Black Ice - What Lies Beneath

In the past, I've sometimes found writing this blog to be therapeutic and a viable way to work through whatever issues that may have been plaguing my thoughts at that particular time...
I hope this helps me, today....

Without revealing my chronological age, I can verify that I've been driving for quite some time.  Living in Canada, you learn to drive a vehicle in several different ways to successfully combat the several different road conditions you may encounter in any given season.  Springtime tends to bring a lot of rain, causing roads to be slick and wet during the day, only to turn icy at night when the mercury drops below zero ℃.  Summer isn't too bad, I've found, but as soon as the leaves turn colour and the snow begins to fly, that's when we, driver's need to be more weary.

Black ice is our worst enemy.  It's the thin layer of ice that blankets the road, which is nearly impossible to see with the naked eye, unless you're lucky enough to catch a faint glimmer of it.  A faint reflection of ice crystals catching the light at just the right angle, bouncing back to your pupil.  Most, sadly, ignore this and continue to drive just as they had been all summer long.  I've always credited myself as a better driver than these kinds of people.  I've always considered myself a better driver than most people, even on my worst day.  Last week, I had the absolute worst day of my driving career.

I'm not saying that I've never had an accident.  I've had a few misfortunes in my life.  I once lost control and crashed a small Chevrolet Chevette into a row of parked cars.  That was a terrible accident and I was severely injured at the time.  Most people, upon seeing the damage done to the car, questioned how I wasn't hurt more seriously.  It was a nasty one, I will admit, but afterward, I had no qualms about sitting behind the wheel.

This accident that I had on Thursday night/Friday morning, was unlike anything I've ever experienced.  I can say, beyond a reasonable doubt, that I'm afraid to drive.  I ventured out Sunday, but I was frightened by the aggressive drivers around me.  The big 4x4 trucks speeding up behind me.  I thought for sure, one of them were going to corral me into the ditch.  Last night I ventured out to buy some milk, which took me about four hours to get up the courage, as it'd been raining all day long.  The temperature was above zero℃, so there wasn't any icing issues, but it has snowed overnight and there are some errands that I sloughed off yesterday, that need to be done today.  As I look out the window, I can visibly see the ice and snow compiled on the city streets.  I don't know if I can go out in that...  Worse yet, I have to work tonight, which means venturing out in the cold winter night and driving that same route, passing that same corner where I lost complete control last week and slammed into the side of that silver GMC.

It took me about four hours to gain the courage to drive to the corner store for milk, yesterday.  I dread having to go to work, tonight...

I see on television, people who suffer severe anxiety following a terrible accident, and I've always mocked them.  Now I'm feeling about the same way.  I was feeling worthless before this occurred.  I feel even worse, now. 😣

I never found this to be therapeutic, this time 'round.
In fact, I feel a little worse off, now...

Working For The Weekend

As a child, I don't recall the seasons passing as quickly as they do, today.  If memory serves, the first day of school would arrive on a brisk autumn day, where the ground would be moist underfoot, by mid-morning.  The smell of wet wood and decaying leaves would fill our every breath, during recess, while a menagerie of scents and smells would invade our lungs in the classroom.  Chalk, paper and the rubbery hint of spent erasers.  That's what I remember most from school, at least.

These memories exist most prominent because they lasted for what seemed like an eternity.  First grade seemed to take forever to maneuver through, as did the second grade and the third and so on.  In fact, the years just seemed to drag on forever and ever.  I never once experienced the passing of time as quickly as I do as an adult.  I wonder if the same goes for school teachers..?

I woke up this morning, clicked on the computer and was shocked to see that the date already reads November 15th.  I remember the year just passing from 2015 to 2016.  It seemed, literally, like it just occurred a week or so, ago.  Granted, I remember the summer months, vividly, but they passed SO quickly.  In the blink of an eye.  Thanksgiving came and went even quicker than that, as did Remembrance Day.  Next is my birthday, followed by Christmas then it'll be a whole new year coming to pass.

