallowe'en Zoom with my granddaughter was fine. But in general, I still don't understand why a good old fashioned regular phone call now just doesn't seem to cut it. 

And then, one night in Shoppers Drug Mart when I'd just gone in to pick up a prescription for Hubby, I decided I needed to buy a card. I picked up the prescription and picked out a card, and then saw that the lineup for the one solitary human cashier was more than 40 people long. The two "self checkouts" that had recently replaced two human cashier stations were empty. Hubby was waiting in the car, and it was dark and cold outside. So I did something I swore I would never do: I used a self checkout. It wasn't that difficult and it was sure better than waiting in line for God knows how long. 

Fortunately for me, FOMO (Fear of Missing Out) has never been my issue. So I didn't feel the need to find creative ways to socialize, party or bend " the rules". Yes, "the rules" seem complicated and ever-changing and inconsistent, but you know what? I got really sick, really fast of people making up their own rules and then claiming to be responsible and aware. As far as I know, the basic "rules" have not changed: don't gather in groups larger than 10 indoors, wear masks at all times, physical distance by at least 2 metres, use hand sanitizer or wash your hands religiously, don't  travel, don't intermingle households unless you live alone.

It has not been hard for me personally to follow "the rules" and trust me, I'm not a rule-follower by nature. But the ones making up their own rules bug me the most. If you're going to bend or break a "rule", for God's sake, go ahead and do it, but then just shut up. Don't try and justify to me why it's OK for YOU to do something different than what's recommended for everyone else.

As 2021 dawns, there is real hope because a vaccine is now being rolled out across the land. 

Until "herd immunity" kicks in, I hope humankind will just stick it out a little longer.  

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Auld Lang Syne

Murray Snelgrove, who I had known since public school, was taken from the world over the Christmas holidays. Word is he had a heart attack. 

Even though Murray looked healthy and fit, his heart bore many heavy burdens over the years, and I guess he just wore it right out.

First and foremost, Murray was a singer/songwriter/musician. At a high school reunion at Sandy's circa 2012, I joined Murray and another friend on stage. We sang "Signed Sealed Delivered" and "A Horse With No Name." He was sometimes able to support himself from his music, but he also had to do other things to stay solvent. I remember him telling me not long ago that he was an Uber driver. 

As well as being supremely talented, Murray really did have a heart like a hotel. He was separated from his wife when he learned she was diagnosed with a life-altering disease. Murray moved back in with her so he could take care of her. He got a lot of grief but no support from his wife's family. And yet, he kept his spirits up and happily accepted my offer of mailing him Hospice literature about caregiving.

I don't know much about it, but I believe that Murray struggled with addiction throughout his life. My sense is that most of the time he was able to live sober, but once in a while he'd have a little slipup. 

Murray was blessed with the gift of aging well. As the years went by, he actually became MORE handsome every time I saw him. 

Since his wife's illness, Murray kept a pretty low profile. I don't even remember the last time I saw him or spoke with him. However, I do have many happy memories seeing him sing and play around town: The Dominion House, the Windsor Yacht Club. When Murray took the stage, it wasn't long before his rapt audiences were singing along with him, or dancing a conga around the establishment. His enthusiasm and excitement were just contagious.

One of his most recent YouTube posts was a song he wrote called "Gettin' Out". "No looking back, no regrets", he sang. I listened when I heard the news; it was hard to see and hear.  

I chose the title of this tribute because Murray did an outstanding rendition of the Dan Fogelberg song that has become part of the holiday mainstream. Whenever I hear that song, I am reminded of Murray singing it. Let's drink a cup of kindness yet and raise a glass to auld lang syne...and our fallen friend. 

  

Poplars, Pepsi and Perry Mason

For me, there was just nothing better than escaping to Momsy and Pop's house on Parkway Drive.

I loved spending time with my maternal grandparents. The first thing I'd do after Mom drove away was go to the fridge and take inventory, to see if all my favourites were on hand: a "barbecue" chicken from the grocery store, Brunschweiger pate spread, Cheez Whiz, and lots of cans of Pepsi. Check. In the freezer: fudgesicles and Aunt Jemima waffles. Check. In the cupboards: Rye bread, Vegetable Thins crackers and Fritos. Check.

