My Little Red Wagon

It's difficult for me, sometimes, to accurately describe how or what I'm feeling.  Especially as of late, when some things are growing more and more confusing.  It's no mystery that I suffered a life-altering brain injury a few years ago.  I've mentioned it here, in this forum, numerous times.  Explained how I fell.  How I knocked myself out.  How I spent the next twelve months trying to restore my life to the level it was before, only for the experts to drill into me that life as I knew it, was going to be drastically changed.  I work hard to maintain the knowledge and memories I have and pausing to celebrate the ones that come fleeting back.  I had a childhood memory come dancing back into view and I'll share it with you all now. 

I saw a family out in the park the other day.  Dad was pulling the tightly bundled baby in a toboggan, the name Radio Flyer emblazoned along the side in it's unmistakable font.  It was a happy memory, for that child, unfolding in front of me and it sparked a memory of my own. 😊

We didn't have a lot of money when I was growing up.  I lived in a trailer for a majority of my life. A seventy-two foot mobile home that was situated just west of our city, which is another memory that I restored lately.  I loosely recall where the dealership was located when my father brought all of us along to look at multiple models for purchase.  I just want to clarify some minor details with my mom, before I write about that one.  However, the memory that I chose for today, concerns the Radio Flyer wagon and the small trailer we lived in prior to the one I lived a majority of my childhood in.

The trailer we had before, was tiny in comparison to what we'd eventually move into.  It was just a two bedroom.  My sister and I shared a bedroom in the front of the house and my parents room was in the rear.  Separating the two spaces was a small bathroom at the end of the hall, next to mom and dad's room, then a small kitchen/living room.  If one were to look at RV camper trailers, today, you'd find more luxury than you would have found in that dinky little dwelling.  Like I'd said before, our family didn't have a lot of money and my dad made due with what he had and if I were to reflect on that time, you'd find a twenty-something, new dad, new fledgling family and just trying to keep everything afloat.  My dad did good.

I remember watching Stampede Wrestling with my grandmother on an old black and white TV that was shoved in one corner of the living room space.  Across from that was a washer/dryer combo machine, that my mother confirmed the other day as being a real memory of mine.  It was so small in stature, that I was confused by it, but my mom confirmed that it was, indeed, a washer that was on wheels and could be maneuvered over to the kitchen sink for the hoses to hook up.  I recall having a poster on the back of my, sorry, my sister and mine's bedroom door, of the Jolly Green Giant, that also served as a measuring implement to gauge our growth.  The one other memory I have of this tiny dwelling, before I get to the main course of this Brain Matter edition, was the night my mom was attacked while she slept.

Being on a farm, it's not uncommon for some of the outside dwellers to come inside.  Perhaps seeking warmth from the coolness of the night or maybe to grab a nibble of a delinquent crumb or alike.  On this one particular night, my mother rose from a deep sleep to a stunning awakening, crying in distress.  Turns out a tiny mouse had ventured into our place, but instead of seeking out a forgotten cookie or a dropped piece of vegetables under the kitchen table, this little adventurer, found itself in my parents bedroom, where my mom's arm had slipped off the bed and was hanging just inches from the floor.  My mom had woken up to something chewing at the end of her finger.  It's crazy to think about just how vulnerable we, human beings, really are when we sleep.

I believe it was a Saturday night and I was all excited.  My dad wasn't home.  Probably at work.  He worked at the Cory Potash Mine, at the time, which involved a lot of shift work.  Something that remains to this day, I believe.  So it was up to my mom to cart this large box into the kitchen.  The box was nearly as big as the entire kitchen.  Eventually the box was emptied and taken into the porch to allow more room to work.  It was exciting.  Me dancing with glee and joy as my mom assembled this flashy red wagon together, piece by piece.  Finally it was down to just popping the red center caps on each wheel to hid the mechanism beneath.  Three successes and one that broke when being pressed on.  Little did I know, at the time, that this slight imperfection would be a running theme throughout my life.  Case and point: The day I bought my truck from Honda.  I'd only owned it for maybe ten minutes before someone, at the dealership I might add, parked next to me, flinging their passenger door into the side of my brand spanking new truck.  Now I owned a brand new spanking truck with a ding in the side of it already.  Because I'm not allowed to have anything nice.

