Dentist

You know the drill

I'm lying back on a long white lounge chair. It looks comfortable but it really isn't. There is a headrest its job is to keep my head in place. My head is not the problem. It's my neck or rather the pain in my neck. Today is just a cleaning. It should be quick. At least that's what I tell myself. The hygienist is a sweet girl and she wants to talk. I am wearing dark glasses. Strangely, there are two complimentary things they give you at my dentist:  A TV to watch and glasses that make it almost impossible to watch. I politely engage in conversation until she sticks a little mirror in my mouth. I wonder what's going through her mind. "Holey plaque Batman this going to take a while" I stop talking but she continues for my listening enjoyment. The is a TV hanging from the wall.  A renovation show is on. I'm looking through glasses once worn by Roy Orbison and wishing I could find the remote to either turn the TV up or turn her off. I find this intriguing. There is a renovation show on. It's a sales ploy. There is always a before and after. And like the show, somewhere between before and after there's a dollar sign. A little chisel here a little grinding there and bingo I have a gap for a move-in ready crown. 

A little extraction I mean distraction

I play golf in my mind while they take turns grinding and sucking my face. I remember the different courses I played and how I would play them on a perfect day. If this was a perfect day I wouldn't be lying on my back with my mouth open wide.  In this dreamy state, I play through the pain. I play nine holes during a cleaning and eighteen for more serious stuff. Luckily, today is just a cleaning but I have a date in three months for an eighteen-hole scramble and instead of the proceeds going to charity, they go into my dentist's pocket. 

Grade Nine

Measuring up

It’s the fall of nineteen-seventy-five.  And like every fall our mother is measuring us up, probably to see if she needed to buy school clothes. There is a door frame next to the kitchen etched with our measurements. The door frame where our young lives are marked up with lines and names.  I’m looking at the measurements. Mine and my brothers. I am hopeful but I know they have hit my mark and are way past it. My mark is stalled. My mother tells me to straighten up and stand tall, but four feet six inches only goes so far.  She balances a ruler on my head, and with a pencil, marks the spot.  Next to the spot, she writes my name. Only she doesn’t have to because nothing has changed. Writing my name at this point is for lack of a better word, pointless. Everyone knows the lowest mark is mine.  She convinces me that my growth spurt will come. I, like I always do, shrug it off. I had another worry on my mind. High school. I was wondering about measuring up there too.

New school rule: Be cool.

It is the first day of high school.  Shawnee Secondary is a vocational school.  My grade six teacher, a man whose name I will not mention is involved in recruiting students for this new school. Apparently, I was on his list. I failed grade six and I guess it didn’t matter that I passed seven and eight.  Maybe it was payback because I hated him so much. The school is located on Empress Rd. Instead of walking west to grade school, I was now heading east to high school.  Both are a close walking distance from my home.   I’m wearing a Lee Jean jacket.  And although it wasn’t as cool as a Levi's jacket, it was still cool or at least affordably cool. My hair is parted in the middle and is at shoulder length. I look like a new girl rather than a new boy student.

Courage

The school looks like a jail. There are two huge glass doors. At least they looked that way to me. There is a cement walkway leading up to them. Beside the walkway, there are two flagpoles.  A Canadian and a Provincial flag hang motionless on this breezeless late summer morning.  The motion was left to me and when I say motion, I mean emotion. This was the entryway to a new life. I was expecting familiar things to happen. Grade school taught me that. I was freaking out. It didn’t take long. When I opened the doors, it happened. Some kid yelled out “Hey kid, grade school is across the street!” He was right. There was a grade school across the street. But I didn’t need the reminder that based on my size I belong there.  I enter and think. Here I go again….

Class

Rm 206 in my homeroom. This is the place where we meet before our first class and after our last class. I have enrolled in subjects that would complement my creative abilities. I choose Drama, Fine Arts and Drafting. Others include Machine Shop, Math, Science and Typing. Why typing was part of the curriculum, I'll never know. Qwerty what?  Physical education was mandatory I was just glad that showering with the other boys was not. I was embarrassed by my hairless small body. I took my shower at home.