Then, on to Momsy's bedroom, where the twin beds draped in their pale pink chenille spreads awaited. I would peek under my bedspread to make sure my favourite sheets--the bright pink, yellow and chartruese flowered ones--and the pink blanket with the satin trim were there. Check. A quick scan of Momsy's dresser to see if she had acquired any new bottles of perfume or lipsticks since my last visit. After a squirt from one of the glass atomizers on the doily and a glance in the mirror, it was off to the bathroom to check for cartoon bandaids and Pepsodent in the medicine cabinet, and to finger and smell the navy, bright green and turquoise shower curtain. Then a pass by the den to gaze at the moonlight sea scape painting over the brown nylon couch, and on to Momsy's navy, turquoise and apple green covered swivel rocker in the living room..if she wasn't already sitting in it, that is. If she was, I'd happily take my place in Pop's chair, since he was still at work at International Tool & Die just up Malden Road.

About 4:30, just when The Edge of Night would be coming on t.v., I'd run to the pantry and hide, because Pop would be home soon. The minute I heard his white Ford with the red vinyl seats pull into the driveway, I'd wait to jump out and "surprise" him the minute he walked in the side door.

Dinner might have been Momsy's delicious meatloaf, pork chops in cream of mushroom soup, mashed or scalloped potatoes, Green Giant frozen mixed vegetables, and her yummy homemade coleslaw (with chopped Macintosh apples). And there was always, always dessert: jello with whipped cream out of a can, vanilla ice cream with chocolate sauce or Dare Chocolate Chip or Fudgee-O cookies.

After dinner Pop and I would go out into the backyard, sit on the plaid porch swing and talk while Momsy did the dishes inside. There was a pink clay bird bath (that they'd brought with them when they moved from Academy Drive) beneath the giant poplar trees. Swinging on that swing with Pop while the fan-shaped poplar leaves made a comforting rustling sound was one of my very favourite things. Pop would name the birds that came to splash around in the bath. Then I'd ask him to sing "Waltzing Matilda". He never said no. When dusk arrived, and with it the mosquitoes, we'd go inside.

Pop would get ready for bed, since he got up so early in the morning. I would get into my pyjamas and join Momsy in the living room for a cup of black tea. Momsy loved her television shows and I loved watching with her. Peyton Place came on too late (and was too "mature") for me to be allowed to watch at home, but when I was at Momsy's I could stay up as late as she did and watch whatever she watched, even the 11 o'clock news from Channel 4 in Detroit. And we always had Fritos and Pepsi while watching Perry Mason.  When we did finally climb into those twin beds with their freshly laundered and ironed cotton sheets, we'd talk in the dark for a bit as the poplar leaves gently flapped outside the open window.

It was still night time when Pop's alarm went off. Still snuggled in bed, I'd hear Pop shaving in the bathroom. Momsy got up, donned her quilted housecoat and slippers and padded into the kitchen to make Pop's breakfast and pack his lunch. After he left, she came back to bed until I woke up. 

Breakfast was my choice: waffles with Imperial Margarine and syrup or soft boiled eggs with rye toast "soldiers". I had my own egg cup, fancy juice glass and silver "egg spoon".   After breakfast, I'd get dressed and help Momsy with whatever she was doing...hanging out laundry, cleaning, dusting or vacuuming. But my favourite was ironing. She'd set up the ironing board in the living room with the can of spray starch and the Pepsi bottle filled with water and a hole poked in its cap. She insisted on doing Pop's shirts herself, but anything else was fair game for me. We'd have mid-morning black tea or if it was really hot, we'd split a can of Pepsi--in a tall glass with lots and lots and lots of ice. Lunch was "chicky", which is what I called the "barbecue" chicken. I loved the way Momsy arranged a chicky leg, a wing, and a big slice of white meat on a plate with gherkin pickles, celery sticks and a handful of Vegetable Thins on the side. Heaven! Sometimes there were Twinkies or those fantastic Hostess chocolate cupcakes with the white curlicue across the fudge icing on top. I was allowed to have a package of two to myself...something that never happened at home, since there were two other mouths to feed besides mine.