Minor imperfection or not, I loved that wagon.  I took it everywhere with me on that farm.  I can only imagine the eye rolls I must have gotten when my dad would be hard at work, reassembling an engine or something in the shed and hearing the unmistakable rattle of my little red wagon and I coming to see what was going on.

I remember concocting something that would allow me to tow the wagon behind my bicycle (another memory just popped for that) and I used that wagon for everything it was worth.  I wonder if my mom ever stood back with pride, knowing that she'd been the one to build the toy that her eldest was having so much fun with.  I know if the roles were reversed and it was me looking at something that my kid was enjoying, I'd feel pride.  I get that now, when Monkey is playing with something I made for him.

The wagon got a lot of use over the years, eventually being drafted into service for my dad.  I'd find the wagon, now covered in dust and surface rust, sitting in a corner of the shop.  Smiling, almost, as I came into view.  Both of us, it an aging old toy and me a grown adult, sharing a moment of reflection, reminiscing about the old days we shared together.

After my dad passed away in ninety-nine, I don't know what happened to that little red wagon.  If I would have been smart, I would have taken it with me before the entire farmyard of equipment was sold at auction.  That was a heartbreaking event, in and of itself, which deserves it's own blog to discuss.  As for my wagon...  Who knows?  Probably snatched up by some auction bidder who never gave the wagon the respect it deserved and why would they?  To them it was only an implement.  To me, it was a show of freedom.  Freedom for a kid who never had a lot of stuff growing up, but I had that Radio Flyer.

"Could you spare a crumb or a berry? Even a finger if you're not using it."

Brain Freeze

 

I've never experienced, quote-unquote, brain freeze.  I understand from those who have that it can be quite intense and very painful.  On that same note, I've also never had an ear ache, nor been in love.  Although I have never experienced any of these things and, I'm sure, a plethora of other personal experiences, I do believe these things to exist.

For some, seeing is believing.  I've never seen oxygen, but I know it fills my lungs every time I inhale.  I've never witnessed the electricity that runs through my walls, but I know that if I flip a light switch a light will illuminate a room or plug something into a wall, it will operate.  I have no clue how the internet works, but when I click the button in the top right-hand corner of this page, this blog will be posted to the internet for almost no one to read.

This belief, "seeing is believing" is what prompts me to the subject matter of this edition of my Brain Matter.  I was recently reminded of a conversation that I overheard during a lunch break, many many years ago.  It was so asinine that it has permanently burned itself into my inner brain, like a brand that will never fade.

I know not how they, the people at the next table over, arrived at this point of the conversation, but it was from this point on that I was intrigued by the logic involved and by logic, I mean, the lack there of.

Richard was an older gentleman with salt and pepper hair and a thick mustache. He was maybe in his late-fifties, early-sixties, at the time.  I'd just taken a slurp of my soup when I overheard Richard mutter the words, "They say dinosaurs were real, but I've never seen one, so I doubt they ever were."  I nearly did a spit take all over the fella sitting across from me at my table.

With a smart ass smirk smeared across my face and soup dripping down my chin, I turned around to confront that piece of wisdom, but before I could speak, Richard added to his diatribe, "But I believe unicorns were real."

I was in disbelief, not that his beliefs were foolish at best, but that he was being serious.  When I first overheard his contribution to the conversation, I thought he might be talking in jest, tongue-in-cheek, making a feeble attempt to be absurd, but he was dead serious.  I first asked him how he was supposed to see a dinosaur, being that they had been extinct for tens of millions of years prior to human existence.  Richard shrugged and said, "Show me proof."

I paused for a moment and mentioned that there were literally museums all over the world that housed complete skeletons of dinosaurs, ranging in tiny molluscs all the way up to gargantuan Brontosaurus', but Richard informed me that he doesn't like going to museums.  The response made no sense as to why he'd deny the existence of dinosaurs only because of a dislike for viewing history through the museums of the world.  So I broached the logic of the unicorn.