A new song

I soon discover that the school has a band. Mr. Courtney is our music teacher. He looks more like a Shakespearean actor than a music teacher. His receding hairline is clinging to the long waves that have yet to surrender. He has a neatly kept beard. His dark eyes stare attentively at his students. His ear can pick up the slightest error in the wind or lack thereof in my case. He is wearing a black turtleneck and surprisingly he is the only person I have ever seen pull off the look. He asks for my name “Dennis Deschamps” I say.  “What can you play?” I reluctantly replied, “recorder that I learned in grade school and a little guitar” Then he asked, “What would you like to play?” I thought it would be cool to play the sax, so I said, “How about the sax?” Luckily for him, the sax position is filled. The sax was bigger than I was. I wouldn’t have had enough air to make any noise. We decided that the clarinet was best. I was glad it wasn’t the flute. Still, I was trying to find something macho to play. Clarinet! Who plays clarinet? I’ll tell you who. The best-looking girls in school played clarinet that's who. I went from the back of the house to the front row. It was a pretty good first day. I made some friends; I didn’t get beat up and I had a new musical toy to play with. Tomorrow was going to be another day and for the first time, I looked forward to going to school. 

Whoops

Whoops

 

The secret to staying young is to never act your age. 

When I was a teenager and even in my early twenties, I would surround myself with younger kids. These kids were my nieces and nephews. I was known as Uncle Denny.  There is nothing like the sound of children's laughter and there is nothing like making children laugh even if it's accidentally, which is what this next story is about.

I grew up playing street hockey and I was glad to see we had some up-and-comers to introduce to the sport. It didn’t matter if I went to their house or if they came to mine hockey was going to be played. On this day my nephew is playing goal.  He might have been six or seven at the time. His brother is playing defence. His dad and I were offense. I never had a fast slapshot and that shot was not allowed. However, my wrist shot was fast enough and just as deadly. 

Ouch!!!

In a regulation hockey net, my nephew stood like a garden gnome in front of a chain-linked fence.  He tried to fill the space sporting his best goalie pose. That's when I noticed a gaping five-hole. I waited for the pass.  In case you don't know what a five-hole is, it's open space between the goalie pads. That's where the shot was supposed to go. It was a simple one-timer.  I got the pass, and I let it fly. That orange plastic ball flew alright, right into his fly. Let's just say he made the save but he was bent over in pain. Uncle Denny just wrist-shot him right in the balls. I felt so bad, but he recovered and while he recovered his dad went in goal. Well, all I can say is, bigger five-hole, bigger balls. I tagged him too. I said, “It was an accident". “Twice?” They said. I pleaded my case to deaf ears. 

 There are many games in life. One game is called payback.

We continued to play, and I promised to behave myself. I was looking for other scoring opportunities. I was trying to knock the peanut butter off the shelf (the top right corner in the net) but the shot sailed over the backyard fence.

 The payback would soon come.

The comes a time when our childlike abilities meet adulthood reality. Like leaping over a fence for instance. If there is a hole in a fence you can crawl through, crawl through. But the little boy in me said "Wait a second, I can hop this"

 Sometimes the simplest hop is hopeless.  Especially, when that hop wipes you out. 

The hockey ball was probably a stick length away. But I was Uncle Denny. I could do it. Yes, I could. I convinced myself. I could but one foot got hung up on the top of the fence and before I knew it, I spun around and kissed the ground. I landed right on my chest. I heard two sounds: the wind escaping my lungs and three kids saying, "Uncle Denny are you okay?" I breathed in picked up the ball and said "Yes" Saying yes made it okay for them to laugh their tiny little butts off. They did and they still do whenever we think back to that time. I wasn't okay. I realized something that day.  I wasn't a kid anymore. At least not physically, the jury is still out on my mentality. Just kidding.