I think I figured out the mystery of why time passes so quickly for Adult Jeff over Kid Jeff.  As a kid, you live life frivolously.  Going to school to hang and play with friends, never wanting the day to end, where as an adult, generally, we can't wait for the day to end.  We arrive at work, checking the clock and making that mental note that we only need to survive until our first break.  Then it's only an hour and a half until lunch time.  Thank God there's that break after lunch.  Following that, the daydream of how to get home while avoiding as much traffic as possible.

Everyone's working to get to the weekend and in doing so, we're neglecting to look around to see life passing us by.  I know I'm guilt of this trait.  I've been doing this so long, I've forgotten how fun life can actually be.  The moment I look on the calendar and realize that I have to return to work, I actually feel a piece of my brain, a part of my humanity, die.  Fizzle out like a spent candle and smolder into nothingness.

I can't believe the year is nearly over.  I can't believe it's less than two weeks until my birthday, where I'll be denying the passing of another chronological year.  Worst yet, I can't believe my four days off are over and I have to return to work, tonight.  F**k!!

Lemonade and a Shit Sandwich

"When life gives you lemons, make lemonade."

What the f*ck is that supposed to mean.  When you have a string of bad luck, you should then embrace that bad luck?  That's f*cking stupid.  If life does nothing but serve up shit, ya don't make shit sandwiches.  You simply have to grin and bear it.  Granted...  If life continues to be nothing besides shitty, you should pretty much look at the constant.  That familiar face you see in the mirror.

I've had a shit ton of bad luck in the last few years.  I've been grinning like a motherf*cker, but it's starting to really wear on me.  I continue to put on a brave face and walk head-on into the abyss.  Lately, things have been starting to turn for the positive.  Starting with the job I got working for the city over the summer.  A decent wage for a fairly easy job.  Very little stress involved, aside the last couple of days when I caught that idiot co-worker sleeping on the job rather than working.  She threatened to get some guys to come and "talk" to me.  Other than that, I liked it, but it came to an end, then nothing.

I got a call about a month later and got hired with some shady cleaning company, but I wasn't too enthused about it.  I've never had a job that I wanted to quit before I'd even started.  Then, thankfully, last week I got a call from a local grocery store who hired me after a favourable interview.  I gladly called -- er, I mean, emailed the shady cleaner boss-guy (as he never bothered to give me a phone number.... or his last name) and let him know I wasn't going to take the job he offered.  The work I've been doing at the grocery store, is fairly easy, although I've been working primarily in the frozen food department, all the while fighting off the flu that I had recently.  A lethal combination.

I got a telephone call this past Wednesday for a job interview with some courier or warehouse job that is close to my house, the grocery store is half way across town.  Not a bad drive at 10:30pm, but hella long coming home in the morning.  Traffic is insane.

I like the work at the grocery store.  It's easy, requiring little thought.  The people at the grocery store, for the most part, are nice, but the pay is f*cking shitty.  Did I mention that wage is only a couple cents above minimum wage?  There's a night premium on top of that, too, but together, it adds up to pathetic.  Hopefully, the interview I have with this new place will go over swimmingly and I can quit the grocery job.

I broke my back in three places in January of 2014 and have done very little, by way of physical labour in the months and years since that day.  The grocery job is killing my back... for a couple cents over minimum wage...  I'd assume this warehouse job may be more of the same, but (hopefully) for a better wage.

I'm holding on to hope that eventually the City Transit will give me a chance and I can prove my worth there.  I know I can drive those buses and for the wage they pay, I won't mind where I have to drive.  Even if it's through 'the hood'.  It's amazing what I'll put up with for a high paying wage...  Maybe, that's what the saying means.  When people are continually shitting on you, just smile because you're getting paid a f*ck-ton of money for doing it!! 

Race Relations is a Two-Way Street

"Indian Giver" is a racist term.  It means to give something freely, but then take it back later.

I'm not going to gain any popularity by voicing an opinion on this subject, I'm sure.  I may even garner some hateful threats, reminiscent of the scandalous blog about Chewbacca having homosexual feelings for Han Solo.  People tend to only read what they wanna read.

I'll be the first to admit that I'm not a hundred percent certain on the historical records regarding the love/hate relationship between Canada and it's indigenous population, but as a citizen, I do harbour some feelings and attitudes towards the rhetoric that I see in the media.  Most times, I keep my thoughts to myself, because if taken out of context, which most often opinions are taken out of context, my beliefs may come off as insensitive or even racist towards First Nations people.

