Saturday was cloudy all day. It spat angel piss all through the afternoon and the night. Not really enough to make a difference to charge the forest or my gardens, but it was, for the most part, a day off. I only worked for a couple of hours on the front deck and the front sidewalk. I’ve to paint the front deck as well as the back one, but its tiny compared to the back.
I’m falling apart. My hip is killing me. I force myself to do days without ibuprofen because I heard it was nasty for the stomach. I see my nurse practitioner in a month. I intend to ask her about my hip, because I think that whatever is the cause, it likely can’t be fixed without surgery. I’m not keen on surgery, but I am keen for an x-ray to know what’s going on.
Besides my hip, there’s my left eye. I’m sure I will get cataract surgery after a long wait. I watch TV, read and do all forms of work (typing, prepping food, and the work on the deck) with my left eye closed, otherwise I see double. I see the optometrist in two weeks. And there’s something mighty wrong with my shoulder, but only when I use a specific muscle. When I use that muscle, it’s brutally painful, but I think it’s going to heal over time. But I feel old when so many things are sore.
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The Tyrell’s moved from Vancouver to West Vancouver when I was four. At that time, the 1950s, life was very, very different. My parents sent me to playschool when I was three. They’d only had me for 6 months, and they were already finding ways to keep me occupies elsewhere. Playschool was only 2 blocks away, but I went and returned on my own.
Cross the street was a park with a playground, a pond and a wooded area. It was in the park where I got my first bee sting and that’s probably where I met Bruce and Norman. And then they were gone when we moved.
In September of 1972, I joined the Arts Club Theatre. My first show was Jacques Brel is Alive and Well and Living in Paris. Bruce was the musical director, and he played the piano for the show. Our first hit play that was a first production by our theatre, was My Fat Friend. The star was an extraordinary actor: Norman. Long after becoming friends of them both, we discovered our common past. In 1999, we gathered in the pub of the Sylvia Hotel to celebrate 50 years of friendship.
I got an email from my friend, Dana (another great actor from My Fat Friend), telling me that Norman in in the final stage of his life. He’s been battling cancer for a long time. After 74 years, Norman is the one who is leaving. It’s going to hurt to lose him. Even if a show wasn’t great, Norman always was, and he’s a fine and generous man. A very good man.
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I’ve often thought of drafting a book for which I had several tentative titles. My favourite is Hints. And in it I would write very, very short stories about things I did as a child and young man, long before I came out as gay. But things that would have foretold my destiny to a discriminating eye. Talking about Norman reminded me of one of the stories I’d put in that book.
When it was time to move to West Vancouver, my father did something grand and kind. He wanted to be sure I was happy in my new home, so he asked me what kind of present I would like to take with me. I was four. I told him I wanted a double-flowering Almond Tree.
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I’m very excited about the deck project. It has been an eyesore since I bought the place. I scraped and wire brushed it a couple of years ago, but this year it had returned to its feral state. All I intended to do was scrape and brush it again when I mentioned it to Pete. His vision, however, was to do a complete makeover.
I’ve been struck by how great it’s been to be with Pete all day for three days in a row. I really like him. Plus, as is evidenced by all recent posts, he’s a generous man. And spending all day together, often silent, but with frequent consultations and the odd break in conversation, was a complete joy. It’s a wonderful thing we do, we humans, working together— but I don’t include office work in that sentiment. Think sewing bees, barn raisings, and the provision of care. Think volunteer working together.
When I was a teacher, during my second year of work at the school, I sponsored the outdoor club because the school was going to shut down the club. The previous sponsor was on sabbatical, and no school club can exist without a sponsor. I felt for the kids, so I agreed to be the sponsor.
Our first outdoor trip was to Singing Pass. It was 6 hours straight up, just north of Whistler Mountain. Mere hours after arriving, I heard a cry for help, did a head count and found we were missing one person. The kids fanned out and I scanned the landscape with the telephoto lens of my camera and saw our missing hiker not too far away, lying on the ground and waving with one arm.
He was in grievous pain. He howled all night, but it was too late to take him down. We had to wait for first light. When it came, 6 of us carried him down the mountain. We had him in 2 sleeping bags and strapped to a ladder we took from a ranger cabin. Four of us carried David, and the other two carried the gear of all 7 of us. When we got to the bottom of the mountain, we hailed an ambulance by flagging down a car on the highway., and off we went to Lions Gate Hospital.
The point of that story is that it was the first time I felt what I’d call ‘comradery.’ We were a team that did good together. We bonded due to that experience. Many, many years later, we got David to take three of us out for a drink together. I had similar experiences with certain shows when I worked in the arts. Comradery is what I feel with Pete.
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Another story from Hints: From adoption and until I was four, my mother employed a teenage girl who lives next door as a babysitter. She had a slightly older brother who, one day, killed a mole that had been ‘destroying’ their garden. My babysitter told me what her brother had done and asked if I wanted to see it. Again, I was four! And I went home, got into my smart grey flannel shorts, a clean white shirt, a red bow tie, a red plaid blazer and black shiny shoes for the viewing.
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As this post proves, I am neither obsessed by my speech nor clinic work and culture. Instead, it’s all about physical labour. That is the greatest thing doing yard and project work. My thoughts turn to the project and that gets me out of my own head. Plus, it burns calories and builds muscle. The demanding work of Summer frees me of guilt during the couch season.
As soon as the deck is finished, it’s back to work on the yard. Everything is screaming for attention. I’ve all the weed fields to trim and there’s weeding to do in the gardens.
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Today I arose to see that the angels are still pissing. It’s soaking wet out there, so I will spend the day reading and doing domestic chores. If the rain stops, I’ll likely finish the final few feet of the front sidewalk. Otherwise, I’ll be committed to turning pages.
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