Found Money

It was a Saturday and like most Saturdays we had to find things to do. When we were not playing in the backyard or on the street we ventured elsewhere. Elsewhere always led to an adventure and the best adventures required bicycles. 

Our destination was Fast Eddie's to play pinball. Fast Eddies was located on Oullette Ave and Riverside Dr. The route we took was always the same. The path always started with the Saint Jules path. We would stop a second just to make sure our hockey card mufflers were still in place and continue to Pillette Rd. We headed north towards Seminole St. From Seminole, we'd ride west to Walker Rd. Walker to Ottawa St, Ottawa to Howard Ave. Howard to Giles Blvd then west to Oullette Ave. I don't know why I felt I had to tell you this, maybe just in case you wanted to bike from the east side of Windsor to downtown. 

Kreske's was a department store located on Oullette Avenue. We couldn't just pass it, we had to stop in. This store had everything a kid could want. We would go there and buy French fries at the snack bar. The store was so big it had a snack bar in front and one in the back.  Their French fries were almost as good as the Hi Ho. Lard is lard and we didn't care. We could usually scrap up enough money to buy a pop or a shake to go with the fries. 

One day while looking for toys I walked by a table. The table was filled with balls of yarn. Yarn never caught my eye but this day it did. On top of one of the yarn balls was a one hundred dollar bill. The right thing to do was to look for some old lady who might be missing it or at least tell the manager but peer pressure got the best of me so I pocketed the cash. Finders keepers losers weepers applied to grown-ups too. I'm sure I never mentioned this story at confession. Lucky for me that old lady would have to get her revenge in heaven. That is if I make it up there. However, I do believe I should get brownie points because I did divvy the money up evenly.

Our food choices changed a bit that day. It wasn't just fries and a pop; it was a large combo. A big fat juicy cheeseburger, a large fry and a large pop. The money was burning a hole in our pockets so it was no surprise that our next stop was the Nut House. Just to clarify The Nut House is a candy store. Their specialty was popcorn and you could smell it from Kreskes. We were powerless against the lingering vapours of freshly popped popcorn.  We all bought a caramel cornball and walked our bikes up the road to Fast Eddies. We had enough money left to play pinball to our heart's content. 

The adventure soon was over and we pedaled back reversing the route. It was just a hot summer day riding around with friends. The story would soon be forgotten but I will never forget that day we found a hundred dollars and how we spent it. Those two friends are no longer with us. This story I have resurfaced to honour them, our lives and times.  May my bodyguard and his brother rest in peace.

Grade Eight

  

 

Grade Eight

 

The Saint Jules path (as the kids would call it) was the way home after school but that path would have to wait, I was making a detour. The note that had me standing up in front of the class awarded me a walk home with the most beautiful girl in school. She had long brown hair, big brown eyes and a smile that melted this young boy’s heart. She wore a black dress with big yellow flowers and black pants underneath. Her brown and tan lace-up shoes had a little heel so I looked up to her. literally.  She knew walking home would have raised some eyebrows from her mother so we agreed that the park down the road would be the best place to part ways.

Alice Street Park was a field and because it had a slide and a pair of swings they had to call it a park, I guess. It wasn’t a very big park. One square block.  It was surrounded by three roads. Alice faced south.  Norman was on the east side and Olive Road was to the west. The latter was the road where my eventual sweetheart lived. In the park next to the swings, there is a small brick building which conveniently hid our after-school activities, at least from the vantage point of her house near the corner of Olive and Alice. It’s not like we had something to hide. We just hung out swinging. 

Suddenly, my days at school weren’t as bad. I had a reason to go to school. I looked forward to walking her home. We’d hang out on those rusty old swings until supper time and then I’d run as fast as I could to get home to scarf down dinner. I didn’t have to worry about the bullies; they were home long before I got to the ambush point. After dinner, I would run back or bike back to love our nest to the swings of Alive Street Park.