"There's absolutely no proof that unicorns ever existed." I said, "How is it you believe they were real?"

Richard looked at me with a blank stare and spoke these words through his thick mustache, "Because the Irish Rovers* had a song about unicorns."  I stared back at Richard, utterly speechless, experiencing a true WTF moment, completely in disbelief that this was the logic of a man, who for all consideration, was responsible for operating dangerous equipment on the manufacturing floor, where we worked at the time.

"So by that logic," I said, "Because the Irish Rovers also have a song about Grandma being runover by a reindeer, Santa Claus is real?"

Richard looked at me like I was speaking another language, replying, "No.  That's just stupid."

The exchange had concluded and I spun my chair back around and finished my lunch.  It's been nearly a decade since we had that exchange.  I'm sure Richard has long since passed away, but if he hasn't, then I'm almost certain he's wasting his golden years sitting in his living room, listening to old Irish Rover records and believing that same stupid shit.

I was telling my mother about that conversation about a week ago.  She cocked her head to the side, like a German Shepherd when you mention going for a walk.  "What the hell?" she said, total disbelief that there are people in this world who really are that foolish.

The conversation reminded me of another short conversation that I had with Ernie, who sat at the end of the lunch table where I sat.  Ernie was a devout Christian or one of those seriously religious groups.  In all honesty, I don't know the difference between any of them, but over the years, I've managed to keep my beliefs on the matter, to myself, and not confront anyone, unless they start pushing that nonsense on me.

The movie, NOAH, starring Russell Crowe and Jennifer Connelly had just come out.  Knowing that I went to a lot of movies, Ernie asked if I had seen it yet.  I told him 'no', that I had no interest in seeing it, then asked if he had.  Suddenly, Ernie's demeanour changed from the happy-go-lucky man that he usually portrayed himself as, switching to a more serious appearance.

Ernie leaned in close, as if to tell me a secret, then pointing a finger at me, shaking it like he was scolding me for finishing the last piece of cake, he sternly uttered the words, "NO! I refuse to see that movie because it's historically inaccurate."

Okay.  Now I was hooked.  Historically inaccurate?  "How do you mean, historically inaccurate?" I asked, "Based on what?"

Ernie sat back in his chair, almost befuddled by the question, confused that I didn't know what reference he was speaking of.  "Why, the bible, of course."

I shrugged my shoulders in defeat and left it at that.  I usually like to have all the facts if I'm going to argue anything with anyone, but I know very little about the bible.  I only have my own theories that are based on nothing, really, but it's my own gospel, so-to-speak, and no one, or very few, will ever agree with me on that.

Years ago, I attended some counselling for anger issues.  I went through a Christian Counselling Center, only because it was essentially free.  I only had to pay what I could afford, which was usually around $10 to $20.  In the sessions, the counsellor would give me homework assignments that would involve reading passages from the bible and I'll be honest.  They helped.  However, I never put much more credibility into the bible than just that.  Like Aesop's Fables, the stories are merely reflections of experiences, meant to guide its readers down a straight and moral path.  Nothing more.  I don't view Jesus as a spiritual leader, but as a figure head.  Just as I see Ronald McDonald as a figure for a company that slings shitty hamburgers, I see Jesus as the mascot for better living.

I've never experienced brain freeze.  I've never seen oxygen or been in love.  These are all things that I cannot see, but believe in and yes.  The irony of that is not lost on me.  Just because I can't see an invisible man who lives in the sky, doesn't mean he doesn't exist, but.... Come on!  I've never seen it, so it can't be true. 😄

Guitar Zero

I was tidying up the other day, clearing up some small trinkets and such off of my dresser.  There's a big mirror and my cat, when able, likes to hop up there and stare at himself in the mirror.  He's a vain little guy, but if I looked remotely as good as him, I might find myself staring into the mirror, too.

