Boyhood Idols

Summer is finally here, and with that come the memories of childhood. I think back a lot to my days growing up, and today I am thinking about the popular figures of years ago who I once called heroes. The larger-than-life legends where I came from were mainly athletes.  Since I grew up in Quebec, hockey heroes of the 1970's Montreal Canadiens dynasty ruled the day. My thing was baseball when I was a kid, so even though I was swept up in the hockey frenzy, nothing was more important or significant than my beloved Montreal Expos. 
Baseball over the course of my childhood proved to be one of the few real opportunities for bonding between my dad, brother and I. My dad was keenly interested in the Expos, despite fielding abysmal teams in the early years of their incarnation. When I was old enough, my dad took my brother and I to Montreal to see games. For a young boy such as I, it was incredibly exciting. The Expos initially played at Jarry Park, a makeshift open-air baseball stadium on the east side of Montreal. They played there until 1976, after which they moved in to the cavernous Olympic Stadium nearby. 

                                                                            Jarry Park, Montreal in the 1970's.

Some of my earliest memories are of going to Jarry Park for an afternoon game on a Saturday or Sunday. Dad always instructed my brother and I to bring our baseball gloves, in case a fly ball came our way. He never expected it to happen, however one came perilously close to hitting my brother one time. A foul ball came whizzing right towards us, and my brother earnestly stood up on his seat and stuck his glove up in the air to catch it. He couldn't have been more than 6 years old. My father saw that this ball was heading straight towards his head, and at the last second pulled him down out of the way. While Jarry Park was probably one of the least-liked stadiums among the players of the day, the fans really liked it. One thing that made it so popular was that the fans could go right down to the dugouts to ask for autographs. In those days, the athletes were more obliging, and would even give signed balls away. My brother and I would always head straight down during batting practice to try to get their attention. We were never lucky enough to get a signature, though.  

While the Expos did not field competitive teams in their early days, they certainly had a number of colorful players on their squads. Their names still stand out in my mind - Coco Laboy, Pepe Frias, Tim Foley, Ron Hunt, Bob Bailey and of course Rusty Staub. Coming over in a trade from the Mets, Rusty Staub had become the first bonafide hero of the early Expos teams of the seventies. I couldn't tell you if he was an amazing player, but he had become a legend in the city of Montreal. The predominantly French population adopted him with open arms, giving him the nickname "Le Grand Orange". Rusty, as his name suggests, had a glorious mop of red hair. He platooned at first base and right field, I believe, but he was more appreciated for his enthusiasm for the game. Rusty did deliver with the bat on several occasions, hitting clutch home runs and driving in game winning runs. There were other heroes such as Bill Stoneman, a pitcher who delivered not one, but two no-hitters in separate seasons for the Expos. 

 Montreal newspaper ad with Rusty "Le Grand  Orange" Staub 1970's

By the mid-seventies, the Expos were not producing stellar numbers. They were still drawing crowds at Jarry Park, but the stadium was never intended to be a permanent home. Once the Montreal Summer Olympics came to an end in 1976, the Expos now had a stadium to call their own. Despite the initial buzz of playing in a new stadium, the move didn't help the team stay out of the cellar during that season. They had compiled their worst season to date, losing over 100 games. There were obvious problems associated with the Olympic Stadium, namely not having a roof. The stadium was initially considered an architectural marvel. However, what had been overlooked was that the stadium went up extremely fast in order to meet strict deadlines for the Olympics. That should have been a clue that corners were cut during the construction period. Somewhere down the road, there would be pretty hefty repairs to be done.

View of the Olympic Stadium (with canopy roof) against the Montreal skyline.

The one bright spot of that season was that they were able to give young players from their farm system a try. One such player was a young shortstop by the name of Gary Carter. They cultivated Carter and molded him into a sorely needed starting catcher. Soon after being called up, Carter was given the nickname "Kid" by his peers. He played with the exuberance of a young boy, caught up in the excitement of playing in the big leagues. Gary Carter soon won over legions of fans across the province, then the country, and eventually throughout the U.S. as well. He played  with unbridled passion, and always maintained his trademark grin and positive attitude throughout his illustrious career. He was quickly given the starting catcher assignment, and he seized the opportunity and never looked back. 

Gary Carter became the nucleus of a group of incredibly talented young ball players, all of whom captured the heart and imagination of the city they played for. Players such as Andre Dawson ("The Hawk"), Warren Cromartie, Ellis Valentine, and Larry Parrish provided a potent offense alongside Gary Carter. They were acrobatic in the field, pulling off major plays as if they were routine. The fans embraced their young team with open arms. By the summer of 1979, the Montreal Expos were in their first playoff hunt for the division title. The Toronto Blue Jays had recently joined the Major League ranks over in the American League, however they were not anywhere near as popular as the Expos at this time. From coast to coast across Canada, people were tuned in and turned on by the Expos.

Gary Carter with his trademark grin, swarmed by legions of adoring fans. Circa early 1980's

By this time my dad had remarried and moved. He lived in an old house on a serene tree-lined street in another town near where I lived. I had extended summer visits with him, and his back yard provided the idyllic background for listening to ball games over the transistor radio on a beautiful summer afternoon. Dad, brother and I still had the common bond of baseball, as we listened to and watched games on television together. The play by play was provided by Dave Van Horne and the great Duke Snyder from the old Brooklyn Dodgers of yesteryear. They had the perfect voices to provide a baseball radio broadcast - gentle and warm and not in the least bit annoying. They transmitted an air of familiarity and liking towards one another as well. The more I listened to Dave Van Horne, the more I learned about the intricacies of the game. Duke provided the voice of experience, but in no way was he ever condescending about it.  

