Act Your Age... Letting Go

Just three years ago, I was living in Halifax with my long-term girlfriend, taking my undergraduate, and working a co-op term at the Department of National Defence. Lisa loved animals and though she was allergic to nearly every species under the sun, she desperately needed a creature to love. While her primary goal was to get a hypoallergenic dog (she has one now), we were moving every year and it seemed irrational to limit ourselves to the very few dog-friendly apartments in Halifax. Cats caused her the sniffles, fish were hard to cuddle, and hamsters were fragile and boring.

So to appease her, I did some research and discovered the perfect pet: rats. They were furry enough to cuddle, intelligent enough to train, and small enough that they wouldn’t infringe on our living arrangements. I barely uttered the idea and she was on Kijiji, found free pet rats, and got on a bus heading outside of the city to pick up a grey hooded rat I named Adelaide “Ada” Rat-sputin and an albino rat she named Sophie Flawless. A few months later, Daisy “Dukes” O’Dare, a tan baby rat destined to be snake food, was added to the family.

I am not a pet person. When I was young I loved animals, but in adulthood they’re just one more chore. So I was hesitant to get a pet from the beginning. Then when I too often was left to clean their cage and fill their food bowl, the idea that they would be a chore became a reality. But they became something more than that and their intelligence and cuteness melted my heart. Before too long, I was calling them my rat babies and had pictures on my cell phone, which I showed off like a proud parent.

Like any new pet owners, we had our hands full. We fed them, cleaned their cage, trained them to do a handful of tricks, and tried to spend as much time with them as possible. In return, they were great pets. When you’d enter a room they’d jump to the side of their cage and stare out at you as if they were happy that you were there. They learned their names and would come when they were called. And like all good pets, they were incredibly cute, despite their long tails that turn so many people off.

Time went by and, as it so often does, life changed. Lisa and I broke up. I moved to Ontario to do my Masters and had to leave my babies behind. Then when Lisa started having allergic reactions to the now adult rats, they got forced onto my younger sister who had moved to the city a year before. Jessica raised them like they were her own.

Two months after Jessica inherited this responsibility, I got a phone call. Sophie, our albino rat, had died. Since I was waiting for the bus with a group of school friends heading to a restaurant for dinner, I kept my composure and after the meal I got a second call. Lisa and Jessica were burying Sophie at the school. Upset, I excused myself to the bathroom and listened as they tried their best to make me a part of the funeral.

Ada and Daisy kept each other company for nearly a year after Sophie passed, but by the time I returned from Ontario and Europe it was clear that Ada wasn’t doing okay. On numerous occasions, her breathing got shallow, she would lie on her side, and we would think she was done for, but three times she bounced back. It was on October 26th that she once again lied down and began to breathe harshly.

It had been a hard month with unemployment and a break-up chipping away at my typically positive attitude. As she lay gasping, I held her and prayed that God would take her away. I cursed myself for not being stronger and not being able to put her out of her misery. And in the end, I laid her on her blanket and walked away. Having experienced so much loss, I couldn’t watch her pass. Less than an hour later, I checked on her again and she was stiff and cold.

Adelaide was gone.

Sarah, a friend I made during my undergraduate, is renting a house with a big back yard. So that evening my sister and I got a ride to her home and we dug a hole deep into her rock garden with a spade. After a few words, we placed Ada into the shallow grave and buried her.

This week’s “Act Your Age” has been a bit different from past ones, since I’ve told you a story of something that happened to me as opposed to something I set out to experience. I tell this story because our lives are defined not only by the decisions and paths we choose, but by how we react when life happens to us.

You’re forced to retire. You become dependent on medicine or a walker or an institution. A pet or a loved one passes and you can’t imagine a life without them. I make no claims to know what anyone has gone through, but these are all similar stories. They are stories of loss, but also stories about trying to put a new life together and accepting the changes for good or bad.