It’s amazing how fast two years go by. Before I knew it, I was in grade eight. I was still walking my sweetheart home and hiding in the park. Holding hands was a big step. This was Little League's first base. Let’s just say I was on first leaning toward second. I knew a home run was a kiss and I was scared to death. I had seen my parents do it on occasion. Usually a special occasion. So, not very often. Paralyzed by shyness I never hit it out of the park.

I had hired my friend to be my bodyguard, and the bullies gave up the fight. With me at least. I was still the smallest kid and school. We were all waiting for the growing spurt to happen. It never did. I started wearing my younger brother’s clothes. They were outgrowing them. Usually, kids wear out clothes, but my younger brothers grew too fast to wear them out. My mother had decided that they'd be good enough for me. Now I have heard of hand-me-downs, getting hand-me-ups is going too far. School picture day was always a surprise and my flair for fashion was not. My hair was parted in the middle almost shoulder length. I wore a vest covering a brown hand-me-up long-sleeve shirt and to complete the look, tan corduroy pants. I looked like a cute little girl, but I wasn’t a girl because a girl wouldn’t forget what shoes she was wearing. I will venture to guess running.

Grade eight was my favorite and My teacher Mr. Sasso was the best. He was a big, tall man of course from my vantage point everyone seemed big and tall.  He wore a tan corduroy blazer with dark brown patches on the elbows. A dark brown vest and matching polyester pants. The tie was optional, and he often opted for a big collared puffy colourful shirt instead.  He had a moustache, big dark brown hair and wore thick-rimmed glasses. He looked like a big hairy, somewhat fashionable giant.  Luckily, he was a friendly one.

He was the first teacher to really get me, and he even encouraged me to be more creative. Suddenly, getting caught doodling was okay and in fact, encouraged. I never could stand up in front of the class to give a speech. My words spoke with the images drawn on paper. Homework consisted of storytelling in cartoon form. Now, handing in projects was a joy. The gentle giant waited in anticipation for the stories that flowed from my pencil. All I wanted was a simple smile and what I received was a big giant grin. Acceptance is a smiling face and that was enough.  I started believing in me. I was only small on the surface; I was Walt Disney on the inside.

Grade eight flew by and so did love's first fling. I was off to a new school in September and the girl in the flowery dress was off to another. I never made it to home plate. Our goodbye was a hug and a tear I hoped she would never see.

It was the last day of school and he had one last lesson to teach.  Mr. Sasso brought in a record player. He played the song “Imagine” by John Lennon and asked the class what we thought about it. I was raised catholic so questioned the no religion verse. I was wondering why he would play this song in a catholic grade school. There was only one reason why he did so. To understand that life is all about what if. Imagination. I can see it clearly now. I didn’t then.

When we were young our life was all about what if. When we grow old what if becomes if only.  Imagination and regret. Using it or losing it. He made me promise on the last day never to lose it and because of him I never have. He is the reason I am writing to this very day. He believed in a little boy. And I am thankful.

 

A walk in the park is not just a walk in the park

Love the journey

Smell the flowers

Swing on a swing

And don’t forget to say

Weeeeeee!

Pick Your Battles

There was a time when I couldn’t wait to go to school. Of course I'm assuming here because I can't remember a time when  I did. There was also time I couldn’t wait to get home after school. The home part was great getting there was not so great.

It was grade six I had just found out that the one thing I was good at was not appreciated. Sister Kinga made that clear. But the sting of the pointer had passed and I was drawing more things. I know I said that I had to draw escape routes for after school, well, not really but escaping the punishment I would receive on the corner of Westminster and Empress was real. 

I will not go into detail about how often it happened but I will say it made me shut down even more. At home it was different. At home I could hide. My bedroom was my safe place. I would wash off the hurt and lay in my bed and draw. My parents never knew what hit me and I wasn't going to tell them. It was a different time then. 

It might seem strange to say but I'm thankful and trust me I wasn't at the time but looking back on those beatings it taught me a lesson. How to distract and although I know distraction is not necessarily a good thing, it was in my case. It taught me how to use my imagination. In my mind I could create a better world. 