The great thing about listening to the games as opposed to watching them, was that it allowed the imagination to capture the action. One could hear very clearly the crack of the bat and the excitement in the crowd in anticipation of a home run. One could also hear the buzz of the crowd, and the vendors yelling out "Peanuts! Get your fresh peanuts here!!!" It was almost like being at the game, except lying in the comfort of a hammock in the back yard. Going to the game was still a thrill, however by then there was virtually no chance to ever get an autograph from our heroes. The Olympic Stadium was far too big, and they kept fans a safe distance from the dugouts. 
We started a tradition as we got older to take our dad to see a game for Father's Day. My dad was pretty much a walking encyclopedia when it came to player stats. He used to record stats in the box scores included with the programs. As my dad reached towards the age I am now, his favorite Expo was a relief pitcher by the name of Woody Fryman. He was my dad's age, and definitely considered over the hill by baseball standards. Somehow, though, he stubbornly managed to defy the odds and put out impressive numbers in his role.  
My list of favorite players had grown exponentially in the late 70's to early 80's. The team had matured a great deal, yet still had room for colorful characters on the squad. Bill Lee, a towering left-handed pitcher, had become a cult phenomenon in that time. He came to the Expos in a trade with the Boston Red Sox. He was incredibly eccentric, and was considered somewhat of a renegade. He got himself into bizarre situations, on and off the field, and was a constant thorn in the side of the powers-that-be. One time, as he was jogging to the Olympic Stadium for practice, he apparently ran into a taxi. He was in a mental zone somewhere far away and literally ran right into a barely moving taxi. He grew out his beard at one stage just to irk his superiors, to the point of looking downright motley. He resembled a homeless man wearing a baseball uniform. The organization indulged his whims for the most part, as he was extremely popular with the fans and posted impressive stats throughout his time as an Expo. The press appropriately nicknamed Bill Lee "The Spaceman". 

 Bill "Spaceman" Lee, early 1980's

Another emerging superstar of that era was a young fielder by the name of Tim Raines. He was a little short, but built like a tank. Raines was a great outfielder, but became known for his impressive hitting as a lead off man, and even more famous for stealing bases. Raines created runs out of nowhere thanks to his speed. Despite having some personal issues with the drug of choice during that era (cocaine), Raines overcame his demons and won over the hearts of his fans. Raines became known as "The Rock" in the Montreal Press, and the name stuck throughout his career. Andre Dawson had become a mentor of sorts to Raines through his early career, and they formed 2/3 of one of the most formidable outfields in baseball. 