After lunch, the soap operas began: Search for Tomorrow, As the World Turns, The Guiding Light, General Hospital, The Secret Storm and The Edge of Night. Momsy never missed them so she could always fill me in on what I'd missed or explain what I didn't understand. She talked back to the characters too. "Oh, you fool!" or "She never learns, that one!" "She's got a face like a pan of worms!" Sometimes while the soaps were on Mariette, the girl from across the street, would knock at the front door. Sometimes I'd walk with her to nearby Maurice Belanger Park, but most of the time it was just so much more fun to be with Momsy. She'd let me try on her clothes, wear her jewellery, root through her closets. And the way she and Pop went on about my artwork, you'd think I was Rembrandt. 

Every night on Channel 50 at 10 o'clock, it was Perry Mason. Momsy talked back to them too, especially to DA Hamilton Berger. She hated him! And every time Paul Drake came on screen, she'd exclaim how terribly handsome and smart and funny he was and how Perry would never solve any of his cases without him.

My stays might have been just a weekend, an entire March break, or even longer during summer vacation. But they were never long enough for me. Momsy and Pop eventually left Parkway Drive and moved to a mobile home in McGregor, where I continued to visit them and love every minute, every time. 

Momsy died of a stroke when I was 14 years old and I couldn't cry. I wanted to, so badly, because crying when someone died was proof of how much you loved them. But no tears came. Until one night awhile later, as I laid in bed and remembered the sound of the gently flapping poplars, the taste of Pepsi and the Perry Mason theme song.    

Journey's End for My Beloved Friend

We met at a bar. But it wasn't just any bar, it was Joe Mercury's on the corner of Dundas West and Bloor in the Big Smoke. "Joe's" was "within stumbling distance" of our home on Humberside. Hubby and I met up there almost every night after work. I walked to Karaoke every Thursday, Friday and Saturday night for many, many years. 

It was at Karaoke that I met Sara Weiser and Micheal Kostenuk. These two were a package deal; you rarely saw one without the other. On Karaoke nights Pina, Steve or whoever was tending bar would tuck the two same barstools--close to the stage--away for them.

They both sang, and they both sang well. Sara had a tendency for Bonnie Raitt songs but she could pretty well sing anything well in that deep, throaty voice of hers. We often chatted at the bar and cheered each other on before and after we got up to sing. Soon, Sara, Micheal and a few of our other friends formed a travelling Karaoke posse--we went to Sweet Daddy Siki's shows wherever he was hosting--in an east end dive or a west end dive that was a hop, skip and a jump from Joe's. We also frequented other spots in the Junction and Bloor West Village. If they were doing Karaoke and we knew about it, we were there!

Soon Sara and Micheal were also part of our "dinner party posse" as well. On numerous Friday nights or special occasions, Sara and Micheal sat around our dining room table, eating, drinking, laughing and sometimes arguing about politics or current events. Most of our posse was comprised of teachers; we'd all met and befriended each other at Joe's. We were all fairly left-leaning, but that didn't mean "debates" couldn't sprout up! Sara and Micheal were such a lovely, lively addition to any gathering.

Sometime in the early 2000's, Sara and Micheal announced that they'd sold their home at Bloor and Ossington and acquired a huge slice of heaven in Digby, Nova Scotia. Their property was massive, backing right onto the bay. It was there that Sara learned to drive so she'd be able to get around on her own. She also took up gardening with unbridled passion! Her gardens were nothing short of legendary. It was backbreaking work, often involving lugging giant slabs of stone and wood and wheelbarrows around, but Sara's devotion to beauty and perfection was tireless. 

Sara then decided to "take up" quilting. After meticulous research and outfitting herself with a home studio, Sara began crafting and creating the most exquisite quilts I've ever seen. I fell in love with a "Jane Austen" quilt that Sara had posted on social media. I wrote about Sara and her quilts in Bread 'n Molasses magazine. My memory is a bit fuzzy, but I think we ended up auctioning the Jane Austen quilt online, with proceeds going to charity. I made sure I outbid everyone and then gifted my mom with that quilt. When my niece Abby was five or six years old, I commissioned a quilt for her that would match her newly decorated bedroom. Just about every child who has come into my life over the past two decades has received one of Sara's handmade patchwork perfections.