Suddenly, I had a reason to run home aside from the obvious one. It didn’t matter how bad I was beat in the end could draw a win. I lost myself in creativity and what I found was joy. However, I still had some battles to face. 

I wasn't the only smallest kid school. There was another kid, his name was Roger. Roger and I stood eye to eye. Litterialy. We didn't hate each other but since the other kid couldn't pick on someone there own size, I guess we decided we needed to. Someone had to be the toughest small kid. 

There is a patch of grass between the basketball court and the makeshift ball diamond this the place where all fist fights happened. It didn't matter if you were a heavy weight or a light weight. 

One day I had my knees pressed down on Roger's shoulders. He was pinned to the ground and helpless. I was on top and I was letting the punches fly.  His face was a little bloody and I felt bad so I got up thinking the fight was over. It wasn't over. He got up dusted himself off and kicked my butt.

Watching from the perimeter of the crowd was a guy in a suit with a military brush cut. A major moron our principle without principles, Mr.V. There he was towering over the onlookers heads, looking over his thicked black framed glasses. This wasn't going to end well. The crowd scattered leaving us in a cloud of dust. Mr.V. raised his crocked finger, didn't even say a word, he just pointed toward the temple of doom. His office. 

Roger and I waited for the lashing. You would think that I would have had thick skin after the rath of Sister Kinga's pointer. That was nothing compared to the pain this man would unapologetically inflicted on us. 

I remember the scene. A grin curled up the corners his lips and his bottle pop glasses slide down his pointy sweaty nose. His hairy eyebrows met in the middle, looking like one long anger caterpilar. His bloodshot eyes were focused on his target. The smell of garlic came out his pores. The pain was coming and I knew what I had to do. So I imagined it was a scene from batman. I wasn't the Caped Crusader, this time I was the bad guy. I was the Joker who got caught fighting. Every blow came with a comic bubble "wam" " bam" "twack"  but It wasn't funny. We use to say "Give me some skin" I'm pretty sure that didn't include rubber or leather, whatever a strap is made of. 

The above straping story was meant for your amusement. I improvised just a bit but getting the strap did happen and it was not funny. I remember we both walked outside and parted ways, thinking that being the toughest small kid didn't matter much anymore.

When I was in grade eight I hired the kid across the street to be my bodyguard. He was in grade nine and on the way back home he'd stop by my school and check on me. Man could he fight. Grade eight was a very good year. That's another story. 

The cartoon I was inspired to draw just to see if I could do it. I think it turned out.  I think I captured my principle.

A Church

 Forgiveness

When I wasn't drawing cartoons or planning my escape routes for after school, I looked out the window at the church across the street. I will not go into detail about how I was bullied but the threat of being bullied found me searching for something outside. My life was different, but I was still upset with God for taking away my friend so early in her life. I was mad enough to shut down and distract myself from the truth. The truth was I was heartbroken in many ways.  Eventually, time heals all wounds and memory fades. At least the power that memory had on me.  

Hope

One day I was playing strikeout with my brothers. Strikeout is a variation of baseball.  A batter’s box is drawn on brick with chalk, replacing the catcher. All we needed was a pitcher and a kid to play the field. I was the pitcher, and my brother was at bat. The ballpark was between the wall of the gym and Norman Rd. The outfielder came out of left field. The church. Which was more like center field. Some guy in a black shirt and a white collar crossed the street.  He wasn’t a kid. Why would a grown man want to play strike out with us? Our church had a new priest. A much younger priest but as we found out, a child at heart. And just like any new kid in the neighbourhood, he just wanted to fit in. That day he had planted a seed.  My mother and grandmother fertilized that seed with prayers.

Chosen

There is a French-Canadian Catholic tradition when it comes to having children. The more you have the better the odds that one child will become a priest or a nun. My mother liked her odds, having seven. I was chosen to represent our family. I was the only one who didn’t bitch about going to church.  I was at the bottom half of the middle of the family tree. Because of this position, I craved attention. I wasn’t just trying to find favour with my mother and grandmother. I had to be in favour with everyone including God. I will add I still do today. 