The death of a pet is an interesting allegory for all of the shit that can go wrong and all the things a person has no control over in life. I don’t have any answers or pearls of wisdom to make the feelings of powerlessness and loss go away; other than to say this, as clichéd as it may be. You’re not alone. Your story is timeless and its universal and we all go through it. Even though in this instance you can do nothing but accept the things you cannot change, there are things that you can control. And it’s okay to grieve and it’s okay to hold onto your memories and cherish them. It's even okay to fall apart for a while and lose yourself... to not be okay... to mourn and shatter. Just, when you’re ready, come back to us.

Act Your Age… Take a Flight

I have a love/hate relationship with flying. The fact that for relatively cheap prices you can get across the country in no time at all is a real perk. The propulsion you feel as the plane hits that take-off speed and the tires lift from the asphalt is incredible. Even the little packages of cookies are great. For me, it’s the landing I can’t stand. With sensitive ears, the swelling pressure in my head makes it feel as if my eyes will explode from their sockets.

I remember the first time it happened. It was three years ago. I hadn’t flown in nearly a decade, but suddenly I found myself on a plane to Newfoundland for a summer working at Memorial University. While the ride was enjoyable enough (I remember watching Boston Legal for the first time and since then I’ve watched the entire series twice), the landing made me face my mortal existence. It started with my ears feeling clogged. Then a small headache began to develop near the front of my brain. As the pressure built so did the pain, until I felt like there must be a blood clot in my brain ready to blow my head clear off my neck; irrational as that may be.

So finding myself at the Halifax Stanfield International Airport on August 30^th, with a cross-Atlantic flight before me, I had mixed feelings. I was certainly excited about flying to Europe for a month long adventure, but that pain… it was a more pressing concern.

I went through security without a problem and met my friend, Natasha, in the lounge area. We would be taking this flight together. The flight began to board and the two of us walked down the long chute-like hallway and reached the door to the plane. The crack between the hallway and door showed a small glimpse of the ground far below. Cautiously, I stepped over the crack and smiled at the female flight attendant standing before me. She pointed me in the direction of my seat, which seemed silly all things considered. Stepping onto the front of the plane, there was only one direction to go, but I’m sure she just meant it to be a friendly gesture.

Because I was flying Iceland Air, each of the headrests had a fun fact about Iceland. I found my seat and began my process. I took a magazine, headphones, gum, and a bottle of water out of my knapsack before sliding the bag under my seat. I put my supplies in the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me, buckled my seat belt, and leaned my head back against the Icelandic factoid. I was in a middle seat with Natasha sitting at the window and a quiet man sitting to my left. I was pleased to see the small television screen built into the back of the seat in front of me.

A woman’s voice came over the PA system, welcomed us aboard and explained the emergency plan in case of plane problems. The flight attendants stood in the aisles and did their all too familiar dance: pointing to the six exits, demonstrating how to use the oxygen mask that will fall in case of a change in cabin air pressure, and showcasing the flotation vest.

Once they were finished their presentation, the lights dimmed and the seat belt sign lit up. There was no turning back. The airplane slowly began to inch its way to the tarmac in the darkness of the night and before I knew it we were in line for take off. There seems to always be that moment of dead stop before all the engines are switched on full and you’re pressed into your seat. I was propelled back as the plane barreled forward.

My stomach rose to the back of my throat as the nose of the plane tilted to the sky and the wheels left the runway. It’s in these moments that I become incredibly Catholic. I did the sign of the cross and began with my Hail Mary’s. If I’m going to die and face the Almighty, I’m going out with a prayer on my lips.

And then we were airborne. The plane turned to the right in the air and for a moment there was uncertainty of which way was up. Up and up we rushed, until the plane finally leveled out and we were on our way. I finished the last of my prayers and turned on the TV in front of me. It was a four hour flight to Iceland and then another five hours to our destination in Paris. Three movies and a pack of cookies later, we were descending.