The enduringly charming pink and black "Art Deco" quilt (backed with the softest, palest petal pink polka dot flannel) is part of our living room décor. Some people buy throws at Homesense or Winners. Mine is a Sara Weiser handcrafted original. A couple of years ago, Sara donated one of her quilts to the Hospice Residential Home here in Windsor where I volunteer.

Sara Weiser made beautiful things.  

We always enjoyed each other's company when we both lived in Toronto, but it was after she moved away that our friendship deepened. A former CBC librarian, Sara was not only erudite and incredibly well informed; she also had a rapier-like wit and wrote as eloquently as any acclaimed author. I delighted in receiving one of her long, newsy email missives, reading it over and over and then savouring the writing of my response.

I think one of the reasons for the depth of my bond with Sara is that we both found it so easy to be real and candid when writing each other. She was always upfront and straight with me about her health issues. I accepted whatever she wanted to share and never pressed her for more details. She always knew I was only an email away, and she made sure time and time again that I was well aware of how much she valued our connection.

Sara often made solo trips to Toronto from Digby to visit her mom and dad. After Mr. Weiser died, Sara took her mother on river cruise adventures and continued to visit her regularly. On one of those visits, Sara and her mom hosted the Friday Night dinner posse. They served Indian food and it was spectacular. That night, I learned that Sara's mom Ann was downsizing; her antique Queen Anne dining room table and her complete set of white Havilland French china was for sale. I bought it all! I also began writing to Ann regularly and emailing photos of all my fancy dinner party table settings.  

Sara and I had so many things in common--a love of and passion for food, cooking, entertaining, writing, music, flowers, animals, wine, art and books. There were never any dull moments or pregnant pauses!

We also worked hard at our friendships and relationships; we both knew and appreciated that about each other. 

Sara and Micheal moved back to Ontario several years ago. Thousands of miles closer than Nova Scotia, but still too far away.

In October 2018 I found myself in their hometown for Elton John's farewell concert tour. I was there long enough to enjoy a quality visit with Sara and Micheal at their downtown loft.

Sara was in the last stages of recovery from her major cancer surgery. She'd lost a lot of weight but she still looked good!

At that point it seemed like she was still destined to have many more years on Earth. She was able to enjoy life for a bit longer, but the blasted Big C was always lurking in the background or foreground. She took her treatments with strength, courage and determination, and never moaned or complained about it to me. Ever.

A couple of months ago Sara confided her decision to stop all treatment. The chemo was making her feel sicker, and her doctors confirmed that it wasn't going to do her much more good anyway. It was not going to save her life. The cancer could not be stopped from ravaging her body and mind. She described how she was getting her "affairs in order." She didn't say so, but we both knew she didn't have much time. 

This past Thursday, Micheal posted on social media that Sara had been admitted to Hospice. She had a view of a magnolia tree and a bird feeder from her window. 

But she was weak and wishing to go.  

Last night Sara's wish was granted. She is now strong, pain-free, probably trying to figure out where they keep the wine and how to plant the most heavenly of gardens. 

I know there are many who share my sense of loss and sadness. But as empty and sad as I feel, I am also grateful and relieved that this leg of Sara's journey has ended.   

  

  

        

   

And The Wind Cries Mary

We shared the same birthday--June 14--and a penchant for Barbie dolls.

And today, cancer robbed our family of my sister-in-law Mary.

Accomplishing more during her 68 years in this world than most people do in a lifetime, Mary was clearly and unmistakably a "doer", devoting decades of her life to being the most caring, attentive daughter, sister, mother and wife anyone could want.

She and her husband Roger made their home just a few doors down from Mary's parents. She was always there for them, proving the old adage that "a son is a son until he takes a wife; a daughter is a daughter for all of her life."

She met Roger when they both worked at Hiram Walker; after the birth of their daughter, Mary left Hiram Walker to become a full time mom. Twin daughters arrived a few years later, followed by a son.