Warren Cromartie, Tim "The Rock" Raines,  and Andre "The Hawk" Dawson, 1980's

"The Hawk" and "The Rock" made playing outfield attractive to young kids like myself. They covered a wide swath, and through their speed they were able to chase down home runs and snag them while leaping up the wall. With their machine gun arms, they could throw out opposing base runners with ease. The final piece of the outfield in the early days was usually Warren Cromartie, who also platooned at first base. Cromartie was another fan favorite, who started selling his own chocolate bars for charity. He called them "Crobars". He eventually went to Japan, and became somewhat of a sensation there as well. Ellis Valentine was another famous outfielder for the Expos, but by the early 1980's he was gone. He never really endeared himself to the fans, or to the management. Still, Valentine was a marvel to watch when he was in the mood to play. 
Other players of note through the eighties were the likes of Larry Parrish at third base, and Chris Speier at shortstop. Parrish was always one of my favorites, mainly because he looked rugged and could make good defensive plays. He was also a consistent hitter, usually hitting close to .300 in his seasons as an Expo. I never fully appreciated Chris Speier, because I felt he seldom delivered clutch hits when they were needed. He couldn't hit for power, though I didn't know that most shortstops couldn't anyway. I never realized he was an able and versatile shortstop either, but my main attention was always on offence anyway. My dad felt he was a decent player who contributed significantly, so I would give him the benefit of the doubt. 
The pitching staff had really come into their own in the late 1970's through 1980's. The ace of the rotation was Steve Rogers. He too was one of my all-time favorite Expos. Rogers was a left  hander (or "southpaw"), as was I. He never reached the 20 win mark in a season with the Expos, though he came close on a few occasions. He was valued as an experienced veteran among a staff of young guns in the eighties. A couple of them had brilliant seasons with the club, including a rookie right hander by the name of Bill Gullickson. He came up to the big leagues in 1980, and set a record for most strikeouts in a game by a rookie (18). The record held for several years. It was discovered early on that Gullickson was battling type 1 diabetes. Many considered it miraculous that he could be so successful as a major league pitcher while fighting the disease. He became a role model for many people with the disease.  
The Expos had a string of seasons, from 1979 through 1983, where they were contenders for the playoffs. Each season was a heart breaker in their own respect. In 1979, the Expos came within an eyelash of winning the East division, losing to the Pirates in the final two home games of the season in front of record crowds. the Pirates went on to win the World Series that year, so it was some sort of consolation that the Expos lost to the best. In 1980, the Expos found themselves in contention late in the season against the Phillies, but again came up just short. There was lots of promise for the next campaign, though, and the Expos were now considered among the elite teams in baseball. They were now taken seriously as a threat to take it all. The following season, in 1981, the Expos reached the upper echelon by winning the National League East division title. It was a strike-shortened season, however the Expos came on strong in the second half to take the pennant. 
 Reaching the World Series was now a strong possibility, and not a pipe dream. The Expos went on to face the Dodgers, the National League West division champions, for the National League Championship series. The winning team would go on to the World Series for all the marbles. I was now a teenager, and as the fates would have it, my mom chose to remarry and move to the U.S. at that very moment. I was now far removed from the excitement and World Series frenzy that had captured the imagination of Montreal, Quebec, and Canada. Because the Expos were a Canadian team, they were barely covered in the media where I was now living. Looking back, perhaps it may have been a mixed blessing. I was not there for the heart breaking game 5 loss that sent the Expos packing for the off-season. I did manage to see the game on tv, when Rick Monday blasted the tie-breaking home run off Steve Rogers in the top of the ninth inning. To this day, the armchair pundits (my dad included) lament the decision made by then manager Jim Fanning to send Rogers (their ace pitcher) in relief (rather than Jeff Reardon, their ace closer).
 The following year served as a sort of coming out party for the Expos, as Montreal hosted the 1982 All Star game. Four Expos were selected for the starting line up, including: Gary Carter, Andre Dawson, Tim Raines and Steve Rogers. It was the first All Star game to be played outside of the U.S. and it gave the rest of the baseball world a peek at how amazing the electricity was over this team up north of the border. It was a huge deal in Montreal and the rest of Canada, and for me even more so as it was played the day before my 14th birthday. I was really happy to be back in Quebec that summer visiting my dad. We didn't go to the game, but it was still exciting watching it on tv. The event helped wipe away a little of the bitter disappointment from the previous year's setback.
Throughout the rest of the 1980's into the early 1990's, they had bounced between mediocre and good, but never great. I had lost pretty much all interest by 1985, the year they traded Gary Carter to the New York Mets. In his place they got a few journeymen players, but nobody nearly as powerful in stature and in the field as him. It was a sad day for many Montreal fans, as he was truly adored by the masses. He never shied away from a camera or microphone, so his accessibility was a unique thing for the press as well as the masses. One flash of the trademark grin of his, and he had the media eating out of the palm of his hands. Perhaps if there was one criticism against him, it would be just that. He did have a bit of an ego, in the sense that he basked in the spotlight. In fact, that was one reason why my dad wasn't completely sold on him. He truly admired his skills as a ball player, but he felt he was a bit too much of a showboat. For a kid like me, though, this made him larger than life. 
Number 8 was just as heartbroken to be leaving the club and city he called home for so many years. This was strictly business, though, and the Expos were not in the financial position to hold on to him any longer. The trade turned out to be a good thing for his career, ultimately. He went on to the World Series in 1986 with the Mets, and proved to be an instrumental part of winning the coveted title he never won with Montreal. He had also become a hero to the New York fans, and therefore the rest of the U.S. finally caught on to his greatness. 
 Since I was no longer living in Canada, I wasn't really able to keep up with the team as much as I used to. My dad would fill me in over the phone, but I could sense that he too had lost a great deal of the passion he used to have for the team. Occasionally he would send me newspaper clippings of the goings on with the club, but most of the time it was about how the Olympic Stadium was falling apart and how they never managed to find the money to build an actual roof for the place. Someone came along with the bright idea of using a retractable nylon canopy structure, which of course ripped wide open during a torrential rain storm. This was pretty much indicative of the way the club was going. They never seemed to be able to overcome the bitter disappointment of losing that key game to the Dodgers. 
Still, though, one thing the Expos always did right was building up their farm system for future prospects. They managed to groom players into superstars in the making. The last group of great prospects arrived on the scene in the early to mid nineties. By 1994, the Expos somehow managed to produce an amazing product, despite budget constraints and their home stadium falling apart at the seams. The club started off the 1994 campaign with a tremendous bang, and sent the signal to the rest of the major leagues that they were in it to take it all that year. They were dominant in the National League East, and even led the entire Major League in many categories. They had the best record, and most potent offence in baseball. This squad was led by an affable manager named Felipe Alou, who had a long and storied career in baseball (as a player and a coach).
 Felipe Alou had been with the Expos since the seventies, in various capacities. The manager was embraced by the fans and media alike as a hometown icon, just as much as any of the great players were. Alou led his young group to dominance through patience, and faith in their abilities. He was soft spoken and humble, always smiling. This young group included his own son, Moises, who was an outstanding outfielder and power hitter. Alongside Moises was a young Canadian-born outfielder named Larry Walker, who would go on to win multiple batting titles throughout his career. The upstart Expos of 1994 had surprised the entire baseball world by finding themselves with a commanding lead in the rankings, about two months into the campaign. In fact, many pundits were already predicting this team to take the World Series. Once again, Montreal Expos fans had something to get excited about. 
The angry gods of fate struck the weary Expo organization and its fans once again that year. By June, the Major League was in the midst of a strike. Effectively, the stake had been driven right through the heart of the club, as well as the fans. The final nail was placed in the coffin, but not yet hammered in. The strike ended the Expos' improbable and glorious run atop the rankings, and the question now became "Could they have gone all the way?" The general consensus among the baseball world was a resounding "Yes!". Instead, the owners decided to resume the season with replacement players, mainly minor leaguers. The product was awful, and fans turned away in droves. 
Had the Expos gone on to the World Series, and won it, they would have reaped all kinds of financial rewards from the proceeds. They would have been financially secure, and would have reestablished the interest of the core fan base (many of whom had lost interest and stopped attending games). They could have afforded to keep key players, who thanks to the financial drain of the strike, left to bigger markets. They could have sold a high amount of season tickets and box seats. In a nutshell, they could have put a lot more asses in seats, and sold a shitload of merchandise. They could have generated enough political will to build a new stadium, which at this point was pretty much necessary to their survival. By 1995, the writing was on the wall, though it would take a few more years before it finally came down. 
The core of the hugely successful team of 1994 was pretty much decimated by the strike. The Expos once again had to rely heavily on their farm system and lesser known talent. They still managed to produce some quality major league players. Among the final group of potential superstars were: Marquis Grissom, Vladimir Guerrero,  Delino DeShields and John Van Der Wal (to name a few).  Despite their best efforts on the field, though, behind the scenes in the front office moves were being made to finally pull up stakes out of Montreal. There would be one last remarkable footnote to this organization known as the Montreal Expos, though. 
Gary Carter made one last return to Montreal in 1992. By this time he was in the twilight of his playing career, and was being groomed as a coach. He led this young and inexperienced club through example and dedication to a strong run that season, ending up in second place in the N.L. East. It was a fitting swan song for Carter, who got to end his playing career in front of his adoring Montreal fans in the city that gave him his start and arguably his best years in baseball. Carter went on to have a good career as a coach and analyst in baseball, primarily through the Florida Marlins organization. He never forgot what Montreal meant to him as a player, and chose to be inducted to the Baseball Hall of Fame as an Expo. It was a gracious gesture, as he could have chosen to be inducted as a New York Met, the team he won a World Series with. 
The Expos were eventually sold and relocated to Washington. They were renamed the Washington Nationals, and pretty much any tie to the original franchise is now extinct. It is a shame to think the team I grew up idolizing and following so dutifully is no longer around. The Expos were not just a baseball team, but they were also part of the cultural mosaic that was Montreal, Quebec and Canada all those years ago. There were no linguistic or cultural differences between the French and the English when it came to the Expos. We all loved them and sat side by side to cheer them on. They were also loved by a great deal of fans across the country, and it was only when the Toronto Blue Jays came into existence that loyalties became divided. 
This post is primarily dedicated to my first real hero, Gary Carter. He was a larger-than-life athlete, but also a guy I would have loved to meet as a young baseball fan. Sadly, Gary Carter passed away at the young age of 57 in February, 2012. It has taken me this long to write about him, as I still have a hard time believing he is gone. He was superhuman to me. I remember very well the drive to my grandparents' house in Pointe Claire, Quebec. There was a small (at the time) subdivision along the Trans Canada Highway Highway called Kirkland. I had heard or read somewhere that Gary Carter and his family lived there. In my young mind, I always thought it conceivable that I might see him driving by next to our car, and he would wave at me. I also thought it would be great for my dad to pull off the highway so we could look for his house. My dad never obliged, even though I dropped not-so-subtle hints. "Hey dad! Isn't this where Gary Carter lives?" My dad would reply "For the thousandth time son, yes it is!" I guess my dad thought at the time, as I do now, that it would have been a  bit creepy. I still think, though, that if Gary Carter were still alive, I would have felt like a little kid again if I had been fortunate enough to meet him. 