Before they announce that we’d almost arrived and were preparing out descent, I could feel it in my ears. The slow descent starts and the pressure builds immediately. I had read, after my first horrible flight, that drinking water could help since it causes you to swallow repetitively. So that’s what I did. I took out my liter of water, tipped the bottle back, and sipped it slowly and consistently. At the same time, I chewed loudly on three pieces of gum. The pressure built anyway and the headache started. But the feeling of my head exploding never comes and we land without too much suffering.

On safe ground for only a temporary stay in Iceland, I desperately want to get off the plane. I’m antsy and need to get out. It takes another fifteen minutes for the plane to be attached to the building and for the people in the rows in front of me to gather their bags and move off the plane.

Despite my trepidation about flying, the experience is always exciting and the destination always makes the pain of getting there worth while. So whatever you’re reason for flying, whether it’s to see family or a new country, I highly suggest it!

Act Your Age: It’s A Story!

Hello. My name is Jeff. You may know me from my interviews and profiles with community members in the Niagara region for Retirement News Weekly’s column “Visionaries of Our Community.” After writing profiles for six of the most amazing people I’ve ever met, it’s time to introduce to you someone different. Me. I’m certainly less accomplished then the people I’ve interviewed and I haven’t found that “life’s passion” that the bookseller, the chef, the conductor, and the coach have for their particular arts. I am, however, doing what I love. Writing! Starting this week I’ll be bringing you two new bi-weekly columns, I Can Explain and Act Your Age!

But, before I get carried away writing about these columns, let me tell you more about me. I’m 23 and was born in a small, French, fishing village called Pubnico in Nova Scotia. Before you ask, I am unilingual, though I’d like to think my mastery of English compensates for my utter failure to conquer French. I had a really nice childhood, two loving parents, was raised Catholic, and played (badly) a variety of sports. I attended Mount St. Vincent University in Halifax, NS and received a Bachelors of Public Relations before moving to St. Catharine’s for a year to take my Masters in Popular Culture. I’m not finished it, as my thesis still needs work, but I should be done soon enough! I’m spending August with my sister in Halifax and September in Europe seeing five major cities.

Now, for my passion, writing. I started young. When I was 12 I wrote an 80 page novel about a boy who starts a charity club. By the time I was 17 that list had grown into six plays, four movies, a rewritten version of the novel, an autobiography, and a musical called, “Isn’t Life Ironic.” It was about a young man who writes a musical to impress a girl that doesn’t care about musicals and the story still seems pretty close to home. In my senior year of high school, desperate to be read by anyone, I started an unofficial newsletter and in University began an online newsletter. Perhaps it was these experiences that gave me the edge when I applied to work at Retirement News Weekly this summer.

I loved working for Retirement News Weekly/Niagara. Interviewing these incredible individuals and telling their stories was a dream job. Unfortunately, all good things must come to an end and with regret I had to quit in order to return home. For what happened next I will be eternally grateful. I was offered a column and went immediately to the task of proposing a variety of ideas. Two were selected and the columns will come out on alternating weeks.

“I Can Explain” is simple enough. In this column, I will choose a new pop culture or technological trend and attempt to explain it as clearly as possible. Whether its Jersey Shore or Twitter, I want to make it an easy reference of new developments and let you know what they are and whether or not they’re worth checking out.

The inspiration for the second column, the one you’re reading right now, came somewhat as a fluke. While writing the “Visionaries of our Community,” I was invited to attend the opening gala of Music Niagara and listen to Andre Laplante play Chopin and Schumann.

To be brutally honest, I know nothing about music. It’s actually a bit embarrassing as my friends regularly tease me for not knowing about artists and songs. That said, as little as I know about music I know even less about classical music. The prospect of sitting in a pew in a church while watching a man play a piano for two hours was not the most appealing use of my Saturday night. However the ticket was free and finally I decided, “Why not!” My philosophy has been and continues to be, even if things end up a disaster, they’ll at least make a good story.

This wasn’t the case for the opening gala. I attended and was blown away. While it was strange just to sit and listen to music without any visual stimulation, there was something about the experience that could be universally appreciated. Even if you couldn’t delight in the music, which I did, the simplicity of this man holding his audience in rapture through his playing was entertainment enough. The experience inspired the article “1000 Words About Music From A Man Who Knows Nothing,” which inappropriately enough can be found in the archive for “Visionaries of our Community.”