Children were the light of her life. There was nothing she wouldn't do for her own four; but the many other children in Mary's life--my stepchildren, niece and grandchildren, to name a few--all benefitted from her kindness and generosity. My stepdaughter was the flower girl at Mary's wedding, and it was tradition for them to treat her to a full-fledged shopping spree every September for her birthday. She'd come home with an entire new school wardrobe and stories about what stores they went to, where they went for lunch and how much fun she had with her aunt and uncle. 

Mary made every Christmas magical for all the children in her life too. Even though she never even met my niece--who lives hundreds of miles away--there was always a beautifully wrapped present under the tree for her, chosen especially by Mary. Always age-appropriate and always cool. When the kids got older, there were always crisp bills nestled inside their cards--and lots of them.

We lived in Toronto for many years, but Mary kept in touch with me through delightful handwritten letters, chockful of news about what my nieces and nephew were up to, their growth and development milestones, and details about her latest projects. Mary always had so much going on.

As our parents aged, Mary took charge like only she could. Doing our mother-in-law's laundry faithfully each week after she entered a long-term care home, making sure her children visited regularly, and ensuring she didn't want for a thing. When our mother-in-law passed away, it was Mary who singlehandedly tackled the lengthy and laborious task of clearing out her tired and obsolete house and overseeing its complete renovation. With her excellent taste in décor and her insistence on "the best" of everything--flooring, fixtures, appliances--Mary transformed it into a cozy, comfortable, modern, inviting home.  She also meticulously managed our mother-in-law's estate, which was no small or easy feat.

Her talent for organization was superior. Each time one of her adult children moved or relocated to another city, Mary was there with boxes, bedsheets and her inimitable expertise and attention to detail.

She was a dedicated and delightful homemaker, a fabulous cook and made sure everyone she loved was as happy and comfortable as they could possibly be.

When she became a grandmother, Mary was also always there. Not for the occasional visit at her convenience; she shaped her life around caring for her little ones so their young moms and dads could leave for work every day with the peace of mind that comes from knowing their kids were with the next best person to themselves.

Mary put everyone in her family first, but she took good care of herself so she could always be ready for whatever they needed, whenever they needed it. She kept her youthful figure, her hair was always perfectly styled and she was always beautifully dressed.

She loved to laugh and was always able to see the humour in life. 

Although it sure won't seem much like Christmas this year, when I unwrap the Barbie and Ken Bridal Christmas ornament that Mary gave me years ago, I will hang it in a prominent place on my tree, and say a prayer of gratitude for her.

"..a broom is drearily sweeping up the broken pieces of yesterday's life; somewhere her children are weeping; somewhere her husband has no wife; and the wind cries Mary...."

Like the wind, Mary was a force to reckoned with. Mere words cannot describe how much she will be missed.         

Requiem for a Gentleman

The year was 1979 or 1980, I really can't be sure anymore. I had just moved back to Windsor after a year of running away from my problems. My 18-month marriage was over and my life was in shambles. I was broke, in debt, unemployed and feeling pretty ashamed of the mess I'd made of everything. Returning home and having to rely on my parents again at age 22 was my definition of Failure with a capital F.

Fortunately for me, I had a friend or two still living here. Kathy was my emotional rescue. She brought booze and food over to my lonely little bachelor apartment. She helped me get a job. She listened to all my tales of woe and did her damndest to convince me that things were going to be okay.

Most important of all, she invited me in to her full, fun, rich life.

One night, even though I had nothing to wear and no money, she loaned me a sweater and insisted on taking me to London Street, the newest happening downtown bar. There, I  met her good friend Guy and his younger brother Bobby. They were both so good looking, so funny and such good dancers. I had such a blast that I actually completely forgot about all my troubles.

And so began a brief but magical time, when every night there was somewhere to go or something to do with a bunch of loving, caring people who believed I was smart, funny and beautiful. And when I was with them, I believed it too.

I adored Guy--as everyone who knew him did. But there was something special about Bobby. He'd obviously inherited the Bulley intelligence, ascerbic wit and good looks, but he seemed unaware of all that. There was a humility about him and an aura of empathy shone from within him. He could always be depended on for the ride home, for his jacket when it got cold, or to say "your money's no good here, Sweetheart".