I'm just one (of many) who are growing increasingly tired of past transgressions of our ancestors being thrust onto our modern day doorsteps.  The arrogance of the white man as he stepped off wooden ships onto an untamed world, lush with forest, grasslands and primitive peoples, could have been and should have been handled with more grace and understanding.  The long game should have played a factor into the relationships between European settlers and the indigenous people.  I'll grant you that fact.  The relationship, however, was a two-way street.  For as many infractions made by whites, I'm sure there were some reneging on the part of the First Nation peoples.

My father owned a slick black 1958 Chevrolet Impala convertible when he first moved to Saskatoon.  It was a car originally from Arizona and he loved that car.  As a young man with a new family, he had to sell the car to purchase a newer, more reliable car, as many young men of responsibility need to do and he sold his precious ride for a mere $400.  It was something that he long regretted and often looked back with seller's remorse.  He never once voiced an opinion that the buyer duped him out of his car.  That he was ripped off, nor did he ever once consider returning to the buyer to take back his car.  He never blamed others for his regrettable choices.

Grant you, when he sold the car, $400 was a reasonable amount, just as giving up some land to white settlers for some blankets and booze or whatever the exchange was, was fair trade two or three hundred years ago.  Looking back today, four hundred dollars for a future classic automobile, seems like chump change, as does the exchange of currency for land seems undervalued.

The river runs far deeper than that.  There's the subject of Cultural Genocide.  The apparent obliteration of native culture, language and beliefs by French colonists.  There's materials describing the heinous acts of First Nation children being forcefully removed from homes, forced to live in Residential School System.  At the time, it was viewed as a valuable process of assimilating the young Indian children into the West European/Canadian culture and way of life.  The method was labelled "killing the indian in the child".  The children were not allowed (and often punished) for speaking their native language or practicing their own religion or culture.  The primary goal was to convert the indigenous children into Christianity and to "civilize" them.

That was wrong.  I had nothing to do with it.  I'm not Christian nor am I French-Canadian, but that aside.  The whole ordeal was wrong.  I apologize for the insensitive nature of our history.  That's the thing, though.  It's history.  Just as the United States can't go back and erase the blunders of slavery.  Or Germany can't rewrite it's own contributions to the Jewish Holocaust.  We, as Canadians, can't go back and rewrite our own fucked up history.

For decades Canadian Prime Ministers and the Federal Government have been incessantly apologizing for the shortcomings of our ancestors.  Apologies have been made, financial restitution has been made multiple times.  Programs put in place to make the lives of indigenous people easier and to assist in moving forward.  First Nation art and culture has been embraced and thrust into our immediate society.  Hell, I can't drive anywhere in this city and not see any of the aboriginal art on display in one aspect or another.  I even have one of those little stone men things in my living room (although I fail to see how this is considered art...  Just sayin'.)

Art?  Seriously?

At some point, enough has to be enough.  To improve the relationship between aboriginal peoples and the rest of Canada, efforts need to be made on both sides.  If situations are bad in small Inuit communities, then funnel some of that casino money into improving the situations.  Use the programs put in place by the Canadian government to better yourselves.  For crying out loud, "Status Indians" get FREE post-secondary education, a financial tab that can run up to several tens of thousands of dollars, sometimes hundreds of thousands for us non-indian citizens.  I mean, what the fu---?!?

I've been unemployed for most of the last two years, because I fail to meet certain visible ethnic attributes.  I haven't let that get me down (entirely), but instead took the initiative to acquire other training to make myself look better on paper.  That was all completely out-of-pocket.  No subsidies to help me educate myself.  I'm not complaining.  It is what it is.  The tools are in place to better their lives.  There's really no excuse.

According to a National Household Survey conducted in 2011, people who had Aboriginal identity made up just 4.3% of the national population.  Of those incarcerated in our prisons, approximately 71% of them are Aboriginal.  There seems to be an outcry of injustice, but when you watch the news or pick up a paper, it's primarily indigenous people committing the crime.  Most of which, I believe, is native-on-native crimes.  Doesn't excuse the fact, but it's still a fact.