This inspired me to write this column. Every other week, I will go out and try a cliché retirement activity, and then I’ll report back to you my findings. I will humbly submit myself to a variety of activities that I would otherwise wait until retirement to try. The outcomes of each activity will vary. Some will be incredible, like “appreciating classical music.” Others will be embarrassing, like “trying yoga.” Yet others will be revealed to be cliché for a reason, like “learning to knit.” But I’m willing to have my eyes opened wide! Maybe all these activities need is a chance.

The benefit of this column is that you can read about my experiences every other week. If it’s something you do, you can enjoy it from my fresh perspective. And if it’s something you’ve never tried, it at least gives you options of cheap activities that are either nominated or discouraged by someone you now know. Me!

You may be currently saying to yourself, “Jeff, this has been a great start to your column, but it hardly lives up to what you’ve now promised us! You haven’t tried a single clichéd activity!” But I beg to differ. “Tell a complete stranger my life story.” Check! I’ll see you in two weeks!

1000 Words about Music by a Man who knows Nothing

As published on Retirement News Weekly/Niagara on July 23, 2010.

To start, I must tell you that I know nothing about music. While my friends are each knowledgeable about their genre of choice, ranging from 80’s rock to death metal, or have musical training on the piano or guitar or harmonica, I can boast none of these things. All I know is what I like, an eclectic mixture of acoustic guitar and pop hits, and what I don’t, mainly operas. So given the opportunity to attend the Opening Gala of Music Niagara, a festival that aims to showcase impressive Canadian classical and jazz talent, I seize the chance to be exposed to historically powerful music with only slight hesitation.

Before July 17 and this incredible night of music, I had only one question. What do I wear? I finally settle on a blue dress shirt and black pants before leaving my St. Catharine’s apartment and making my way to the beautiful Niagara-on-the-Lake. Driving down Byron Street, a narrow road at the edge of the town, I spot St. Mark’s Anglican Church with ease. Its grey granite-block exterior offers the illusion of a medieval castle, but the manicured lawns and neat stone pathway suggest more modern times. People are gathered in front of the church, collecting their tickets and having them ripped at the door. After collecting my ticket, I make my way through the small crowd and enter the church that dates back to the 1800s. It’s dimly lit by four chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and the smell is a mixture of expensive perfumes and colognes with the polite musk of an older church. It’s a comforting smell somehow.

The wearers of said perfumes and colognes are dressed to the nines in formal wear. Men are in suits and women are in dresses or conservative blouses. Looking around the room, I regret my decision not to wear a tie. Sitting in the very back of the church, in a seat I would later find out was set aside for volunteers, I take the aesthetics of the room in. The cream colored walls are framed by brown trimming and the dark stain-glass windows prevent any light from entering. The audience, finding their seat in pews atop complimentary square cushions, is a buzz with excitement. As 7:30 approaches, a sudden quiet falls on them.

After brief speeches and the mandatory thanks from organizers and select local political figures, pianist Andre Laplante enters from the back of the church with his head held high. The small ponytail that you would expect from such a man hangs behind his head. He politely introduces himself with a slight Quebec accent, explains a minor change in the night’s program, and then sits behind his piano and begins.

The music starts slow and builds and one can find beauty in the performance. The show is nothing more or less than a man and his piano. There are no special effects, no plot or visual stimulation of any sort, but there is beauty in the simplicity. The audience remains captivated. They sit in awe as Andre taps and pounds on the keys. In a day and age when it seems nothing so simple could keep our attention for more than thirty seconds, it’s wonderful to see that the marvel of music can still hold an audience in rapture.

And for the music, which I know nothing about, I can only describe it as I experienced it. Andre’s fingers race across the keys, building in speed and intensity. The sound becomes almost palpable in the room. It fills your ears, but more. It’s filling your head and mind, filling your body, filling your soul. It can make you feel insignificant, but fills you all the same. It brings you into the music, making you a part of the growing and crashing sound, making you part of the magic.

