Icy Relations

The last month has helped me see clearly that the people of my neighbourhood are not nearly as considerate as I might have thought, or hoped. As ice and snow have coated their sidewalks and made walking a hazard, many – but certainly not all – of these apparently friendly people have been embarrassingly slow to respond with any more than a half-assed snow shoveling. I’m taking this opportunity to remind them, and everyone, that a little salt on the sidewalk goes along way to maintaining a positive relationship with those of us who like to – and have to – traverse across their portion of slippery cement.

My dog Sydney doesn’t enjoy walking herself and on weekends I really have no choice but to take her around the neighbourhood until she gets tired enough to let us have peace. In the summer, this is a pleasure because the weather is nice, people are out and the walking is always safe. But in the last while, those same people who I said hello to in the sunshine and who admired the little white fur ball on the end of the leash have had their common sense frozen by the outdoors. They are forgetting that while they are inside getting fat and watching the idiot box, others of us enjoy being out and, unbelievably, like the feel of a chilly winter. But we don’t like getting our tailbones smashed on their ice.

So without further ado, I’m telling them to get off their lazy warm asses, go to the store and buy a bag of road salt (of the organic variety if they’re worried about the environment), and sprinkle it generously across the sidewalk. I don’t even care if they don’t want to salt their own bleeping driveway.

Adding to my aggravation is the fact that I have a knee injury right now and can’t bend my right leg much. If I begin to slip, this leg will offer me scant little support and any tumble I take, even a small slip like the other day, invariably aggravates my aching knee further and makes me even more pissed off that people can’t think a little less of themselves a little more often.

And neighbours, don’t bother trying to convince me that a little salt now will ruin your prospects for yet another previous perfectly green lawn come springtime. Frankly, even if you have scientific evidence, I don’t care. Saving my body from long-term disrepair is far more important than your grass. And it should be more important to you. Hey, I’m only 39. What if a 75-year-old lady – a neighbour of yours that you adore, perhaps – falls flat on her backside right in front of your house after losing her balance on ice she didn’t see, because it was covered by snow that you haven’t yet bothered to shovel? What if she broke her hip and couldn’t look after herself any more?

Are we supposed to stay inside all winter because you are cold, inconvenienced, lazy, busy, uncaring, irresponsible…? And what about the kids in the neighbourhood who you know perfectly well aren’t going to stay inside no matter what? I guess they’re supposed to know better than to put a foot down anywhere near your property because you are a self-absorbed wienie.

In closing, I say a heartfelt thank you to my neighbours who – like me and my wife – have shoveled earnestly, iced responsibly, and even cleared the snow and ice for the elderly near them who couldn’t make it outside. You did your bit and saved others from injury, and you braved the cold and wind to boot. (It hasn’t really been that cold or windy for very long, by the way.)

To the rest of you, I hope that when I see you in the warmer weather, you don’t feign friendliness and forget all about your neglect. But of course you will. That’s just the kind of people you are. Apparently it’s easy to be nice but a lot tougher to go out of your way to do something that really helps people.

Oh, and don’t forget, in case you didn’t already know, when you bought your house, you bought the responsibility that goes with it. In this case, it’s not the kind you and pick and choose when to deal with.

Here It Is!!

A handful of people may care somewhat initially, but as every aspiring novelist hopes, a few million people may eventually -- SOON -- hang on every word. Here then is the beginning of my new novel, subject of course to change at any minute:

June 15, 2001. A distinctly glorious date that is otherwise completely unidentifiable in the mind of even the most ardent intellectual.

Ten days earlier Tropical Storm Allison ravaged Houston, Texas with rain and left five billion American dollars worth of damage in its wake. Eight days before the Labour Party took the British election and Tony Blair won a second term as Prime Minister. Four days previous Timothy McVeigh was executed in Indiana for masterminding the infamous Oklahoma City bombing. Six days afterward a rare total solar eclipse obscured Earth’s view of the sun. On that same day, famed American actor Carroll O’Connor died and the legendary fictional bigotry of Archie Bunker passed on with him.

The attacks that changed Weltanschauung for a generation were 88 days away, and were still wholly malleable in the icy hearts and black spirits of the perpetrators.

Perhaps the most perfect place on the earth on this day, evening specifically, was a modern hospital in need of a good exterior paint job, which was nonetheless rather abounding with trained and experienced staff and the most modern medical equipment that could be bought or alternately obtained anywhere on the face of the planet.

The building stands at westernmost tip of Lake Ontario, which is picturesque from a well-aimed camera lens despite the nearby steel mills that predominate these shores.

The room of focus is just barely colourful enough to be considered off-white, though no one but the uncharacteristically nervous husband took notice. Even he was only aware of this for a few moments as he became progressively more distracted by the crucial goings-on, as the clocked on the wall above the omnipresent bed ticked ever so much closer to midnight.