Among the trinkets and doo-dads, I found a guitar pick.  A solo, dark red pick that I immediately placed between my forefinger and thumb and made out like I was playing a guitar.  I don't know why, as I've not played a guitar since I was a very young boy and it can be debated whether or not the sounds that were emitted from that guitar, when I was a child, would be construed as being musical or reminiscent of a car accident.  It was probably better than I recall, but not nearly as good as my fellow students.

For decades, I've reflected on that time with a great deal of regret.  Not because I never followed through on my quest to become a guitarist, but because our family didn't have a lot of money.

We weren't poor, or at least I never felt like we were poor, but knowing what I do now, opposed to then, the money that was, for lack of a better term, wasted on my silly dream, was a lot of money.  Money that might have been spent better, elsewhere.  For that, I will always feel regret, but as best as I can recall, my mother was smiling when she was following me around the showroom of the shop where I had been taking my lessons.  (*Thinking about that, is genuinely bringing tears to my eyes.  Remind me, someone, to apologize to my mom.)  We never struggled, but maybe that was the image that my parents wanted to show in front of the kids.  Parents are good that way, aren't they?

After a year of taking lessons, I lost interest and the guitar, amp and stand that my parents had purchased for me, got shoved away, into the back of a closet, where it sat for many many years, untouched.  (A few years ago, while on one of my many unemployment stretches, I had a friend check out the guitar and amp and help me sell it.  We didn't get very much, but those feelings of regret, did come rushing back and I was overwhelmed with grief.)

Why did I quit?  For years, I believed it was because "my fingers hurt" or "I wasn't good right away", the latter being an excuse I heard from a favourite rock singer, which I always took some jaded source of pride for.  That's just dumb!!  However, that morning that I found the red guitar pick on my dresser and placed it betwixt my fingers, I realized why it was that I had quit playing guitar and, of course, many waves of emotions swept over me, once more.  Regret and shame and many other emotions, because that reason was so miniscule and stupid.  My parents wasted all that money on me for something this stupid!!

The reason wasn't because I wasn't good enough, right away.  It wasn't because my fingers hurt from pressing down the guitar strings.  The reason I had quit guitar lessons as a kid was because I didn't like holding the guitar pick.  Even all these years later, holding the pick in my hand and faking strumming motions on my upper thigh, I hated it.  After a few seconds, my hand began to cramp like it had when I was a child.  This...  This was the reason for my quitting guitar.

Now, in the days since this discovery, I've thought about what if I would have stuck with it.  I know that my fingers would have toughened up.  That the strength in my fingers would increase to where I didn't have so much difficulty pressing the strings into the neck of the guitar.  Even, perhaps, I would have earned an ear for music and even wrote some original music.  Even now, I find music playing in my head that I don't recognize from any of the influences around me.  I believe an artist staked the claim, once upon a time, that everyone had original music in their minds and hearts, it was just a question of being able to convey it onto paper and into the airwaves.  Of course, I'm paraphrasing, I don't recall the actual quote, but it's along those lines.

Now I'm thinking, 20/20 hindsight in play, of course, that if I had stuck it out, that I could have traded up to another instrument.  (I always liked the drums.  My dad loved the drums, but given our financial hardships when I was a kid, drums were definitely off the list.)  However, playing a bass guitar has it's advantages, namely, not having to use a pick.  I know that some people use a pick, but not needing to use it is a huge advantage, I think.

In the weeks that have followed, I've found myself really watching and listening to the bass riffs in songs and videos.  I watch Hagar on the Late Late Show with James Corden or Metallica's Robert Trujillo as he hammers on his bass during concerts.  Would I have been as good as either of these artists?  Would I have been any good at all?  Unfortunately, time has eroded away the answers to those questions.

Today, I...  I wouldn't call myself successful, per se, but I don't think I am as poor now, as my family was then, but I certainly can't afford to buy a bass guitar, take lessons and see if I'm good enough to entertain myself.  Nah.  I'll leave that up to the young uns.  For now, I'll continue to appreciate what might have been and entertain myself via other ducts.  Like writing this blog.  Contributing to the long list of topics on my Brain Matter page.  I'm finding myself inspired more and more, daily.  It's just organizing my thoughts in a way that can be accurately conveyed onto the page.