As I said, this idyllic time did not last long. We lost Guy in 1987. I will never forget the call that came to my Toronto office from Kathy, telling me he was dying in hospital but didn't want anyone to see him, so not to come. By then, I had long lost track of Bobby and never saw him again.

Today, Bobby's obituary appears in the Windsor Star. It says he died "suddenly".     

When I read that he'd been tending bar at the Riverside Sportsmen's Club, I try to recall if I actually had seen him the last time I was there--but that the years had rendered us both unrecognizable to each other.

Bobby was only in my life for a little while. But I know my memories of him will last for the rest of mine.

Godspeed and rest in peace to a true gentleman. 

 

 

        

My Semi-Charmed Kind of Life

I know my title is the name of a '90's one-or-two-hit-wonder song. But why mess with perfection?

July 14, 2019 will mark our five year-anniversary of "moving back home" to Windsor, after 35 years in Toronto.  

Move-in day at The Cute Little House on July 14, 2014 went smoothly and without incident. I was so happy that we'd hired professional movers. We paid them a pretty penny, but it was worth every one of them. 

Seems like it took no time at all to settle in, establish routines and connections. It helps when you were both born and raised here, but all the same, I don't think either my husband nor I had any idea what our new life was really going to be like.

Our first year here, we were still making decorating and furniture decisions, but that didn't stop me from throwing Thanksgiving for 21 at The Cute Little House. My kitchen here is twice the size of my Toronto one, has a dishwasher and also a table and three chairs. And with no furniture in the living room, I could put all 5 leaves in my dining room table and seat almost everyone! I've always loved home entertaining; I just love it a whole lot more now.

I will always remember why and how we came to live here. My husband's parents bought The Cute Little House sometime in the '50's; the family lived there until both brothers had moved out, married and their father passed away. Thelmy, my dear, departed mother-in-law lived here on her own until 2005.  Throughout those years, most of the times we visited Windsor for birthdays, holidays and family stuff, we stayed in Thelmy's spare bedroom. We always marvelled at how still and quiet it was at night here. After our noisy urban street in Toronto, it felt like pure heaven. I always had some of my  "best sleeps" here.

Thelmy passed away in 2008.

Fast forward to July 15 or 16, 2014--a day or two after we'd moved back for good. I discovered a shiny dime on the front sidewalk. It hadn't been there the day before. I just somehow knew it was a little sign from Thelmy that she was happy for us...and her cute little house.

I cherish this house with all my heart and soul. Every day here feels like a beginning. No matter what's on the agenda--housework, shopping, errands, cooking, writing, socializing, entertaining--I look forward to it with love and gratitude.

But as much if not even more, I cherish the land this Cute Little House stands on. We are just far away enough from our neighbours to have privacy, but not so far away that we don't know all of them by name and speak regularly. Thirteen sky-high cedars line the end of a portion of our backyard;  several other large, very mature, leafy trees populate the rest of the property. A privet hedge along the north wall offers seclusion in the summer when its in full bloom; in the winter months, not so much. In Toronto, we had a postage stamp-sized front lawn and a not bigger backyard that we couldn't access without going down the stairs, out the front door and walking around to the back of the house.

I spend a lot more time outside than ever before, even in the winter. I can walk almost anywhere I want to go, strolls around the neighbourhood are part of my daily routine and more often than not, during my travels I end up talking to people and petting dogs. 

June has always been one of my favourite months, but it's gone up in rank since moving here. The first weekend in June is when Yard Sale Season officially begins. Even though I should be having a yard sale and not attending them, my resolve always disintegrates before July.

June is a festive month because it's my birth month! Lucky me, my birthday usually lasts for weeks--weeks of lunches, dinners, movies, nice things arriving in the mail and other delights.

It is a semi-charmed kind of life, and I love it.     

  

More Than That Mitchell

He was here before we were, this very clean and fluffy feral boy with the telltale nicked ear (that told us someone had trapped him, had him neutered and released him again).

He wasn't just some stray old Tom who showed up when he felt like it or was hungry. He was more than that.

We named him Mitchell, which soon became shortened to Mitchy.