Laughing gas was at work on the wife under the starched pale sheets. She had thus far endured several bouts of excruciating pain that required her to hunch over as she paced the halls with her spouse in tow. He comforted her however he could think of but felt rather helpless regarding her situation.

The contractions soon came ten minutes apart, at which point the recently summoned doctor ordered the nurses to ease the mother-to-be into as comfortable as possible a position. Her feet were soon in stirrups, easing the tension of an abdomen in the most progressive state of natural bloating. Still, her behaviour could soon become irrepressible despite her subdued inclinations.

Midnight passed and the culmination of the evening’s events turned into an early morning waiting game, with two nurses working happily past their usual quitting times, a family physician who never got bored with the celebration of birth, a man in his mid-30s soon to be exultant, or unconscious, and a woman – his bride of three years – feeling half way between the promised land and the front lines of a gun-less battle.

Everything sped up by the second at just before one o’clock in the morning. A glorious seriousness predominated all present parties. The doctor was in control with his hands busy between the stirrups and the nurses on either side doling out the required instruments. The husband held onto his wife’s ever-tightening grip. He tried to speak but was told to shut up.

“I need to concentrate,” Mom said between fierce gasps. Mom inhaled and exhaled repeatedly in rapid succession, seemingly too involved in the process to be aware of the pending outcome.

Dad stood back in awe as the doctor announced that he could see the head. Soon it was in his hands and then it came in contact with the air in the room accompanied by a shrill yet melodic cry.

A heavenly wail. Tender screeching.

A fresh new person exposed to nitrogen and oxygen, held up by expensive rubber gloves and experienced hands.

“Your baby,” the doctor said.

An apprehensive look.

“It’s a girl,” the doctor said with a smile, holding her out for Daddy to see.

Daddy gazed at the face longingly, seeing utter perfection and nothing else. Finding his composure, he redirected his eyes to take in the reassuring presence of five fingers on each hand and an equal number of toes on each foot.

“Well?” sweat-soaked Mommy asked as Daddy turned his head calmly and smiled at her.

“She’s perfect,” the doctor declared.

“Perfect,” Daddy added sweetly, looking into Mommy’s exhausted eyes that were brimming with relief. “A girl,” she cooed and exhaled a massive breath.

Daddy leaned over to kiss red-faced Mommy before baby was swaddled in a sterile blanket and placed between them, her umbilical cord still attached. The world was suddenly just three people.

Heaven, the one in the middle primarily. The picture of pictures. The harbinger of more endless possibilities than the Lord could ever promise.

In a minute there was the rather comical sight of Daddy cutting the umbilical cord. As he repeatedly asked if he was holding the scissors correctly and cutting in the right place, the doctor joked to Mommy that there should be a class for this. Mommy said Daddy wouldn’t pass anyway.

The otherworldly delight that began at 1:17am lasted another 40 minutes or so. It would have gone on longer if not for Mommy’s unrelenting need for sleep and baby’s need to be cleaned up completely and prepared for what was to come.

With everyone moving around Daddy was soon alone in the room, left to ponder. Then
came the problem. Not a physical problem of any sort and nothing that affected the birthing process or anyone involved. This was a problem due to foresight, a look to the future at what could – within the realm of mathematical calculation anyway – possibly happen if someone was inclined to be too brutally realistic at a time meant for great celebration and shared excitement.

Daddy, who was moments ago the physical embracer of this marvelous new gift, was overcome with an unspeakable fear that would soon grow into a wayward frenzy. Somehow it just occurred to him now, at what he was heretofore to call the greatest moment of his life, that he – along with his worn out wife – were from this point forward solely responsible for a fledgling person that couldn’t as much as move across the floor, or eat or drink, without their conscious action.

Bashing My Burlington

(Picking on my city instead of yours, Toronto)

It’s simply not nice to say, na na, my city is better than yours.

Still, much too often I blabber on to my Toronto coworkers about how my Burlington has peace and quiet and their city doesn’t, and so I could never live among them and their hullabaloo. I refer also to other great gifts that my Burlington bears, namely relatively affordable living, a virtual absence of crime and enough big city stuff but not too much. Plus, we’re more central to other things in southern Ontario than is their vaunted Big Smoke.

Now though, it has come time to dissect my suburban narcissism and cut right to the smarmy inner workings of my community. Time for some perspective or fair treatment, in other words. While Toronto isn’t all endless streams of traffic and a never-say-you can’t-work harder attitude, Burlington isn’t all glorious scenery and sanctified green space.

As a matter of fact, there really isn’t much to look in many parts of the city, especially the newer areas. Yet young families are literally climbing over each other to snag for themselves a choice dwelling in northeast treeless and nondescript neighbourhoods. Houses there are placed so closely together that the dad in one house needs to constantly remind his eighteen-year-old daughter to close the drapes because the eager sixteen year-old son next door has top-notch vision.

