Generations

I have an uncle who has been a kind of role model to me for as long as I can remember. He was built in 1934, served his apprenticeship in the ’50’s and worked as a mechanic in the ’60’s &’70’s.

My uncle built a reputation being the finest ‘tune up’ and ‘diagnostic’ mechanic in London for quite a while. He had a client who owned a ’68 road runner with 2 carburetors that demanded of my uncle’s employers he tune it up once a year so the car could travel the ‘Pennsylvania Turnpike’ (70 miles) in half a hour. My uncle never failed, the thing was a rocket.

My uncle is a kind and generous soul always willing to help those in need, or those who just can’t help themselves.

After watching my uncle miraculously make a snowmobile start with the tube of a ‘bic’ pen, I decided I would become a mechanic too.

I’ve managed to build a reputation of my own. I’ve been fortunate enough to diagnose things other techs couldn’t. I’ve been lucky to have been surrounded by gifted mechanics willing to share their knowledge. I have been afforded the opportunity to become a good mechanic.

Yesterday my lady and I visited my aunt & uncle in the nursing home he now resides in. I am not ashamed to admit it breaks my heart to see him there, but I know it’s not my role to question. We showed my aunt & uncle photographs of me showing my lady’s 11 year old how to do front brakes. My uncle smiled at the kid’s filthy hands and said to me ‘He had a good teacher’.

I said ‘No, I did’

Perspective

A missing man, abducted while allowing a road test of his truck by a prospective buyer and his friend. A truck found inside a trailer parked in a laneway. A suspect arrested, son of the woman who owns the laneway. A body found, burnt beyond recognition. A premeditated murder charge laid. Two more suspects sought.

A newscast from an American station? No.

A movie of the week? No.

An episode of NCIS? No.

A horrible reality in Ancaster, Ontario?

Yes.

I didn’t know the victim, Tim Bosma. My heart and prayers go out to his family. I cannot begin to imagine what they are experiencing. The range of feelings and emotions must be staggering. My heart breaks just thinking of them.

I do know I would have been as trusting as Tim if I were selling a truck. I am in great disbelief that this could happen in my community. My feeling of complacency has vanished.

The importance of my own life challenges has diminished.

Perspective.

My lady and I have had to make some very difficult decisions. As a result of the actions of the Scoundrel and the Tramp, I have to move from the house I’ve been encouraged to call home. We’ve had to tell two kids I care very deeply for that the second ‘father figure’ they’ve had has to leave.

We, as a family, acknowledge this is a temporary step. My lady and I hope this will help end the spying, the disappearing documents and the trespassing. As how very difficult it is to leave, we know this is the right action.

Perspective.

I will be coming back. I will talk to the kids daily, see my lady every day. We have hope. We have faith. We know our story has a happy ending.

The families of Mr. Bosma and his killers have no such possibility. Those folks will not know the peace my lady, her kids and I will know when I move back home. I am at a loss to fathom the devastation of their lives. I am baffled.

This entire post I’ve been struggling with how to ‘wrap it up’. How do I acknowledge their pain and loss while demonstrating I realize how small my problems are? How do I show I understand perspective without sounding trite?

I can’t. I just cannot make any rational comparison.

I can, however, emphatically state I have greater perspective in my life. Am I pissed two fornicators are causing me to be separated from those I hold dear? Yep. Do I know how small this seems in the grand scheme?

Absolutely. I have perspective.

5 years

I measure my life by milestones. Birthdays and anniversaries are important to me and I make no excuses for it. I lived, for a time, with someone who didn’t always remember her sons’ birthdays and elected for a ‘Birth Week’ option. Not my preference, but whatever blows your hair back.

Five years ago May 7th my Mom succumbed to ovarian cancer after a 2 1/2 month hospital stay. Those who know me understand how close I was, and still am, to my Mom. Bar none, I am a ‘Mama’s boy’. It was 4 days before Mother’s Day, 22 days before her 66th birthday… Shall I go on, or has the point been made?

Five years.

Four and three quarter years ago I was in a relationship, was six years sober, living in a beautiful home, driving the ’74 Chev, had a great job, had the condo I bought for my Mom and had a living Mother. A very ill, but living Mother.

During the 2 1/2 months Mom was in hospital I missed only one visit, we were called out of town to a funeral. I recall vividly most of the events of those months. I remember being told after Mom’s first 24 hours in hospital that she would not be coming home. Ever. I remember being asked to sign a ‘Do Not Resuscitate’ order knowing full well it was against my Mom’s wishes. I remember Mom telling me to sell the condo.

I remember telling Mom I would never sell her home.

I remember spending nights in the Palliative Care unit at Parkwood Hospital. I remember a coma. I remember feeding tubes being removed. I remember signing more forms.

I remember a telephone call to my work. I remember an extremely fast drive up Adelaide St. I remember pushing the buttons on Mom’s ‘Morphine Machine’.

I remember 6:51 pm, Wednesday May 7th, 2008 watching my Mother die.

Five years.

Not long after, my life began to fall to bits.

By October of 2010 I had destroyed my relationship. I had found drink again and realized I was still quite accomplished at it.

By January 2011 I had lost my great job and was well on the way to losing the apartment I was living in.

By June of 2012 I had earned myself a stay at the St. Thomas and the London Psychiatric facilities.

By November of 2012 I was well and truly homeless. Destitute by all definitions. I was sleeping outdoors, at the Men’s Mission or the Salvation Army. I ate every 3 days. I weighed 165 lbs at the most. I was killing myself without having the nerve to test fly off a building.

Five years.

As of May 7 2013, I am in a relationship with a woman I do not deserve. I live in a fine home with her and her kids, whom I adore. I have probably the best job I ever have had. I’m well over 210 lbs.

And I think I am happy.

I’m not sure I know what ‘happy’ is. I am certain I know full well what ‘unhappy’ is, and this ain’t it. I wake up each morning and read an affirmation. I no longer have that constant hungover feeling. I wake up clear of thought. And I miss my Mom.

Five years.

Tomorrow is Mother’s Day. It’ll be my 5th without my Mother. But I know she is still with me. In every warm thought that comes to mind, in every ‘Don’t be daft’ I hear in private and in every cursed episode of Coronation Street I watch. I know my Mom will be near me.

As I look over the past five years, I’m certain she was never far from me. A kind of Guardian Angel whispering to God ‘Don’t worry, he’ll come back’. I am grateful for the time I had with my Mom. I miss her every day, but know I am richer for being her son.

Happy Mother’s Day to all.