Mitchy made our property his own, and rarely ever left. With few exceptions over the years, the furthest he'd roam was through the fence to the skids and stacks of stuff in the factory parking lot behind the cedars that line our backyard. Unlike our other ferals Monkey and Blacky, we'd never see Mitchy cross the street or venture beyond the end of our sidewalk or driveway. 

In the warm weather, he could always be found napping in our garden, guarding the sump pump pipe in anticipation of a whoosh of water, or languishing in the warm rays of sun on our driveway.

In the winter, he'd go in his "hobo hut" underneath the trailer parked on our property, or lay on some of the loose straw piled between the bales around it to form a barrier from the biting wind and cold.  Or he'd hang on our front porch, looking to all the world like he totally belonged there.

No matter when or for what reason I left the house, he'd come running to me from wherever he was, anxious to talk to me and to be petted while he purred and purred and purred. He was a lover, not a fighter; no scars ever marred his sweet face or pink nose. And no matter how muddy or mucky it got, he kept his white fur meticulously clean.

Last year in February, we noticed him favouring his left front paw. At first it was just a slight limping, but then I discovered an angry, festering sore just above his dew claw. Soon he was hobbling around on three legs while holding the injured one off the ground. It was heartbreaking and neither I nor Hubby could stand to see him suffer. Several phone calls to our understanding vet helped us cope. She agreed that it was highly unlikely we could ever trap him and even if we could, it was be extremely traumatic for him (and maybe even dangerous for them) to be examined She encouraged us and reassured us that he would likely heal on his own. And yet, even though he must have been in incredible pain, one day we saw him playfully batting around the cap from a caulking gun (that he been left behind by our roofers) with his good front paw. He found a way to do everything he usually did, including stalking and chasing birds that I suspect he never had any intention of capturing. It took almost 3 months, but little by little, he got the full use of his paw back.

When we'd return home and it was close to supper time, he'd be waiting in the driveway or on the porch for us. When I'd go outside to check the food supply, by the time I'd gone in to get more and opened the door again, he'd be waiting on his haunches at the door. 

Everyone who knew us knew Mitchy. When we'd be gone from home overnight, my mom would come and feed our ferals until we returned. 

If I had to predict which one of our ferals would disappear for good, I would have bet on Blacky, who was born on our property but we were unsuccessful in myriad attempts to trap and take him in to be neutered. Or Monkey, who like Mitchy was also here long before we were,  but who can often be seen jumping scaling fences, crossing the street or roaming way far away.   

I would never have bet on Mitchy. Because he wasn't just a feral cat. He was so much more than that. 

     

 

Memories of Mary

A lovely lady I have known most of my life left the world yesterday.

Her name was Mary and she was 89 years old.

I was just a child when I met her for the first time. She, her husband and family moved in to the house next door to ours on Edward Avenue. 

Since hearing of her passing, so many memories of Mary have flooded my heart and mind:

Her brilliant blue eyes 

Her high pitched, soothing, singsong voice and her proper British accent 

Her green thumb. Multicoloured snapdragons and roses in the front, vegetables in the back.

A true Brit, Mary made traditional Christmas cake...the kind you soak in booze, wrap and store in your cold cellar. One year, the family dog Snoopy--a loopy, overly large pure black Lab--got into the cold cellar and polished off at least two of the giant, heavy concoctions. Then proceeded puke them all back up for days. We thought she would never stop. All Mary could say, over and over was, "Poor, poor Snoop!" And she genuinely meant it. 

One hot summer day, Mary came knocking at our front door to see if we knew where Jean--mother of 2 year old Julie--was. She wanted to know because she found Julie on her front lawn, crying and clad in nothing but a diaper. "I suspect she's filled her pants!" Mary whispered. 

Her lovely figure and stylish way of dressing.

How she welcomed her parents over from England for lengthy visits. I especially loved her mother!

If Mary lost her temper, I never witnessed it. Ever.

The way she called her kids in for dinner. "Philip and Richard! Diane and Debbie!" in that sweet singsong voice.

The way she always left GREAT food behind for me when I occasionally babysat the youngest Humphries children.

Her dark tan in the summer, shown off in one of her many tank tops and pairs of short shorts. 

Her beautiful laugh.