I don't hope to correct any injustices to First Nations in this article, nor do I believe it'll change anyone's outlook on the situation.  I damn sure doubt any First Nation people will read this blog and jump up in declaration, "Damn it!  He's right!  We HAVE been unreasonable!!"  Mostly, I needed to vent.  If we're being honest, I doubt anyone will read this blog at all.

Race relations in this country is a two way street.  When I was a kid, my parents split-up.  My mom took me and my sister away from the farm and moved into the city.  The apartment building that we wound up in, was primarily native people and within one week of getting settled, I answered a knock at the door and was greeted with a fist in my face.  The Indian male forced me back into the small apartment and proceeded to beat the ever-lovin' shit out of me.  I can remember vividly, being curled up in a ball, struggling not to swallow the teeth that had just been smashed in my mouth and receiving a further pummeling of my back.  When it was all said and done.  I was informed that "he" was the big bad Indian on the block and to not forget it.  To this day, I don't see how this was a method to improve the relations between our cultures.

That beating wasn't the only time I feared for my safety.  On two separate occasions, one in Prince Albert and another over by my mother's house, I overheard the comments, "Hey let's jump whitey."  The Prince Albert incident, I continued to walk down the street, pretending I hadn't heard what I'd heard.  The time in the city, here, I was with my mom, and I suspect that may have been why the lads chose not to gnarl this white boy.

I'm not saying that whites have never beaten the shit out of a native or two.  I'm sure it happens, but as I stated.  Race relations are a two-way street.

This week Prince William and Kate Middleton are set to land on Vancouver Island to tour the island as well as, the Yukon Territory.  Of the many festivities scheduled during their visit, they're also going to be confronted on the issues of cultural inequality and past transgressions against the indigenous people, including the estimated 150,000 children who were placed into state-run schools (by French colonists).  I'm not sure what they (First Nations) is hoping to achieve by these accusations.  Apparently, "SORRY" isn't good enough.

Comedian Christopher Titus once stated in one of his stand-up specials that: When you point a finger, three more point back at you.  Meaning no one is completely to blame.  Some burden of responsibility needs to be taken by yourself, as well.

When Western Europeans landed on this great country, indigenous people extended a hand of friendship and the Europeans proceeded to take advantage of the primitive folk and screwed them over at every chance.  Whites made repeated deals of "fair" trade and treaties of peace, only to renege and f*ck the First Nation people over again and again. ... Kind of gives new meaning to the term "Indian Giver", doesn't it?

The purpose of this blog was not intended to instill hate or racial insensitivity.
It would be defeating the message of equality if this were the case.

Death To Them All!!

Like a scene from The Amazing Spider-Man, the web extended across the entire opening of my garage.  I feared to speculate exactly what the spider was hoping to entangle in such an extravagant monstrosity of webbing, but found it even more troubling to have to rush to find a viable entrance into the garage.  Time was of the essence and I found myself doing that familiar dance in my driveway.  The combination of twisting, turning and struggle to rid myself of clinging strands of webbing.  I was only gone a couple of hours and upon my return home, the busy spider had repaired all the damage from where I'd infiltrated.

I've often struggled with the logic of WHY we need spiders?  They eat all the insects and flying bugs.  Alright.  I'll give you that one.  WHY do we need so many god damned insects and flying bugs, then?  What purpose do they serve?  They help plants to feed and grow.  Okay.  I'll give you that one, but WHY do we need so may damned varieties?  No answer?  Gotcha!!

This is further proof that there's no God.  If there is, there's no logic in why shit is the way it is!  Case and point; The Platypus.  A beaver with a duck bill who lays eggs.  The drugs must've been free flowing that day.

There's NO NEED for spiders.  Seriously.  Get rid of them all.  If we need spiders, then keep one species.  We don't need separate spiders for the forest, then another for the desert and another for urban environments then another for...  It's bullshit.  Just one.

I freakin' HATE spiders and I don't know many people who do like them.  There are those few who like to have them as pets.  I still scratch my head on the idiocy of that choice, but PEOPLE!!!  Choose another pet!!  For instance, get a gerbil.  They're small, furry and creepy looking.

