A bicycle built for me?

Sometimes we have this moment where we “think” we should do something. Then we shake our heads realizing it’s beyond our grasp or capability. But I’m stubborn. I think I can do anything. If I could ride a bike as a kid, it seemed a natural assumption that I could do the same now.

So one day when I say to my husband, “I think I want to buy a bike.” He just looks at me.

This isn’t necessarily a bad thing. You see, my husband is what I call a ‘processor.’ He doesn’t always reply immediately. It may take him days. In fact, it’s probably one of his most redeeming qualities. For example, imagine if I said what many wives ask their husbands “Do you think I look fat in this?” Like most men, my husband would have to give the obligatory, emphatic answer “NO!”?

But not my husband. He would mutter “no” under his breath. Later he might ask “why would you say that?” Then he would analyze it some more. Then he would say “I don’t know why you would think that.” Translation: “No, you don’t look fat in that.” In the end, somehow, I feel that he has taken my question seriously because he has taken time to process the question and analyze it.

So, what does that have to do with a bike? Well, remember, I told him that I was “thinking” about buying a bike. A few days later he looked at me and said, “I can’t see you riding a bike.”

Why not? I think. I can do this. I want to do this. I think about it for a few days then, suddenly, one afternoon I was working at my desk, and I shot up on my feet, went out and drove to a store that sold bikes.

I stood there, looking at the bikes chained outside and panicked. “What do I ask for?” When I was a kid they looked at your height and said “this is the right size for you.” And I said “I like the pink one.” And away we went.

But this is the 21st century. There are 10 to 21 to God-Knows-What speeds. There’s mountain and…to heck with it. I stop procrastinating and walk though the door.

Wouldn’t you know it. He’s young, cute, with an armful of colorful and cool tattoos. I wander in and start looking at the bikes. He follows me. “Can I help you?”

“I, err, I want to buy a bike,” I mumble, hoping he doesn’t laugh at me.

“What are you looking for?” he asks matter-of-factly, adding, “Will you be riding this casually?”

“Yes,” I reply, nodding emphatically. That’s what I want.

He shows me a few models. We talk about price point and sizes of the bikes. He takes me outside and unchains one of them.

“You need to try it out,” he says.

Are you kidding me? Ride a bike in front of you? Can I even remember how to pedal?

“Well, I’m a bit rusty,” I say.

“You won’t know what to get unless you try it,” he gently prods.

After I admit I don’t know much about the gears he shows me how to work them, in a simple easy-to-understand way. He tells me to go with my gut. Does it feel right? Is it comfortable?

I hop on and ride around the parking lot, hoping I don’t fall down and make a fool of myself. My stop is less than pristine. He shows me a few ways to make the stops easier. We decide the bike is too small for me. He goes inside and gets another one. We do the test again. I feel more comfortable this time. He isn’t laughing. I can do this! We settle on that bike, which happens to be on sale – BONUS!

Just to ensure that I look like a complete dork I ask if they have bike baskets. I mean, if I’m going to take this seriously I’ll ride it to the store and where will I put my purchases? Lucky for me he doesn’t laugh.

“We have lots,” he says. I pick out a wire basket. They install it. I pay for it. He takes it to my car and shows me how to remove the front wheel so it will fit in the trunk. I do it several times, afraid I will forget how to do it when I get home and then I’ll have this bike without a front wheel on it just sitting in my garage. I get it home and manage to put it together. I park it in the corner and pet it a bit.

Then I have this wave of guilt. What was I thinking? I just bought this bike.

More to come…

Things I learned from my granddaughter…

We had our granddaughter (age 7) stay with us this week. I realized quickly that all the angst that goes with parenting disappears with grandparenting. Things like dishes to wash can be put off until later. Reading a book together before a chore gets done is o.k. Wearing chocolate from an ice cream cone on your face won’t permanently damage your pores. Things don’t always have to be done on precise schedule; flexibility is always a an option.  Here are a few of the other things I learned:

• Play now, there’s time to do whatever tomorrow.
• Don’t sit at the side of the pool – Dive In, Swim, Enjoy.
• Fun doesn’t have to be expensive. Laughter is priceless.
• It’s o.k. to treat yourself. Buy an ice cream treat from the corner store and eat it BEFORE dinner.
• See the world through a child’s eyes and take joy in the little things.
• Indulge in small pleasures every single day.
• Laugh until your sides hurt, then laugh some more.
• Body noises are actually funny.
• Eat potato chips instead of salad and pretend they’re a vegetable.
• It’s o.k. to dance around naked and sing after you come out of the bathtub.
• Be proud of everything you do. A pictured colored outside the lines can still be beautiful.
• Children grow up far too fast. Make the most of your time together.