Light

Saint Theresa's Church was bigger than most churches. The roof had a severe pitch even more severe than the fire and brimstone pitch that came from within its brick walls. The pews smelt of oil soap and glowed with help from the morning sun streaming through multicoloured stained-glass windows. The church like the school had airflow issues. The smaller window at the bottom didn't do much to improve it. The church was lit with rows of four-sided ornamental light shades hanging from the ceiling. Each light had chains for support and to hide the electrical wires. The grey smoked glass was cut into arches and held together with black metal each with tiny crosses on top.  There was something else hanging from the ceiling. More wobbling fans. I won’t go into detail because, well, fans are boring.

Clouds

Behind the altar, there is a huge risen Christ.  A new and improved version. The old version was gruesome and scary. The old version freaked me out. I remember being just a young boy. Oh, the things I saw. Old ladies with big blue hair, some still in curlers hiding under a flowery handkerchief. Some offered up their mink stoles as a sacrifice. They were tied around their overly perfumed necks.  I could see the varmints' teeth biting down on their tails looking back at me. They were preserved with hair spray and mothballs. The old bald men wore overcoats which they kept on for the whole mass, in case they needed a quick getaway after communion. The smell of Old Spice and Aqua Velva competed against old bag perfume and Aqua Net. Under the stink cloud, I played on the floor with the hat hook (my favourite toy in church) but most were occupied keeping fedoras in place.

Fear

My fear of God started when I first looked up and saw the crown of thorns. Seeing the blood flowing from his crucified body, I had to close my eyes and pretend I was praying or sleeping. I couldn’t sleep the pipe organ and the off-key chanting voices made that impossible. It was like a horror movie. I do remember sleeping once and to my mother’s embarrassment, being caught by the priest. I wasn’t really sleeping I was just praying really hard. Eventually, the movie ended.

Rise Up

I was older now and the church had been updated. The cement steps didn’t change and even the etched glass doors were the same. Inside there is a new plush rug leading down the center aisle. Behind the altar matching accent lines. In front of the lines, a new welcoming risen Jesus. Times had changed. The music had changed, and I had changed. I was still that painfully shy kid who hid in class and in the bushes after school but stirring inside me, my faith and wonder.

Pray

I would often walk to my school and sit on the front steps. The steps that faced the church. I would listen to the birds sing or to the whispers of angels. I had always felt the need to be alone. Alone, with my thoughts, my creativity, and my budding spirituality. Sometimes I’d pray. Sometimes I’d cry. Sometimes I just sat there and didn’t know why. I continued to sit there into my teens. I waited and I listened. I listened for God's call but in the meantime, I had some growing up to do.  Growing up would come later with the help of science and my mother. That is a story for another day. 

Thanks

My father once said “Son, when you get to my age, it’s all weddings and funerals and sometimes more funerals than weddings” I never gave it much thought then, but now that I am at the age when he said those words, I’m starting to see how true they really were. When I think of that church I am reminded of the scenes from my life. From my earliest scary moments to sad moments to moments of celebration. It was there always welcoming us in. It was home to our grief, our prayers and our hope.

A school, a church. A moment in time.

A family, one faith and the tides that bind.

A smile, a tear. A single bell chimes.

Gather everyone and have no fear.

You have found me.

I am right here.

Grade school

Grade School

 

Bricks, mortar and windows

 

Saint Jules looked like every grade school back in the '60s. It was a huge cookie-cutter brown brick building. All the classrooms had large windows, and every window had a smaller window underneath that when opened barely let in any air.

Take your seat

Our small desks survived generations of abuse. Each one had a hole at the top right-hand corner that once held ink wells.  The writing surface was also a lid hiding the contents inside. My desk contained coloured pencils, a yoyo, a baseball glove with a red, white and blue sponge ball and finally a brown lunch bag, on the days we didn't run home for lunch.  Inside the lunch bag was nothing too special: a PB and J sandwich wrapped in neatly folded wax paper and a red and green Macintosh apple. Sometimes we would have a treat: a few strawberry wafer cookies or ginger snaps. The sandwich I would devour minus the crust but the apple, I would shine up take two bites and toss. I never trusted apples. I had a bad worm experience once and it still haunted me. Luckily, it never went to my head. 