Gary Carter holding up the two caps he wore during his great career.

EPILOGUE

My passion for baseball pretty much died when the Expos folded and moved to Washington. The Blue Jays are still around, but they do not mean nearly as much to me as my hometown team did. So many great players, and colorful characters sat in that dugout during the team's history. The Olympic Stadium still stands in Montreal, but is more of a symbol of what the city used to be. It is a painful reminder of how great the city once was, and is more of a relic of bygone times. My dad still lives near Montreal, on his own now. He is more into hockey these days, as he finds comfort in his old age reclining on the Lazy Boy over a beer and hockey on a cold Winter Saturday night. He no longer has the house with the back yard perfect for listening to baseball, nor does he really have the patience to sit and watch a game that doesn't mean anything to him. He stuck with the Expos throughout their existence, however he too lost interest for the game once they folded. By then, baseball was big business, and players were being signed to ridiculous multi-million dollar contracts. Smaller market teams could not, and cannot compete with big markets like the Yankees. 
I guess in a way this post is also dedicated to my dad, as it was really through him that I became such an avid fan when I was a young boy. Baseball was a way for us to connect, and that is truly what the magic of the game of baseball is. The sport used to bring fathers and sons together, at the game or at home over a transistor radio broadcast in the back yard. Maybe I might reconnect with the game through my young son. If he does get interested in the sport, I would certainly reconnect with it. I would still like to take him to a game in the near future, when he is a little bit older and will be able to enjoy it. The atmosphere in today's stadiums is certainly not the same as it once was at Jarry Park all those years ago, but when it comes right down to it, the game is.   
       

                                                                                           