What about Spider-Man?  They're fun movies to watch and comics to read, but that's all make believe.  I'm talking real life.  I'm sure you can get the same charm and charisma from a hero bitten by a radioactive gerbil.  Besides, when I'm watching the Spider-Man movies, a part of my brain is thinking about all the god damned webs left unattended in New York City.

I find tend to find a lot of spiders in my house.  I don't know how they get in here, nor do I know what they hope to catch in my basement.  With exception to a few ants, my home is essentially insect-free.  There's nothing to catch here, but my annoyance and anger.  However, like the ants that I discover, I make a deal with each and every culprit.  I tell them that IF they're able to survive being flushed, then they have an open invitation to live in my home for as long as they wish to stay.  Thankfully, no one has survived and even if they do, I'm quick to re-neg on my deal.

Worst of all, is my poor house.  I live in a four-level split and it's riddled with spider webs all over the siding.  I don't have the means to hose them off, at the moment, so my house is beginning to look like the Haunted Mansion on the corner.  I'm not real enthused about the whole situation.

I just finished having a back-and-forth debate on the impending doom / American election.  As a Canadian, I'm unable to vote, but I'd proudly back whichever candidate if one of the campaign promises was to obliterate the world of spiders.

Be Calm. It Was Just a False Alarm

I'm not going to lie to you, but it's been kind of a tense few weeks for yours truly.  About three weeks ago, in preparation for a visit to my diabetic counselor, I was sent for blood work, to monitor various levels of my blood in my daily battle with Type II Diabetes.  Within a couple of hours, I received an urgent phone call from my doctor, in reference to the test results.  Normally, I don't concern myself too much with such trivialities, but when a physician, especially one as busy as mine, takes time out of her busy day to place a personal phone call, one has no choice but to sit up and take notice.  She informed me that my platelet count was abnormally low and that I should return for another blood test the following week.

In the olden days, before the internet, news such as this would cause the mind to race in a thousand directions, imagination taking over and running thousands more scenarios.  These days, with the advent of the worldwide web, a diagnosis is available at one's finger tips and I wasted no time typing "low platelets" into Google and was not very encouraged by the results.  Web MD listed a few culprits, including Leukemia and Colon Cancer, but I wasn't experiencing any of those symptoms, so I quickly discarded them.  However, I was intrigued by the list symptoms for Prostate Cancer. I'd been experiencing some oddities in the weeks prior and Googled those symptoms which brought up Prostate Cancer as a possible cause.  Now seeing the ugly name rear it's head, once more, I became a little more concerned.

By and by, I never let it get me down, believing "It is what it is".  In years past, I've always believed that if I ever faced off with cancer, that I could and would beat it, so these past few weeks were definitely a test of that belief.

The following week came and I returned to the clinic for a follow-up blood test, only this time, I never received a follow-up phone call from my doctor.  A week came and went, followed by a second and still no telephone call from my doctor.  "No news is good news." they always say, and so I continued on, like there was nothing to worry about.

I saw my doctor, today, for my usual monthly visit and we touched base on the "low platelet" issue.  She chalked it up to a mistake made by the lab, as it's not normal for one's platelet count to fluctuate such a drastic amount within a few days of testing.  We each breathed a sigh of relief, mine much heavier than hers, I'm sure.

I've had a lot of close calls, in recent years, close calls and near misses that I've had to face on my own.  I know I have a small circle of friends that, if I needed to, I could lean on someone's shoulder.  However, I'm not the sort to trouble others with my bullshit.  When I broke my back a couple of years ago, that was a tough ordeal to get through on my own.  I'm not going to lie, but I managed to get through it.  When I had pneumonia, before that and X-rays discovered what was described (to me) as a "black mass" on my lung, I'll admit that was a heavy burden to shoulder, too.  All-in-all, recent years have really been taking their toll on me, emotionally, but god damn it, I'm grappling each one, wrestling it to the ground and rising above it all.  I'm like the Batman, only without the cool threads or the kick ass car.  I'm an excellent survivor.

What Lurks Beneath

The forecast called for dark clouds and rain on the long weekend, but miraculously, the clouds parted, allowing the bright sun to shine through, warming the land beneath it's glow.  Unfortunately, dad had to work this weekend, leaving mom at home with their three young kids.  Sara, the eldest, Jeremy the middle child and little Zack.  Opting for some fun, mom agrees to the pleas of the children to go outside to play.  "Let's go down to the park." she suggests, to the kids, referring to the park located near downtown.