Unusual punishment

Sometimes, I would tuck in the palm of my ball glove the one thing a kid couldn't have in class: bazooka bubble gum. There was only one reason a kid chewed bazooka bubble gum apart from blowing bubbles: it came with a free comic. I had learned earlier that chewing gum in class would find you with that chewed-up gum stuck between your nose and the blackboard, glued to it until class was over or for whatever time the teacher thought you deserved. I had already found out that passing love notes to the girl ahead of me was a bad idea. I had to stand in front of the class holding bibles with my outstretched arms and palms. I wasn't going to chance it.

Classroom decor

All the classroom walls were painted light green and had a black and white cursive writing border running along the top. Above our desks, a row of wobbling ceiling fans dangled from a once white now cobwebbed ceiling. The fans hardly moved any of the stale air, it was more like an amusement park ride for black flies and yellow jackets. "Wee" Every class had a crucifix above the door and a religious statue on the windowsill, a reminder that God was watching and if he wasn't he had someone on inside to do the job.  

The slippery slope

My teacher was a tall man and looked like Bob Hope or at least his nose did. He liked to look down that nose at us kids. He had a big old maple desk, obviously he was compensating for his lack of authority. On top of the desk at each corner those Bibles waited for anyone who would challenge him. We were taught to fear God and I knew firsthand not to push it.

Scribble or doodle

It is grade five and like most of my classes, I am disengaged. I had found ways to hide. I sat at the back of the class hiding behind bigger kids, zoned out hoping I wouldn't get called to answer a question. Everyone sounded like Charlie Brown's teacher. I was listening to the sounds of birds outside the window and the sounds of passing cars below. I had time, imagination and I best of all a scribbler. Funny, they called our notebooks scribblers. Still, I would get in trouble when I scribbled in it. I guess there’s a difference between scribbling and doodling and I would find out a year later.

The cartoonist

I was getting to be a bit of an artist. I must have received my gift from My dad who could draw horses, the real thing and he was also pretty good at turning the Saturday news into a hat. My horse was a cartoon version. One day, at the Hi Ho, a girl who was much older than me, taught me how to draw a dog. It didn't take me long and I soon turned that dog into a cat. All I needed was a couple of pointy teeth and pointy ears. 

From animals to people

Eventually, I moved on to people. My brother would ask me to draw the members of KISS which I did to his enjoyment. I was glad he just wanted the faces. I wasn't great from the head down. The cartoon I loved to draw the most was an old man sitting at the kitchen table reading the paper. The old man resembled my old man complete with brush cut and stubble. On the table was a coffee cup.  The cup had wisps of steam rising above. I don’t know why I had to emphasize that the coffee was hot. In his mouth a cigarette dangled, and the smoke mingled with the steam. This was to set the stage and to hide the areas of the body I wasn't good at drawing yet. All I needed was a head and two hands or in this case, a head, three fingers on each hand and hidden thumbs.

Caught in the act

There was only one person who didn't like my cartoons.  Her name was Sister Kinga. One day, I had my scribbler open sideways to hide the evolving creation. The picture was a cartoon of a nun and not just any nun, the spitting image of Sister Kinga in cartoon form. It was as close as a grade school kid could get without taking a picture. Sister Kinga was our music teacher. Years earlier she taught percussions only it wasn't skins and sticks. It was two tubular pieces of wood called, claves. The first music lesson was about timing. I found out later that my timing was bad. 