Journey To The Center of My Mind

There are times I set about writing a new post in this blog, only to realize that I have no idea where to start. This is one of those times. I usually start with a title, and decide where it will take me. Up until now, it has served me well as a platform to dive off of. I do find the title "Journey To The Center of My Mind" quite catchy, but I can hardly take the credit for creating it. It was a song title of a modest chart hit from the 1960's (though I can't come up with the tune in my head, nor am I inclined to look up who released it). The title came to me from nowhere, as these things often do. It seemed to fit into my state of mind today, so I decided to run with it. The only problem is that I am running in circles. I had initially wanted to write about a camping trip / sojourn across the Mongolian landscape that I made with a good friend back in 1997. I think I will abandon that for the time being, though. I will more than likely explore that avenue in another post.
 As I mentioned, the title I came up seems to fit into my frame of mind at this time. It reflects my ongoing desire to explore my past and reconcile it with my present. I often think back to my youth, and in the caverns and catacombs of my memories I try to remember what the interior of my childhood home looked like, or the halls of my elementary school. I also conjure up images of a young boy riding his bike down streets and through fields, on a quest to see what was beyond the comfort zone of my street and neighborhood. I realize I have a romanticized version of childhood, but the town I grew up in and the era in which I grew up was pretty ideal. 
I have fond memories of Summer evenings after dinner, playing hide and seek with my brother and the kids on my street. Our parents never worried too much about where we were, because there were far fewer boogeymen to worry about back then. It would only be when it was bath time or bed time when we would be summoned home by our yelling mothers and fathers from our respective front doors. Having grown up in a somewhat large town in Quebec, I was privileged to associate with both English and French kids. We played together, went to school together, and lived harmoniously side by side. 
Unfortunately, as the years progressed, politics ruined all of that. Most of those families, particularly the English ones that I knew so well are long gone - as am I. Truth be told, I haven't gone back there in years, even decades (even though my father still lives about half an hour away). I actually pass by the town on the way to visit him (on the rare occasion that I do), but for some reason I keep driving rather than cutting through to see the old neighborhoods. Actually the reason is that every time I take that side highway by my hometown, there is a voice that rings in my head telling me "You can never really go back". Perhaps my rationale is that I don't want to ruin that ideal version of my youth that I have cultivated over the years. Maybe driving by the old house would trigger other memories that I have buried. 
There definitely were unhappy ones, such as my parents gathering my siblings and I down in our playroom to inform us of their plans to divorce. At eight years old, I really didn't grasp all the implications of it. My sister was only five, and my brother at the age of ten was thrust (unfairly) into the role of the man of the house. There was great confusion in my young brain, as to what it all meant. It had finally sunk in when my father packed up and moved out of our family home to live across town with another woman. My mother was obviously devastated and humiliated, as back in those days, divorce was akin to a scandal. She was vengeful toward my father, though in an extremely passive aggressive sort of way. One might even say that she would go as far as to manipulate situations in order to make my father's new life hell. Actually, I will go on record and say that is exactly what happened. I heard about these things, witnessing and hearing several heated arguments between my father and his second wife, who was the least subtle person I have ever known (especially when drinking). 
I wonder what it would be like, to be able to snap my fingers like Uncle Arthur from "Bewitched", and be able to go back and  view such episodes under some sort of cloak of invisibility. I wouldn't necessarily want to focus too much on the negative moments. I would like to see that young boy riding through the summer breeze on that 3 speed bike. I would like to see the look of euphoria on his face, as he feels the freedom, yet the inherent danger of exploring parts unknown and far from home. I would like to know if that memory of standing out in front of the house on Christmas Eve (probably around the age of three), watching the snow fall gently under the streetlight was true. If so, was it as profound as I believe it to be now? On the negative side, I would also want to witness bits and pieces of the young boy's perspective of his parents' divorce, so I might better grasp what makes him tick as an adult. 
From all accounts I was a really polite boy, eager to please the adults around me. Perhaps digging deeper into it, I think it was because I was aware of my mother's fragile state of mind. I didn't want to add to her pain, having seen her break down a few times. I was also scared that my father would abandon me even further, to the point of disappearing from my life altogether. 
To cap this off, I understand that I am not a psychologist, nor am I seeking therapy of the professional kind. I am constantly trying to understand myself, though. I am aware as I get older that there is a need to rid myself of certain baggage, in order to be a better father and a better husband. This is truly what I want, and what really drives me these days. This is as I said earlier, my catharsis and means to bridge past and present together.    

One Last One

I have to make one final post today. That is to wish my boy a wonderful, Happy Birthday coming up on Sunday. He is turning two years old. Today he is having a surprise birthday cake at his daycare, and his mom will be showing up early to take part. He is starting to grasp the concept about his special day, and has seen other toddlers getting cakes over the past several months. As such, he gets quite excited over people singing "Happy birthday to you....". No telling how he will react to being the center of attention, however he is quite accustomed to that at home. 

Anyhow, mommy and daddy are taking him to the zoo tomorrow as part of his birthday weekend, and he is getting a special cake at home, adorned with Woody and Buzz icing and decorations. I'm pretty sure if he hasn't fully grasped the concept yet, he will certainly be primed for his birthday by next year. 

Still hard to imagine that two years have passed since we welcomed him into the world. As much as I am enjoying watching him grow and develop, I know there will be one day soon when it seems like it all passed by so fast. I will no doubt be proud of the young man he grows up to be, but I will surely miss that little boy who likes being enveloped in daddy's arms. I will miss the little boy who comes running full speed to the front door for a hug, yelling "Daddy daddy!!!" when I come home from work. I will miss the little boy who manages to find moles and scars or blemishes on my arms, calling them "boo boo's" as he picks at them. I will surely miss our short car trips in the mornings to daycare, where he laughs at daddy's corny jokes or cartoon voices. 

As he grows into a young boy and then into a young man, we will find new ways to relate to each other. There will without doubt be tests to our relationship along the way. I just hope he grows up knowing how much his dad loves him, and that he will always have his back. To wrap this up, I wish my boy a very happy 2nd birthday. May you always be happy and successful, however you choose to define it. May you always feel secure in the knowledge that your parents love you and support you. 