There's lots to do at the park to occupy the creative imaginations of children.  There's the swings, a large slide, shaped like a castle.  There are zip lines and a massive fort made of wood and plastic, surrounded by drifts of silky sand.  It's everything to tucker out three rambunctious children.

The fact that it's a long weekend, coupled with it being early in the morning, no crowds have grown, yet.  The park is virtually empty, allowing the kids to run and chase one another, playing tag and other fun tasks.  Mom relaxes on a nearby bench with a book in hand, occasionally glancing up at her kids and smiling, as she turns the page.

"Mommy?" Jeremy asks, "What's this?"  She looks up to respond to her middle child, laying her eyes on the cylindrical object being held between his fingers.  A mask of panic shrouds her face as she instantly transforms into protective mama bear mode, leaping towards the child, dropping her book in the sand.

Located nearby, I was sweeping leaves out of a drainage grate, a task that normally only takes a couple of minutes, this day, I found myself extending my presence collecting up an overabundance of leaves and sand.  I could hear the kids laughing in the distance, which is always a welcomed sound.  The laughter and glee was momentarily interrupted by a concerned mother, who approached me with a small item clenched between her thumb and forefinger.

"Do you have anything for sharps?" she called out.  I turned my attention to her and was mortified by what she had in her possession.

During my orientation, there was mention of syringes and how they're often found on the playgrounds of our city.  It vexed me that there was now a danger where, if due care and attention was not exacted, there was a chance I could die.  The process of treatment was described in great detail and it was not for the faint of heart.  It really drove home the importance and immediacy of the dangers that lurk out in the world.

So far, I'd been lucky, having not crossed paths with anything as heinous as a syringe, but as I stared at the object in this young mother's hand, I have to admit I was horrified.  The needle appeared clean, as if it just came out of a box, but the end of the needle point was stained with dried blood.  I couldn't help but think how something that appears so small and insignificant could harness a disease powerful enough to kill whomever was unlucky enough to come into direct contact with it.

She handed it off to me, dropping it into the dust bin I had on my person.  She thanked me and returned to her children, who were still laughing and playing nearby, oblivious to the dangers that were lurking about.

The fear I felt now turned into rage.  I couldn't believe that some f*ckin' junkie piece of shit would [willingly] endanger the safety of others, more specifically, children, by hiding their spent syringes in the sand pit, rather than walking them the couple dozen yards down to the receptacle provided nearby.  Granted, whatever shit they just pumped into their vein, probably hindered their actions immediately following, but why the need to do it in the sand pit, to begin with?  Why not go be a f*ckin' loser junkie down by the receptacle bin?  There's nice trees and shit there, to engage their imaginations.

I was told by my co-worker that the city provides a service whereby they provide needles to junkies, free of charge, with hopes that they'll ply their nasty habits, responsibly.  This idea only infuriated me further.  I couldn't believe that this city, where I was born and raised, where I'm proud to call my home, supports the drug habits of these junkies, rather than getting them the assistance they so desperately need.  That's horse shit!

I'm sure this won't be my last encounter with an addicts discarded syringe.  This really opened my eyes and made the problem real.  I always knew it was a factor, but there's something about coming face-to-face with the evil that makes the danger more three-dimensional.

Jeremy got off lucky, as did his siblings and his mom.  No one was poked with the dirty needle, so no one will have to visit the hospital and be on the receiving end of a plethora of painful needles for the next six months.  The drug epidemic in our city, nay, our country, is getting bad.  And those participating are exercising poor judgement.  Why they choose to hide their dirty needles in the sand pit of a children's playground, far exceeds my imagination or logic.  I'll never understand it, just like I'll never understand why these fools turn to illicit drugs in the first place.

Hopefully, with fingers crossed, none of the children who come to any of our fair city's parks will get stuck by a delinquent needle.  But be warned, it's a real danger lurking out there, somewhere.

**While the family described above, was real, some artistic license was
made leading up to their visit to the park.  The names are all fabricated.**