A critics punishment

Now our music class was learning to play the recorder. My class was, I wasn't and didn't care to. I figured I'd just hide like I always did and scribble. She wouldn't even notice. Hey! I had the book. I guess she had an ear for music. She could hear one less recorder. She could hear one less kid blowing his brains out. I was caught with my head down with my recorder leaking drool on my lap. For some reason, she didn't appreciate my artwork. It didn’t matter that I didn’t appreciate continuously playing” Mary Had a Little Lamb" This was the day I learned that a pointer was not a baton: it was a weapon.  My tiny talented hands felt the sting of that pointer and the rath of an angry little old nun. I had learned my lesson. Did I kick the habit? Sort of. Later the cartoons became impressions. Not surprising some people didn't like them either but that's another story.

Finding Jesus

Have you found Jesus? How many times have you heard someone say that? I was at the coffee shop the other day and I saw a lady sitting at a corner table. She was sipping a cup and chatting with a friend. I could have sworn she was my cousin. I didn't want to appear rude, so I walked over. On the way, I noticed she wasn't my cousin, and I apologized for my intrusion. She said, "No problem" and she continued with "Maybe there was a reason why I was sent to her table. Have you found Jesus?"  My response was "Yes I have" We both shared a "God bless you" I knew she wasn't Catholic because she never said" And with your spirit" I politely smiled and walked back to my table. There were other responses I could’ve used for the, have you found Jesus question? I could have used. "I am a believer, but I am no homecoming queen" or "No but I'll let him know you're looking for him if I do” This was from one of many pages in my self-published book collecting dust in my brain. The title of which is "The Art of Sarcasm, vol 3" subtitled "The God Conundrum"

 The chosen few

I find it interesting that the door-to-door salespeople for God would want to evangelize the world. Especially, when they believe there's only room for ten thousand in heaven. I seem to remember the verse that everyone had a room in heaven. Apparently, the suites are left for the best of the best. My mind ponders the business of belief or whose business is it if or what we believe. Suddenly, I start to imagine just because that's what I do. Hey! I must write about something. So, here's the flavour of the day.

 The people with the plan

I wonder if they have a marketing plan. I can almost see it. In some living room stands a whiteboard and a top spiritual recruiter. He is holding a felt-tipped marker and the eternal hopes of all his attendees. "Okay, this is you” he draws a little circle "and these are all the souls you have saved” More circles. He explains "If you help twelve people find God and if these twelve find twelve people, you will achieve the status known as silver wings” He continues "The silver wing tier is the first rung on the stairway to heaven" The living room is buzzing with enthusiasm or sleeping. Okay, just me. He explains "There are many rungs on the way up the ladder and it might take a lifetime to get to the top but one day you will reach the tier known as the golden thorn" 

 The Selection process

Suddenly, a cloud forms around my mind. I have seen many marketing plans, and the clouds always show up just before unconsciousness. The scene changes.  The place is heaven or rather the lobby in Hotel Heaven. The Crownies as Saint Peter called them are waiting to check in. Apparently, the only way to check in is to check out. The marble floor is massive with columns circling the outer edges of the lobby. Beyond the columns are white puffy clouds and the exit door leading to purgatory. Everyone is in full golden thorn attire, long white gowns and golden thorn crowns. One hundred thousand people, waiting for their promised room. Saint Peter is seen scratching his head. He stands at the podium looking down at the mass. He raises up two fingers and the crowd is silenced. The selection begins. " Eany meany miny Moe catch an angel by the toe"  Back on earth the cloud vaporizes and I'm back in the living room. The meeting is over the recruiter is signing up people and I do what I always do, crawl towards the back door and run for the hills.

 The Big Leagues

I am Catholic and I know I don't practice as much as I should. There is only one reason why I don't. I don’t want to be a professional. My mother went to church every day.  She was a superstar. I decided that I just didn't want to be that good. My biggest fear is being called up to the big leagues. I know the big leagues are up in heaven and I'm sure my mother is the manager of some baseball team. She has part of the team already up there.  The rest of us are down here, we are all unsigned free agents and we're freaking out. I want to stay here as long as possible even if I am just a heathen warming the bench. Until then the following will be my response to the, have you found Jesus question:

 

"No, I have not" I didn't know he was lost. However, I did find Evis. He's playing left field"