Love,

Daddy

The Office Finale

Normally I don't write reviews of television shows or movies, but for sentimental reasons several themes touched upon from last night's "The Office" finale struck some chords. Probably as with most fans, "The Office" drew me in early on, but I slowly lost interest after Steve Carell left for greener pastures. Still, I tuned in semi-regularly when they brought in James Spader as Robert California. I had high hopes for his character, as he had great potential as a foil. His interview with Jim and Toby remains one of my favorite moments. 
Unfortunately, Spader's character did not evolve the way I had hoped. From that point forward, it became a bit of a strain to tune in week after week. A couple of new characters came into the mix, such as Gabe. I thought he had some great moments, particularly in the love triangle between he, Erin and Andy. He had become creepily obsessive over her, and the actor (name eludes me) played it so well. There were some good dynamics happening with the second-tier starring players as well. 
Namely, Dwight Schrute's character arc had evolved considerably. At first he was the over-zealous ass kisser to the Regional Manager (Michael Scott). He would stop at nothing to please his boss. He always ended up looking like a bumbling fool. When it became obvious that Michael never intended to have him promoted, Dwight became much more devious and cynical. 
Dwight had always considered Jim Halpert his arch nemesis, however they grew to respect one another through their elaborate series of pranks. It was nice to see that they grew to the point of considering one another true friends by the end. It was even at Jim's behest to the corporate head that Dwight be installed as the new Regional Manager at the end. That and being his "Bestest Mensch" was a really nice touch. Dwight's final words about his "subordinates", and whether or not he considered them friends, was incredibly touching. Especially when he referred to Pam Beasley-Halpert as his best friend.
At any rate, there were some very poignant moments in the finale, and it made sticking through the show's decline in quality really worthwhile. Michael's appearance at the wedding, while not exactly a big surprise, was done so well. For several years he played such a polarizing, socially awkward figure. He emerged after years away a changed man, much more at peace with himself. He had married his true love Holly, and they went on to have two kids together. Michael spoke very little, but what few words he did say, were perfectly executed. One last "That's what she said" had me laughing out loud. He appeared very much as the proud father of this weird, dysfunctional family. 
My final thoughts go to the very ending of the episode, when Jim and Pam each had their final interviews with the camera. Jim saying how incredible it is, having the most wondrous moments of his life documented on camera. From the moment he met his wife, to falling in love with her, to marrying her and then having a family with her. It is all there on tape. How many people wish they could have that? What started off as a documentary about working in a somewhat boring job, became all of this. Pam then saying how easy it is to fall into traps of putting things off and not realizing what they have in front of them. It took her four years, and almost marrying the wrong man to finally realize the man she truly loved was working four feet away from her the whole time. It was a beautiful touch having Creed playing and singing that stirring melody as well. 
Finally, perhaps the most sage words came from the one and only Andy Bernard. He started off the episode as pathetic as he had become over the past several years. He had reached his zenith of humiliation when his meltdown  A Capella audition had become viral. Nobody believed him about finding a job at his beloved Cornell. He proved it by finding a You Tube video of his commencement speech to the graduates. Andy's final words were so true, and to the point of things I touch upon in my blog about the ageing process. We never seem to realize it in the moment, when we are experiencing the best of times. We usually only recognize it after the fact.  This is especially true later in life, as I question whether or not I truly did seize such moments with all gusto.Just like Jim said, all of it would be incredible to have it all packaged up in a neat video documentary.    

Everything In Its Right Place

Lately I have been digging through some old gems gathering cobwebs in my CD rack and discovered Radiohead's "Kid A" album. Music, particularly albums such as this one brings me back to a time and place so long past in my life. I had been planning to write about where I was physically and mentally when I sat down and listened to this album for the first time, but somehow it does not translate well on to the written page. I actually did write a long diatribe before this one about my state of being when I moved out to Vancouver. Having read through and edited it, I felt that it came across way too self-indulgent. Suffice to say, though, this album stirs up a lot of buried feelings of isolation, loneliness and even anxiety. 

One might say that perhaps it is not healthy to revisit these feelings and memories, so it is best to put the CD right back on the rack and never listen to it again. I would respectfully disagree with myself, because re-visiting these moments helps me to appreciate where and who I am now that much more. I do reserve the right, though, to come back to Vancouver several times or never at all.   

As I wiped my original draft away, which consisted of several hours and days of typing, I cursed myself. I thought that perhaps I was over-analyzing things and worrying too much about the person(s) reading this blog. Perhaps I should be self-indulgent, as this is my project after all. This really is about me, and if the reader does happen to find any nuggets of wisdom or entertainment out of it, then that's great. It is not, however, the primary purpose of this exercise. More to the point, this is my release, of what has been going on in my mind and life for several years. It is purely autobiographical, but I do think some of my themes are universal. For instance, parenthood and raising a young child(ren). This is a topic which gives me great joy to write about, and I simply can't help writing about my incredible young boy. 

As the summer approaches, I think about the many ways that I used to enjoy the simple things in life. A beautiful sunny afternoon, out in the back on my lawn chair, listening to music and drinking beer. Ah....I can hear that familiar pop of the bottle cap and the feel of the moisture from the bottle now. Eventually I would muster up the energy to fire up the barbecue for my mouth-watering steak. These were simple hedonistic pleasures that I used to take full advantage of out in my little slice of suburbia. Things have changed a great deal since the arrival of my progeny, though, so these moments are fewer and further between. Take my music, for instance. There is very little opportunity to pop in the IPod or a CD these days. When I do listen to music, it is usually my boy's choice. His idea of good music is usually a hearty rendition of "Old Macdonald Had a Farm", or "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer". 