Robert Trujillo of Metallica

 

Trouser Snake

At first mention of the words, trouser snake, one's imagination goes to a male's genitalia, which in this instance you'd be mistaken.  To what I refer to in this blog, today, is going to be much much worse and far more offensive.  So be warned before reading on, and if you indeed choose to continue reading, you've been forewarned and cannot blame anyone but yourself.  So that being said, I will continue my tawdry tale.

Last weekend was Thanksgiving for Canada.  I don't know why our Thanksgiving Day is more than a month prior to that of the U.S.  Canada probably wanted a long weekend in October, is what many of us have speculated.  I know in the last few years, there was a holiday proposed for February, although I don't think it's recognized in all the provinces.  (I'm talking about YOU, Quebec.  You suck, Quebec!)

So after stuffing myself full at my mother's house, she was gracious enough to send me home with a mountainous amount of left overs.  I don't know how much, per se, but upon warming it up the other night, I'd speculate that it was, at least, a pound in weight.  The left overs contained pretty much everything that had been available at the dinner table, except for the beets, which my mother announced she wouldn't include out of fear it would turn everything purple in colour.

So Thursday night was the night I'd decided to heat up and devour this huge meal.  This was not the easiest of tasks, by any measure, but like a trooper, I forced it all down as I watched wrestling (TNA Impact Wrestling) on Spike TV.  Later that night, I suspect due to the tryptophan in my system, I slept one of the most restful nights in a long long time.  I hadn't been sleeping very well in the nights preceding, so the slumber was welcome.

The next day, work went on as usual.  No issues.  No nothing, other than the usual setbacks and shit.  After work I needed to speed across town to sign some documents, then afterwards, I headed to the Home Depot, in search of a specific tool that I want to purchase for my brother-in-law for Christmas.  While looking around, I suddenly found myself needing to visit the washroom.  I don't normally like to use public facilities, as they are usually pretty f*cking gross, but this being a newer Home Depot location and in a decent part of town, I didn't think the washroom would be in too terrible of disarray, and quickly hobbled in it's direction.  Plus, judging from the impending doom, whether or not the bathroom was a disaster, I had one locked in the chamber and the safety switch was slipping.

Sadly, someone was in the handicapped stall, the spot I usually like to occupy as it has lots of leg room.  I don't necessarily need to stretch out as I "drop the kids off at the pool", but it's like a life jacket on a boat.  It's nice to have, just in case.  So I squeezed myself into the other available stall and unleashed the fury.

Actually it wasn't so furious, thank god!  Nothing is worse than having an atrocious bowel movement and having to clean up the mess with that sandpaper they call toilet paper.  Am I right, people?  It's like wiping with a cheese grater.  It might do the trick, but it doesn't feel good at all, nor are you left in a very happy place afterward.  But thankfully, this was not one of those horrific occasions.  Nope!  This one slipped out quite nicely.  Like a basketball through a hoop with nothing but net.  Phoof!!!

I took care of the aftermath and turned to flush when I noticed the gargantuan specimen looking back up at me from the porcelain bowl.  I'm not bragging, nor is this anything to be proud of, but I am a little impressed at the slick torpedo that was laid to rest in the tiny toilet stall at the Home Depot.  By my estimation, it had to be between 14 to 16 inches in length, and it wasn't coiled.  It was straight as the crow flies, nestled comfortably at the bottom of the bowl.  I was almost tempted to take a picture of it with my phone, but quickly decided against it as I don't know of anyone who would be as impressed with this feat as I was (and am).

I flushed and forever lost the evidence of my visit to the Home Depot, but the memory is still in my head.  I remember leaving the confines of the tiny bathroom thinking, "That was one helluva trouser snake."  It was then that I knew I'd have to share this with the world, via my blog, Brain Matter!