What things have you learned from a child?

Politics…after the fact

When it comes to politics, particularly pre-election politics, I do my best to avoid the conversations and controversy. The fact is, during this most recent election, I made my voting decision at the last minute. For me, it was between two parties. I knew the Conservatives would win, but did I want to vote them in? And as time went on I learned that I wasn’t really in agreement with some of their policies and the lack of responses to questions left unanswered on issues that are important to me.

But after the fact I can say, here’s the thing. Most of my friends and social media colleagues are well read. They pay attention to the issues. They take a stand and stick to it. But I don’t believe the majority of those who vote actually vote based on issues. In fact, I think there are many who vote based on their feelings; that inner voice that says “Not him, go with him.”

In a recent article, by media columnist Warren Kinsella, http://ht.ly/4Mkps * he talks about the HOAG theory, an acronym he says stands for “Hell Of A Guy,” and a theory, says Kinsella, that will often lead voters to vote for the candidate who “emotes” the strongest “HOAGism.”

In this election, Kinsella says NDP canadidate, Jack Layton, rose in the polls because he “is the most likeable leader.” He goes on to say that he personally has worked with Liberal party leader Michael Ignatieff, “and can attest to the fact that – in person – he is a thoughtful, easy-going, impressive guy. But that quality doesn’t come across on TV. On the big flat-screen the Liberal leader doesn’t emote HOAGism. It’s not fair. It’s not accurate, but it’s a fact.”

I’m not saying all voters are shallow. And I don’t consider myself to be uninformed. But, at the end of the day, what draws me to a party is both their platform and the charisma of the leader. Is S/He someone I believe will make good on their promises after they’re elected? Do they come across as sincere? If the answer is “I’m not sure,” then it’s likely I won’t throw my vote in their direction.

And then there are those who may not care about the platforms and platitudes but just go with their instincts, right or wrong. For example, I was born in Canada, but I grew up in the U.S. of A. I remember my great aunt said she wouldn’t vote for Richard Nixon because she didn’t like his nose. Turns out my great aunt’s instincts were right. Who would have known?

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*Note: this link may not work by the time you read this, as newspapers often only post the articles online for a limited time period.

My daughter rented a U-Haul

My thanks to fellow writer Paul Lima http://paullima.com/, whose listserve posting prompted me to write this.

My daughter couldn’t stay at overnight camp for more than a night. She called to say the “bed was too lumpy,” crying through sniffling (a combination of tears and allergies). I think she was reading the Princess And The Pea too many times with the line about the lumpy bed. She asked if we could pick her up. I said it was too far away and too late. She asked if she could take a taxi home. I said it was too far away and too late. At the camp, they tried to cajole her into staying but she would not be swayed and so we picked her up and brought her home and told her “no more away from home long distance” until she was sure she could do it.

My daughter took advantage of the opportunity of a lifetime. When she turned 15, my parents offered to send her to a summer school program in Paris, France. I told her if she said “yes” she was committed and that there were no taxis and no mom and dad to pick her up. She went, but called home every day and said she wished she could come home. I missed her terribly. The last day she stayed up all night with her “Paris friends” and cried because she didn’t want to leave them.

My daughter sat in the back of our van that was filled to top with her worldly possessions and her two favourite stuffed animals. This was her first year at university and she was going to be in St. Catharines, away from home here in London, Ontario. She got homesick but loved it there. We didn’t think we’d survive as empty nesters, but we did, probably because we knew it was short term. She did an exchange in her favourite city, Paris, France (once again) for one term. I went there and travelled with her during a two-week break from school. We missed her, and she us, but we all managed.

My daughter rented a U-Haul a few times over those years, moving back and forth from St. Catharines when she had a co-op, or was done school for the summer, and again when she moved back to London this summer.

My daughter rented another U-Haul a few months later to move into her first “single” apartment. She backed the U-Haul up with precision but then we heard a loud “Crunch” sound. She was focused on the back wheels staying on the driveway, forgetting she couldn’t see the top of the truck as it mashed up our eavestrough, turning the corner into an accordion.