My first real complaint: I imagine myself looking down from our treasured escarpment and into the heart of whiteness. Burlington simply isn’t noted for being multi-racial and ethnically diverse. Much like Oakville next door, there is an almost unseemly preponderance of colourlessness in our population. Funny, considering we boast many fine restaurants that run the gamut from Caribbean to Lebanese to Thai to Mexican cuisine – all featuring many inspiring dishes. Don’t these people live in our community somewhere?

From colourlesness I turn to our highways as I note that in Toronto, at least you can travel a few miles without actually seeing one. Impossible in Burlington. There is practically no location in the city that isn’t one mile from a highway, be it the constantly clogged QEW/403 combo or the more scenic and less horrendous Lakeshore Road (Highway 2), or even Highway 5 to the north. On the positive side, my city is popular with out-of-towners because of its proximity to major attractions nearby (such as Niagara Falls and yes, Toronto). In fact, I was once told by someone in the Tourism Burlington office that’s the basis of their advertising.

Near that tourism office is the scenic Spencer Smith Park, a longtime favourite for my wife and I and host to many great festivals including the wildly popular Sound of Music Festival. But the park that stretches along the western shores of Lake Ontario isn’t quite as plain and simple as it used to be. About ten years ago the city installed a very nice boardwalk for those who like to amble close to the water in style. This summer the park has had a major facelift featuring the addition of a fancy new restaurant and much-improved kids play area, and soon a picturesque pier. These fresh amenities must all cost quite a bit, we should have figured. The other day I pulled into the parking lot and realized they’re passing part of that cost onto motorists who used to park gratis. Since my daughter loves playing at Spencer Smith, I guess I will have to shell out. The fee isn’t a king’s ransom, but it’s the principle that bothers me.

Burlington’s famed Royal Botanical Gardens used to be free too, in my youth. Now they charge too, and not just a few bucks any more I see.

But at least the RBG smells nice. The Maple Leaf factory on the east side of town, on the other hand, is a stinking disgrace. From where I stand on the platform of the Appleby GO station every morning, my nostrils can hardly wait for the train to come rolling along so I can be crammed tightly in a locomotive full of commuters rather than take one more ungodly whiff of a chicken’s worst nightmare.

It is from that GO station that I try every day to catch the bus. Why try, you ask. Because no matter what time the train arrives -- early, late or on time – the bus invariably seems to be at least 10 minutes off or has just left, even though the schedule indicates otherwise. After a long day in Toronto, the last thing I need is to be upset by having my only means of travel home to be inextricably off schedule. Nevertheless, the one thing I can always count on with Burlington Transit is that I can never count on them.

If and when the bus does eventually get to you (oh, by the way, it doesn’t run early on Sunday or much past dusk any day), it takes you to many interesting locales: such as major malls and strip malls, schools, one lovely older or newer neighbourhood after another, the miniscule downtown area, some nice parks … basically up and down and the grid system upon which Burlington is based. You can either go north, south, west or east. It’s tough to find a street where you can travel in a radically different direction, say south-southwest. So there’s never much guessing which direction you’re going. The good thing is that it’s hard to get lost in Burlington. And even if you do, there’s always a trusty highway just blocks away to end your confusion and set you free.

If you get the idea that there’s not a lot to do in my Burlington, you may not be far off – if hardcore excitement is your game. I don’t see it that way of course, because all I want is my safe neighbourhood with my family in tow. I like that all the stores I need are nearby and I don’t have to drive too far for anything. If I were younger and unattached, though, I’d probably be screaming for brighter lights and more nighttime activity. Not to say that we don’t have our bars and hot spots. It’s just that they’re not as sophisticated and “hot” as those rocking Toronto joints always seem to be. As my old friend Paul always used to say, “When I want to have fun, I leave Borington.”

Remember Paul, boring is often in the eye of the eager adolescent. As I approach 40 and am firmly rooted in my familial responsibilities, I’ll take my town’s quality education – both elementary and secondary schools, public and Catholic systems – any day. I’ll also gladly take the excellent healthcare including at Joseph Brant Memorial Hospital, where my little girl was ushered into the world. I’ll also accept that I now have to pay a little to visit the wonderful waterfront (best in the Golden Horseshoe, I’d say). I don’t have to pay anything to stand atop the ravishing escarpment. Simply by setting down roots in Burlington, I also reap the benefits of clean and sophisticated living that espouses all the charms of modern-day living without too many of the downfalls.

To my Toronto friends I simply say, you chose your city for certain reasons and I chose mine for some of the same reasons. My city isn’t any better than yours no matter what I say, though I might continue to say it, especially when your city frustrates the living hell out of me. But as you can see, my city frustrates the crap out of me too. Or maybe it’s the fog in my head from the pollution that wafts over the bay from Hamilton, where I was born and raised … and learned to hate Toronto.