This will mark my fourth summer in our house with our quaint little back yard. As we only really get to enjoy it four or so months out of the year, my desire to simply sit and smell the roses grows really strong this time of year. The first two summers, again before our bundle of joy arrived, I would set up bird feeders. They would attract all sorts of lovely avian species. I particularly enjoyed visits from the Goldfinches. They are bright little yellow birds that squeak rather than chirp. The yard is bordered by a hydro corridor out back, so it is nice not to have neighbors behind us. The field is home to all sorts of interesting wild life, including pheasants. One spring morning we awoke to find 5 young pheasants eating discarded birdseed on the ground, while their nervous father paced back and forth on high alert. Another time, I spotted an opossum rooting around in the grass from my kitchen window. Other exotic creatures we have espied include deer, falcons, foxes and coyotes. 

Two years ago, almost to this day, my son was born. This will actually mark his third summer in life, though the first one he was merely a newborn baby. Instead of dwelling on what used to be, I find myself marveling at just how fast he has grown. Looking at pictures marking the seasons, he was in his tiny swing chair on a table that first summer. He was merely a couple of months old. The second summer, we have pictures of him in his playpen, as well as crawling and eventually on his two feet. Last summer was truly remarkable in terms of the milestones he had reached. he was naturally curious last summer (still is), and was determined to crawl or stumble his way to places he shouldn't have been. We had to constantly hover around him to correct course. This summer, as I mentioned, he will be out there on his new slide, playing with rocks and toys, and still going places he shouldn't be going to. He talks so much now, and usually when we are outside he wants his daddy to come and play with him.

  As much as I crave the chance to enjoy my summer in my own unique way, I realize that I feel fulfilled in a much different way now. Playing with my son, teaching him to climb his slide without rocks in his hands, telling him not to poke his eye out with sharp sticks....these are how my summer Saturday and Sunday afternoons will be filled. It also appears his mother has plans to put a small wading pool somewhere in the tiny lot. The yard space is suddenly at a premium, and I still haven't put up our tent /gazebo. That in itself takes up nearly the entire space. My wife has designs on pretty much ripping out every root in the garden beds, as well as cutting down trees and cleaning out shrub. Between my wife and my son, I let out a wistful sigh and resign myself to the responsibilities at hand. Somewhere in between, somehow, I expect I will manage to slip in a couple of cold ones and some music sessions here and there. Perhaps, if my timing is right, I might even have a cigar and some fine grilled meat. Well, I already know what I want for Father's Day.....question is, will I get it? 

Snail's Pace

This great writing project I resolved to undertake is going ever-so-slowly (hence the post title). It is partly due to current circumstances such as parenting a young boy, daily routines at work and home, and just plain indifference towards the whole exercise. I sometimes hearken back to days and nights, spent holed up in my various flats I occupied in Mongolia as I spent hours drinking beer, listening to music and writing in my journals. There was much inspiration to be had from my thoughts pertaining to solitude and isolation, relationships, and life in general as a stranger in a strange land. I like to think I came out of that two year experience a better writer, but in reality it was an exercise in self-indulgence.
I debated with myself often in those journals whether or not I would share them with my future wife and child(ren). I haven't done so as of yet. Actually, most of it would be incomprehensible to my two-year old son anyway. I haven't shared any of it with my wife. She did not know me back then, and if she had, she would have had nothing to do with me. She knows I am no paragon of virtue, so that is probably sufficient information in itself. Every now and then when I have a few moments to myself, I blow off the cobwebs and settle down to read through them again. As the years go by, the more distant these memories become. I don't doubt the authenticity, as it is all there in sloppy handwriting. I have not yet determined what to do with my tomes of drunken insights. I am thinking at this point that it might be appropriate to buy a bottle of vodka someday (a perilous drink that I have not touched since returning back to Canada 14 years ago) and polish it off with a good old-fashioned book burning ceremony. It is probably time to finally put that chapter / those chapters to rest.
I am wrestling with my conscience as I write this, and odds are I will not end up doing what I just said I would do. One thing is sure, though - the life I led and the experiences I had in Mongolia are definitely a fading object in my mind's rear-view mirror. Marriage and fatherhood have completely changed my outlook on life. I no longer have the luxury of time to indulge in my whims, nor do I really have the desire to. I do think about the friendships I forged over there, and often wonder what those friends are like now. I sometimes selfishly wonder if they ever think about me, as I do them. I often wonder if they, like me, settled into family life and (unlike me) never really gave their past a second thought. In this age of instant information,  it wouldn't be too difficult to track some old friends down. I imagine many of them do keep in touch through Facebook. Personally, I struggle with the concept of putting myself out there.
First and foremost, as I grow older, I tend to prefer remaining somewhat anonymous. My present-day clique consists of my wife and son, and I like it like that. I also remain leery about reconnecting with old friends, because I wonder to myself if I would have all that much in common with them anymore. I know I have changed a great deal, and I am sure that they have too. We came together in a unique fashion, in that we were cast together through a shared volunteer experience in a strange and very foreign country. Fact is, time has not stood still for any of us. We have compartmentalized memories of one another, however we are no longer those same people that met and fell in with one another so easily.
 There is something to be said about hanging on to the mystique of "What ever became of......" so and so. I like to imagine that everybody I knew went on to have great lives after leaving Mongolia. Odds are that probably isn't the case. It took me a very long time to get there, so I can imagine others had bumpy roads along the way too. As aimless as I was over there, I was even more adrift when I returned back from my two year sojourn. At least in Mongolia, I had gained some level of confidence in my teaching abilities, however I was not so sure I wanted to continue that path back in Canada. The longer it took me to decide as I bounced from job to job, and from couch to couch, the less sure I was about teaching again. Truth be told, I managed to pull it off in Mongolia just by virtue of my ethnicity and mother tongue. I knew I could not pull that off here. Alas, though, this is another tangent that could be best dealt with another time when I feel the inspiration to write again. Judging by the snail's pace I am going at now, it will probably be in the next six months or so. Until then, "bayartai" or "so long".