My daughter is hiring a moving company as I write this. She is moving her worldly possessions, which includes furniture and a full kitchen of pots and pans, dishes and more. She is moving to Montreal. It is the closest city she can get to that’s like Paris, without being too far away from family, but she will be farther than she’s ever been for what could be the rest of her life.

My daughter is 24 now, soon turning 25. It’s time for her to do this, but that doesn’t make it easier for me. We have always been very close and it hurts my heart that she will be so far away. I know this is a natural progression in parenthood, but it’s one of the most difficult. I pray that the sun shines on her in her new ventures and that she finds a life that is fulfilling. I know that we will all be fine, but it’s really hard letting go.

Whohub asks: What do you think of Wikileaks? Is it wrong what they do? Or do they keep governments honest?

I received a message from Whohub.com asking me to comment on Wikileaks. I’ve been thinking about this for a while and decided I would write down my thoughts. I didn’t take the side of what government is doing to Wikileaks but rather what the power of one man rallying a group of people can do to the world…

I think it’s wrong for Wikileaks to put innocent citizens in jeopardy. Hacking into charge card and bank websites and grinding them to a halt is like holding the entire world hostage. This not only applies to individuals but organizations. For example, non profits helping people in dire situations may not be able to process money for donations to send supplies and much-needed assistance to countries like Haiti  if banks are targeted. And isn’t this very much like a bank robbery – going in and meddling with financial institutions and charge card companies?

In many ways what Wikileaks is doing now is much worse than whatever  secrets governments have kept from us over past decades. And sometimes government issues must be kept under wraps to ensure the safety of citizens. Why does Wikileaks feel that they have the power to decide what should or shouldn’t be made available for all to see, including terrorists?

As a journalist I know it’s important to see all sides of the story. Is Wikileaks really doing that? And will whatever they do next cause irreparable damage?

Individuals shouldn’t have that much power. Living in countries where we can vote for our leaders and governments to represent us means that we put our faith in the government, and we can still say when we don’t agree with some of the decisions made. And though it’s not perfect, it’s better than the alternatives – countries run by militants where there is no such thing as freedom of speech; countries where throwing acid in a woman’s face and scarring her for life just for looking at a man is condoned; or where peaceful individuals are incarcerated for trying to create a better society for those who live under oppression.

It’s also scary to think that one man can rally an army of hackers to do whatever he wants and hurt whomever he wishes. Sounds a lot like Hitler to me. My 2 cents. What do you think?

Experience of a Lifetime, Part 3

After a leisurely day of sightseeing, it was time for the event we came here for – to attend the wedding of a cousin – a young woman from London, Ontario – to a young man from Jerusalem.

To say this was the most beautiful, incredible wedding I have ever been to is an understatement. The weather was perfect. There are no pretences. Everyone was there to have a wonderful time and parents of the bride and groom, and immediate family, are there to ensure this happens.

Here is your experience: It is just before sundown. The guests begin to arrive outdoors. The weather is absolutely perfect. It is calm, no breeze and the temperature is comfortable. There is a stage covered with a chuppah (also spelled hupah, huppah, chupah, or chuppa) – the canopy under which a Jewish bride and groom stand during their wedding ceremony.

As North Americans, you arrive on time – the time given on the invitation. The Israelis arrive up to two hours late (apparently normal for wedding guests in Israel). But no worries. Food and drink are flowing – wine, hummus, fresh vegetables and so much more.

Bride and her father

The bride and groom come out to greet their guests before the wedding and then leave again until the ceremony. Photographers call for family and friends to come in groups to have their pictures taken.

Then, it’s time for the wedding. As North Americans, you rush to the seats set up on either side of the white-draped walkway. You sit down for a minute, then realize that everyone is standing (and some are even having conversations in the distance, paying little attention to the couple or the ceremony).

The bride, groom, and Rabbi are under the chuppah as well as parents and siblings. Everything is said in Hebrew. Then comes the traditional smashing of the wine cup by the groom (with his foot) and he kisses his bride. You go up on stage to offer congratulations and go inside.

It is beautiful. Gorgeous. Sparkling lights with huge vases of tall, elegant flowers are on every table.

