We're In The Home Stretch Now

With Black Friday and its week of anticipation and anxiety under our belt, all eyes turn to the upcoming festive month, where we take time to let down our hair, share glad tidings with friends and coworkers, reminisce over important events in our lives, and look beyond the immediate horizon toward the proverbial pot of gold (whatever that may impart to you).

Regrets? Aye, they be many. Chief among them is a profound realization that despite the best of intentions, my accomplishments in the previous twelve months were comparatively inferior to the goals set. And yet, that being said, in this year my life found unintended pathways leading to experiences never before imagined, each with its own degree of reward.

One such event, very early this year, was being so filled with rage that my iPod and its 6285 entries was stolen from me as I lay in hospital recovering from surgery to save my leg.

The medical team indeed rescued my leg from almost certain above-knee amputation, albeit at the cost of a foot. But my sole thought at the time, despite the torment of full body aching pain and the stabbing sensation of phantom piercing delivered with the rabid ferocity of a bloodthirsty lunatic, was for a device designed with the functionality and obsolescence that could only come from the brilliance of the world's richest corporation (as per market value), and its almost fad-like contents. How myopic, I now realize.

Maybe it was the indignation I felt at being victimized while incarcerated (believe me, I can assure you at how appropriate this term fits) in a trusted medical facility. Perhaps it was the plethora of medications honing in on my psyche at a vulnerable time. Or even, it could have been what that iPod represented to me; an escape, my freedom, sharing with others, and being transported to those times in my life when things were different.

I find that as I ripen, the years seem shorter. As I mellow, the world seems angrier. As I age, I long for my youth.

What I should have been more cognizant of at the time, were the tribulations I experienced, how I got to that point, and what lessons I could glean from having all the terrestrial and extraterrestrial forces line up in the manner they did.

My inner journey continues, but it occurs to me now that a device fewer than a sixth of the world could ever afford to purchase took on a prominence in my life disproportionate to its actual value.

As the sun sets on another year aboard this ship called Life, perhaps the final Winter Solstice of our existence (if you put any stock in our interpretation of the Mayan calendar), challenge yourself to make a real difference in one person's life by inspiring he/she who is struggling. Allow your soul to be brave. Make peace in your heart so there may be peace on Earth.

Many thanks to Feral Dog Studios for the use of their photo for this article.

How Shameful Our Nation

Perhaps it is naive to believe Canada would be any better at its treatment of veterans than any other country, least of all our closest foreign neighbors. But it always seemed to me growing up how proud we were that our young men and women served our nation. Certainly the parades were colorful and jubilant, even if I could not have at that time appreciated the experiences and sacrifices of our military.

Growing up, the inevitable comparison we drew with United States permeated every nuance of our lives, from entertainment to manufacturing, from currency to vacation spots, and everything between. I recall during those formidable years the one thing we always seemed to do better than our American neighbors was how we treated our servicemen and women. We didn't seem to forget our debt to those who gave so much.

Over the years, the US media showed countless examples of veterans living in abject poverty, inching their wheelchair through the soup line, dressed as shabbily as some third world refugee. I never saw that here.

But then again, how would I know?

It's not as if a Canadian veteran living on the streets would be in dress uniform, with spit-polished boots, freshly pressed shirt, and colorful ribbons from which shiny medals are proudly displayed. It's only when I think of it in this manner and with my more worldly eyes that I can begin to fathom the truth behind stories published in our major media.

I saw a news story on television about a Canadian veteran living on the streets of Edmonton and it made my heart sink. After serving our country, MY country, and as a result of a number of issues, this man was scratching out a bare existence on the streets of the city in which I lived. How shameful our nation, I professed.

The news story was so close to home that I could almost reach out and touch it, given the amount of time I donate to charitable causes in Edmonton.

Compelled to do something but blind to what I could do, I was then relieved to also hear in the same news story about an organization called VETS Canada (Veterans Emergency Transition Services), a not for profit organization dedicated to helping Canadian veterans in need. They reached out to this particular man and gave him the hand up he needed. And they have done so for many others as well.

So maybe the something I could do was write and publish this small story. And even though I was ill-equipped to touch this one particular fellow's life, he indeed touched mine - once for serving his country, and once for being the catalyst in the news story that spread the word that there are some Canadian veterans suffering and need some help.

Let us all step up to the plate, because it is the right thing to do. We can all do something. Help VETS Canada help. Donate your time. Buy some merchandise from their website. Donate some money. They even accept Canadian Tire money. Surely you can at least do that much, can't you?

Thank you to Feral Dog Studios for the use of their photograph for this article.

Remembering Remembrance Day

I didn't pay attention to the weather forecast. All I knew is that it was to be south of cool and with a wind, not unexpected at this time of the year.

It was Remembrance Day and I had chosen to attend the ceremony being held at City Hall, partly because the first half of this somber remembrance would be held indoor under the towering glass pyramid that so smartly beacons from downtown Edmonton, and partly because the cenotaph area that rightly pays tribute to those who serve(d) has ample space for photographing without interrupting the procedings.

Driving toward downtown it struck me as somehow wrong that stores were opening up for regular business. The economic machine couldn't spare a couple of hours, it seemed, so that ordinary citizens could have an opportunity to pay their respects to the men and women who sacrifice(d) so much.

The indoor portion of the City Hall ceremony contained the obligatory speeches using the equally de rigueur wording expected at such an occasion. Nothing new seems to be said, and yet, we continue sending troops to wars, conflicts, or other insert-your-euphamism-here arenas. But I digress. The only new whiff was the welcomed recognition of mental illnesses suffered by the men and women who serve(d). With any luck, that will translate into some real action on the part of our country to help those who suffer as a result of their service. Again, I digress.

Outdoors was no place to be unless necessity dictated. The temperature was -15C, but that wind was biting, easily plunging the mercury several more degrees. Salutes, music, and the clickity clack of proudly uniformed parading armed forces filled the still air. Wreaths were placed at the foot of the cenotaph, where each of its four corners were guarded by the silent vigil of a cadet.

As I snapped photographs, my hands became numb to the cold. Frostbite to one of my fingers is now a permanent record of that morning. As cold as it was to my bare skin, my thought turned to wondering how cold it must have been for a soldier in the trenches, or marching to the next battlefield, or as a prisoner of enemy forces that lapsed into inhumane treatment of fellow man. And for one selfless moment, I no longer felt cold.

On the return drive home, I stopped at one of the cemetaries that was a recipient of a school children visit to place a poppy on the headstone of each person who served our country and has since passed. The project is called No Stone Left Alone and it started right here in Edmonton.

Eighteen, twenty one, twenty six. So young. These brave souls stepped up to the plate so I have the choice not to. Hard to imagine an eighteen year old boy fighting, shooting, defending, attacking, and yes, brave. Think of the eighteen year old boys and girls you know now. Can you picture them in a poorly constructed, mass produced, olive drab uniform without a designer label, putting their life on the line with each pace?

One day a year we set aside to recognize the immense contribution men and women of our armed forces make to our daily lives. In fact, were it not for the bravery and sacrifice of those heroes, opening the store each morning would not be one of the choices we have today.

Thank you to Feral Dog Studios for the use of their photograph in this article.