Her love of the symphony. Long after we'd moved away from Edward and both Mary's and my mom's husbands were gone, they reconnected and enjoyed dinner and Mary's seasons tickets for many years. My mom loved that so much.

How I cried when I learned that Mary had been diagnosed with a disease that would eventually rob her of all her independence, memories and mobility.

A woman of class, style and dignity. With a pure heart and a beautiful soul. 

Fluttering to touch the sun and kiss the sky 

Mary with her Angel Wings

Hovering in the roses

While the bluebird sings

Godspeed Lovely Mary. This butterfly is free.  

 

 

  

 

Farewell to the Master

This handsome fella came into my life some twenty-or-so years ago. Bob Douglas lived in a sweet little house on Regent Road in Toronto with his sweet little Bichon named Duster. I don't recall the first time I met him, but I sure recall the first time I went to that sweet little house. It kind of broke my heart that even though he'd been long divorced, the decor in his Regent Road abode still bore all the traces of a "woman's touch". A dusty pink floral bathroom with flowers and lace. A fully equipped kitchen. And a beautiful backyard.

Back then, Hubby and I were part of a delightful group of people who really embraced camaraderie, longterm friendship...and golf. Everyone loved golf and one of the highlights of each season was The Masters tournament that Bob and Roger McFarlin organized...complete with cash prizes, Green Jackets and an after party that began on the 19th hole and continued in the backyard or basement of Regent Road until the wee hours.

I was a much better cook than I was a golfer, so one night over a bunch of beers, Bob, Roger, Hubby and me hatched at plan where I'd "cater" The Masters. Together we planned a menu and I borrowed chafing and serving dishes from work. Early in the morning of The Masters, Hubby drove me to Regent Road. The guys left for the tournament and I got cooking up a storm, with little Duster at my heels...until about 4 p.m., when she plopped on top of the couch to look out the living room window for her "Daddy".

Soon the 30-or-so hungry, thirsty golfers returned, full of tales about what had transpired on the course. The party was a huge success; an especially vivid memory was Bob, Roger, Hubby and me downing hefty shots for our "Drambuie Debrief" after everyone else had gone home.

My "catering" became part and parcel of The Masters tradition for several years, until Bob found love again. Then his partner took the reigns.

Our friendship still revolved around golf, but when Bob and his partner sold the house on Regent Road and moved to Mississauga, there were many grand gatherings there, too. His partner was a terrific cook, and often, just the four of us would share a meal together at their home or meet up at a local pub.

As the years pass, life and circumstances have a way of changing. Sometimes for the better, sometimes for the worst.

When Bob and his partner went their separate ways, his beautiful blue eyes lost a bit of their twinkle. A bit of the spring disappeared from his step.

But no matter what personal struggles he was experiencing, Bob never let anyone see anything other than his contagious, loving smile. Not only was he a master of sustaining and nurturing friendships, he was also a master of keeping his troubles to himself.

Also a master of identifying and appreciating the humour in anything, I suspect that none of us ever really knew the details or the depths of his pain.     

We started noticing little things that weren't quite right, like shaking hands and slower speech. We also noticed sometimes that he didn't seem like the Bob we had come to know and love. 

Then he shared that he'd been diagnosed with a progressive neurological disease--one that would eventually rob him of his mobility, motor skills and everything else that most of us take for granted. 

But Bob never let his rob him of his dignity. He took it all in stride, never losing his sense of humour or his positive attitude. 

When he moved into an assisted living facility, his spirits were still bright. He kept in touch and could still make jokes about being reckless with his powerized wheelchair.

When he could no longer type his own emails, he dictated lengthy, upbeat and still so funny missives to his daughter, who sent them on to us.

Last winter he came down with the flu, which was a giant setback for his overall health. In spite of a valiant effort, Bob never really fully bounced back.

Yesterday, he succumbed to the insipid, cruel disease.

As heartbroken and bereft as I am, I am also happy. He is finally free.

I have no doubt that there are golf courses in heaven, and my handsome, funny friend is already out there on the links in a foursome with Harold, Peter and Randy. The sun warms their skin as they anticipate their first sip of ice cold beer on the 19th hole.

Fore, my friend!