Don’t expect to sit down for long though. Two DJ’s are hovering above the dance floor in front of a screen projecting psychedelic colours and shapes throughout the night. The music is cranked up.  A huge boom goes back and forth allowing guests to see what’s happening on the dance floor via video on the wall. The bridal families dance and are soon joined by many guests. The lights go up, and everyone sits down for the first course. The lights go down, and everyone returns to the dance floor to dance, and so it continues meal course after course, dance after dance, late into the night.

You wander outside later to get fresh air and walk by the bar laden with cakes and sweets and every dessert imaginable. After wine, drinks, dancing and festivities it’s time to call it a night.

Peace in the Middle East

I want to comment on something that happened to me today. It has a link to my current blog about Israel.

I was in getting into my car in a drugstore parking lot and I saw an older gentleman.  He was trying to reach into the passenger side door of the car next to me. The window cracked down a bit but his arm wouldn’t fit in. It looked like he was trying to open up the door. He looked looked exasperated, and I was pretty sure he’d locked his keys inside the car.

I could have moved on and ignored him, but I know what it’s like to be in need of help and I was sure, just by watching him, that he needed someone to assist.

I asked if he needed help and he confirmed that,  yes, he’d locked his keys in the car. He said he was trying to press a button on the inside to unlock the doors. I found a snow brush in my car (mid summer and I haven’t put it in the garage, but maybe that’s a good thing). I was able to reach the button but no luck unlocking the car.

“I live close by,” he said, with a distinct middle eastern accent. “I will just go home and get my other keys.”

I asked where he lived. It was not a close walk, but only a few minutes by car. I said I would take him and then drive him back to his car. He was so gracious and thankful.

On the way back he said, “I have lived here for 30 years and there is always someone nice who will help out.”

I asked where he came from. He said “It’s a long story. I’m originally, from Africa, but I grew up in the Middle East, in Lebanon.”

I said I had just come from a trip to Israel and remarked about how beautiful it was there.

“It is,” he said. “But there is too much trouble. I would go back but not until people stop fighting there. It is not safe.”

“It doesn’t matter what you believe in,” he said. “God is God and we all believe in one God. There is no reason for the hate and violence. Everyone should live in peace.”

I knew what he meant of course. And I wished, at that moment, that everyone in the Middle East was like this man. Peace in the Middle East. Is it a dream or will it ever be reality? I wish I could say that in my lifetime it will happen, but I’m not hopeful. What do you think?

Back to our journey through Israel in my next post.

Experience of a Lifetime, Part 2

With the help of our tour guide – Tzvi Goldwag http://goldenisrael.com (pictured here with a map and my daughter, Jenn, assisting to steady the paper) we had three amazing, full-day tours. With a degree in history, and a Tour Guide designation, Tzvi knows all details about Israel, the country he calls home. A devout Jewish father and husband, he is obliging and happy to take you anywhere you want to go to see the sites of his beloved country.

My most memorable tour day was the Old City of Jerusalem, including the City of David, where Tzvi lives with his family. After touring this part of the world I can’t help but think how lucky he is so lucky to be living in this amazing place.

For me, there was the awe of beauty, historical places and learning. For example, I was under the misconception that Israel is considered a “Jewish state” but the Old City in Jerusalem shows us otherwise. This is the place where religions intersect. It is divided into four quarters – Muslim, Armenian, Jewish and Christian. This is one memory you will never forget.

Here is your experience: There is an old man holding out a cup asking for some money. Instead of looking away, like you do in Toronto or most North American cities, you stop and open your wallet. A single shekel (worth about 25 cents US) is like a fortune to this man and he thanks you “Toda Raba” very much.

There are Arab men with donkeys and so many things that make you wonder if the turn of any modern century has ever touched this place. But look around the corner. You see a truck and cars ambling slowly through the twists and turns of the road meant for feet rather than wheels.

Around another corner there is a vendor with small stuffed camels, batteries for your camera and cold bottled water that you desperately want as the hot sun beats down on you. It is a mixture of past and present, with commerce (of course) intertwined.

It doesn’t matter what faith or religion you may practice, or whether you choose not to. When you walk through holy places – Via Dolorosa, the route that Jesus took between his condemnation, crucifixion and burial; the Church of the Holy Sepulchre, the room of the last supper, you are awestruck. There are some small whispers inside the church walls but people move slowly and many won’t speak. It doesn’t feel right to talk when you’re surrounded with so much beauty and history.