Waters of March

This is the English translation of the title of one of my favourite Brazilian compositions, "Águas de Março", by the one and only Antonio Carlos Jobim. The Brazilian (Portuguese) version was sung so beautifully by Elis Regina, who featured prominently on several other samba masterpieces of the time. The English version is lesser-known, but was sung by a famous performer from the sixties: Art Garfunkle. This version was included on his greatest solo effort, "Breakaway". 
Why I just went into all this background, I am not sure. However, it only seemed appropriate considering I was using the title of the song as my header for this piece. The song, much like how I hope to approach this post, is a meandering contemplation of life and nature. As I grow older, I am more drawn to these types of themes in writing, music, films, what have you. Perhaps this why I would consider myself a fan of Terrence Malik's films, though I have only seen one ("The Thin Red Line"). I have read so much about "Tree of Life", but due to my current set of circumstances I have not had the opportunity to see it. Actually, I have not seen a film in a very long time, and admittedly I do go through withdrawal occasionally. 
The reason I haven't seen any movies as of late is because I am father to an infant boy. What free time I do have once I get home from work and on weekends is devoted to my boy. He is our only son, and will probably be our only child. We are both growing older, and we are racing against biological clocks. Actually, my wife is. I am racing against becoming a middle-aged man, and thus having enough energy and patience to deal with two young ones as opposed to the one we already have. By the time I do get through my day and evenings with my son, and tending to whatever chores I am able to, I feel too tired to watch a movie. I might watch an hour of t.v., but it has to be really light fare.  

January 17, 2013

I don't recall when I actually wrote the above entry, but it seems like a long time ago. It seemed to have started off so well, with meandering thoughts of nature and the link to the beautiful melody of "Águas de Março". Then I proceeded to draw a film comparison of that stirring, meandering song about the wonders of nature to the works of Terrence Malik (I have still only seen one of his films). From there I digressed into complaining about not having the luxury of being able to see any movies since I have an infant boy. That part is still for the most part true (my boy is actually a toddler now), so it couldn't have been that long ago I started this blog. 
My boy is growing up so fast, and while he is only 20 months old, I find my memory is slipping about details of his infancy. It seems like a lifetime ago that we were rocking him to sleep in our arms, or pushing him around in a stroller. He is walking and gradually picking up his pace to a trot on occasion. He has a real spirit to him, great sense of humour and at times a streak of defiance and stubbornness about him. He gets his sense of humour and good-nature from his dad, while the defiance and stubbornness runs in his mother's genes.
Like all parents, we tend to think our son is pretty handsome and highly intelligent. Unlike all parents, we can actually back up our claims (had to throw that in!)! No, honestly, we are incredibly proud of our son, and he does certainly amaze us on almost a daily basis. I do think he has a pretty good grasp on vocabulary for a child his age, and that he speaks very clearly. Since he started talking, probably around the age of 8-9 months or so, most of his first big words were animals that he had learned from various videos and books we showed him. It has always made me feel good knowing that my child is developing a sense of appreciation and interest for the animal kingdom. I am looking forward to sharing my interest in photography of birds and animals with him in the years to come. At least until he decides that it isn't that cool to hang around taking pictures in parks with his old man.   
Recently we had our second Christmas with him in our lives. He was only about 6 months old during the first one, so he really doesn't remember any of his first one. This year he became familiar with his new idol, Santa Claus. It is now almost a month after the fact, and we are still hearing his name and repeated requests to hear "Santa Claus is Coming to Town". Santa, Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer, and Frosty the Snowman and Cookie Monster are the most influential characters in his life these days. It is incredible that he knows the first line to many of the songs, and manages to throw in a couple more words as the song continues. It is so fun and heart-warming to hear my boy singing, even when I take him to lie down for bed at night. He sings the lines out loud, and realizes that it is bed time, so he then goes on to whisper the songs until he goes to sleep. 
He is also very enthusiastic about a couple of other characters and songs. Biggest non-Christmas character has to be Cookie Monster. "C is for Cookie" is on constant rotation with You Tube, as is anything Elmo. I do think Sesame Street videos have really helped him expand his vocabulary, and of course reading and story time at daycare. I think my boy also finds it amusing that his dad can actually sound like some of the Sesame Street characters. He likes me reading his books in their voices, as well as singing their songs in the car on the way to daycare in the mornings. I know I have met his approval if he tells me "Again!" from his seat in the back.
At any rate, here I am talking about my boy again, without really having intended to at such great length. This was supposed to be about me, dammit! What about me and my needs? Why don't I ever get to watch movies or listen to music anymore on a Sunday afternoon? Of course I am being facetious, and the reason is because of the very things I was just talking about. As much as I would like to maybe steel away one afternoon and delve into my extensive Steely Dan music library, or plop down in my easy chair and while away the hours over a Kubrick marathon in the basement, I am okay with waiting for it. Right now I don't want to miss anything in my boy's young life, holding him and hugging him while he slips his arms up my sleeves and digs and scratches my boo boos (He has been doing this since he as about 6 months old, and I am not sure why - except to say that it somehow makes him feel secure and connected to his daddy). I wouldn't want to be selfish with my time, and look back and think that I missed out on so much. I want my boy to know that his dad will always have time for him. 
So anyway, I guess that is where I am at today. Best to leave on that note until I think of something more profound to say (probably in another year or so)!