The church is suitable for such an experience. Not only was it designed with acoustics in mind, but the religious undertones of what is being performed do not escape me. It is, after all, almost a ritual for Andre, who has played the piece hundreds of times. At the same time, the tradition and ritual of the piece does not make it any less gripping. More so, with each precise key stroke, we are still witnessing the art of creation. As many times as it’s been played before, it is still the first here and now.

Wave after wave of Chopin’s Sonata in B flat minor opus 35 crashes over the audience. It is both assaulting and soothing at the same time; both joy and melancholy. At times the music startles, jumping from smooth melodies to jarred and sharp notes. Yet the audience is drawn in, longing to satisfy their urge to be a part of this creation. One man hums loudly with the music. The rest sit on seat’s edge and feel themselves being taken away.

When Andre finishes, he jumps from his seats and bows. The crowd erupts in applause, also jumping from their seats in a standing ovation. This is not an audience being polite. This is an audience being appreciative for the journey they were just taken on.

This is only intermission. The second half of the show is just as moving as the first with the addition of the Gould String Quartet. Violinists Atis Bankas, Tanya Charles, and Natasha Sharko with Luke Pomorski on cello add a new dimension to Andre’s piano. They appear almost like wooden puppets on strings dramatically bending at the elbow and bouncing in their high back seats with each powerful and graceful strum. At the end of the evening, the crowd erupts again, this time in a rush of murmurs followed immediately by applause.

Afterwards I talk about the experience with Terry Lett, one audience member and the official photographer of the festival. He proclaims his love for both the music and the quality of artists that Music Niagara brings to the region each year. If the Opening Gala is any measure I must agree. Knowing nothing about the music, it is still without doubt quality and beauty.

Love, I Think

From the February 2007 Issue of Focused Press

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As I wait at the bus stop in the dark heading out to pick up the latest Sims Games for my girlfriend, I wonder what love is. Can it be found in a one night stand? Will it reveal itself before our time runs out? Is it forever or fleeting? Very deep questions, I must say, for a bus ride.

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I consider those that I have “loved” in the past. I once had a huge crush on a girl who eventually came out of the closet. Now, I’m dating a girl who I love, despite the fact that she drives me crazy. Love is complicated, but at the same time, it is possibly the thing that focuses the human mind more than anything else. When you’re in love you focus… you know what you want and things, despite the fog, seem clearer.

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Now, I’m not claiming to know what love is. I don’t. And I think very few of us do. What we experience is in fact just glimpses of what love truly is. We experience a fleeting glance or an ache in our heart when separated. We long for another’s embrace. But it’s far from love.

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The other day, for example, I saw true love. My grandmother moved into an old age home about 12 months ago and my grandfather, at the time, still lived at home and visited her on a daily basis. He wasn’t well himself, having had an aneurism years back and having the use of only one of his legs. Two months after she moved into the home my grandfather had a Gout Attack and was brought immediately to the hospital. I remember the first time I visited him there. He was sitting up right in bed, tubes coming from his body, and he turned to my father and asked, “Is Tessie alright?” After fifty years of marriage the first thing that came to mind after a medical emergency, is will my wife be alright. After fifty years he still had that instinct to protect her. After fifty years he still loved her.

God, I don’t know what love is, but I know it when I see it.

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He died this weekend and we miss him. But that’s another type of love isn’t it? That part of you that is lost without the affection of your other. That aching question that asks, without answer, “How will I go on without them?”

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So the question remains. What is love? Could it be that hour you take out from your evening to buy your girlfriend a much wanted present? Is it that never ending desire to care for and protect your special person? Or can it only be truly appreciated once it is lost? Whatever it is, it certainly makes life that much more interesting.

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See you next month.

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Tessie passed away two years ago this summer. They both are dearly missed and their love is a testament to the best in us all.