Later, you go to the Western Wall, where all faiths go to pray – women on one side, men on the other. You tear off a sheet of paper and find a pen and write a quick blessing fold it and put it in a crack overflowing with blessings, then kiss the wall.

The amazing beauty of this part of the world – perhaps the oldest place of recorded history – is overwhelming. And when you look up and back from where you started out, to where you are now, the words recited each year at the conclusion of the Yom Kippur service and the Passover Seder – “Next Year in Jerusalem” – immediately come to mind. And you vow that you will return here again.

Experience of a Lifetime

It was the opportunity of a lifetime. It was on my bucket list. When my cousin announced that his daughter was getting married in Israel I said “Let’s make this happen,” and we did. On May 28, 2010 my daughter, Jenn, 24, my sister (Anita) and her family (husband, Shane and daughters Danielle, 20, and Emma, 15) flew 12 hours to Tel Aviv, boarded a shuttle and took up residence in an apartment in Jerusalem. Over the next 10 days this trip transformed me in what I call “The Experience of a Lifetime.” The next few blogs will take you on my journey in a way that I hope won’t sound like a travel log, except that you will be subjected to having to view some photos (absolutely imperative for any trip “show and tell”). I invite you to come read, watch and listen, close your eyes and smell, taste and experience some of the highlights of this amazing trip.

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On our first day we wandered around Jerusalem and discovered the food. I am not a foodie but healthy, savoury and “to die for” are the best words to describe everything we ate in Israel.

We went to the Jerusalem Shuk (Outdoor Market), where vendors sell their wares to tourists, and food and household goods for the locals.

Here is your experience: A vendor behind the counter, where spices of every colour fill a display case, beckons you over and won’t take no for an answer. He tells you to hold out your hand and fills it with a spice then says, “You try.” The aroma is tantalizing. Put it between you lips and it catches you off guard. It’s strong on its own, but in any food you know it will be wonderful.

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In North America a gun often symbolizes a random act of violence. In Israel a gun is used for protection and is a necessary part of life. Israeli citizens are required to serve in the Israel Defense Forces (IDF). All eligible men and women are drafted at age 18. Men serve for three years, women for 21 months. There are some exemptions, but most do their service and are proud to tell you what position they held – from international affairs to a host of postings – during their time in IDF.

Here is your experience: As you walk through the market, or anywhere in Israel, it’s not unusual to see young men and women with rifles over their shoulders.  In fact, you actually start feeling safe when you see a young person, generally smiling and joking with friends, carrying guns slung across their shoulders.

I look forward to taking you on the next leg of our journey.

Because we care

My friend and fellow writer, Doreen Pendgracs, recently wrote a blog about being a caregiver: do you care enough to be a caregiver?

I wanted to comment on it, but what I wrote was my own mini blog. With Doreen’s gentle prodding, I realized that writing about something personal can also be a valuable use of words.  So here are my thoughts.

Most of us don’t go into relationships thinking about our possible role as a caregiver, but I knew from the day I met my husband that this would be my lot in life. I was in my 20s; so young and sure I could cure the world. It didn’t happen, and fighting it only wore me down.

We were told the original illness would eventually burn out, but if it has happened, it never really ever goes away. Like a chameleon it transforms and reveals itself in new forms, and I go into my caregiver mode again as we rush to the nearest hospital emergency room.

Our daughter grew up thinking that that all of this was normal for any family. As my husband convalesced in hospital following yet another surgery I would bring her, along with paper and crayons, and she would sit there creating her make-believe worlds with the reality of pain and suffering as her quiet background. When it was time to go I would lift her up and she would carefully navigate through the mass of tubes and IV lines to give Daddy a goodbye kiss until tomorrow. How could anything so unnatural feel so normal? And yet, for us, it always was.

I believe care giving can sometimes be more draining on the person giving the care, because of all the worry we go through. And with the health care system as it is, we have to be strong advocates for those we’re caring for.

I have had to make numerous phone calls to track down the right specialist to take on a new manifestation of the illness that was once easily diagnosed. I have had to yell at interns until someone listened. And I have cried on my own when I couldn’t take anymore, but I couldn’t let anyone else see how overwhelmed I was.

I think care giving is humbling and an important role in life. We do it because we love, and because we care. And because we care we give of ourselves.