Rant

I normally keep things edgy on this blog, sometimes with a little lightness sprinkled in for good measure.

But as mentioned on my previous post, it has been a difficult time for our family lately, in large part due to my father's declining health, more than likely now in the last stage of Parkinsons disease.   I mention it here, as I am providing a link to my other blog,role-reverse.blogspot.com for those interested in learning about our on-going journey, more like nightmare, in dealing with the Ontario healthcare system, particularly Trillium Hospital in Mississauga, Ontario.

Stay tuned.

Pictures Don't Lie

"The police have a warrant for my arrest."

Not exactly the way I had envisioned ending my evening, with a tall, spicy ceasar in one hand, phone in the other, some 10 years ago.  

Yup, that got my attention pretty quick. The ceasar would have to wait.

After a quick run-down of the particulars of how my brother's name had been added to the dotted line on a warrant, I quickly pinched myself to see whether this was yet another vivid dream that I would eventually wake from.  

Nope, not this time.  Besides which, most of those dreams involved, well, let's just say, no brothers, no mothers, no fathers, no family and no friends.  Just strangers, of the male persuasion, wearing..........smelling........yeah.

Back to the warrant.  It seemed my naive and generous brother, in opening his home to a friend in trouble, had managed to be impersonated by said "friend".  While my brother provided room, board, comfort and counselling to this said friend, (let's call him Fool), Fool was a busy, yet confused bee.  

After a short period of time or reflection or straightedness, Fool fell off the proverbial wagon, and began to slowly but surely relieve my brother of various electronic equipment, clothing, etc to feed his Wagonness.  I guess my brother, we'll call him Stephen, should have been more clearer on how he defined Help, because something got lost in translation.

Fool was no Fool.  He decided to really test the boundaries of Help, only in public.  While out and about, Fool decided to continue to try and feed his Wagonness in many creative ways.  When that creativity was noticed by the general folk, say taxi drivers for one or two or three, he decided to inhabit Stephen, and in essence became the New Stephen to the public at large.  

The New Stephen rode taxis for free, forgetting to pay for fares as he ran out of taxis before the taxi driver could ask for his fare.  The New Stephen also took his relieving act on the road, specifically Yonge Street, where he relieved a few shops of their wares, but not before introducing himself as the New Stephen.  The New Stephen ate a few free dinners, saw a few free films and generally tested the boundaries of being the New Stephen.  All while he still lived under the roof of the Old Bro.

Until he got the attention of the police.  And hence the warrant.  Old Stephen's name on the New Stephen's face.  

A phone call was made to the police station, explaining the error of their ways.  We exchanged information, set up a time to bring in the Old Stephen, so as to set things straight formally.  You see this was before we had cameras on most corners or in every store, and before there was an extensive database and information on all citizenry.  Big Brother was still in his teens then.

We walked into the police station at midnight, introducing ourselves to the officer at the front desk.  It took about two seconds to compare the Old Stephen in his current form to the New Stephen on the warrant, shared a couple of nervous laughs (mostly ours), a few details on where they could find the New Stephen, aka Fool and we were done.

I could have sworn we heard some laughter as we exited the police station.  You see, the New Stephen, aka Fool was black.  My brother the Old and Only Stephen, is white.  Fool was not the sharpest tool in the shed.  

In fact, he was really Stupid.  Really Stupid.  

When Four Became Six.....and then Eight

The Fearsome Foursome have multiplied. Not the mice, thank God.

At first, it was a simple addition to the equation. On one fine Monday afternoon, six silver-haired aristocratic fashionistas took over the deep end of the Glen Abey Pool. Yes, I was a little late to the pool that day, but I had grown accustomed to having the Deep Zone to myself. Aha! Just when I had grown complacent. The Fearsome Foursome + 1 + 1 friends (truth be told, with less silver, more black, or hint o' black), wading flush in the middle of the Deep Zone, deep in conversation about one MBA'ed son or another, one trip to Europe or another, one party or gala or another. Bla, bla, bla.

"My son .....brilliant.......took over.......".

"Promotion......bonus......lakefront property........yacht........".

"Gorgeous grandchildren.........dean's list........".

"Five-star hotel.....limo........ gourmet chef.......".

Bla. Bla. BLA. "My.....". "Well, MY...".

Yep. This was a pissing match, of the gray-haired variety. Minus the pissing, but with sneers where mouths usually rested. Although at that age, the bladder is a little weaker, so I've been told. Hey, we were all in a pool, sharing water after all. Nose and mouth above water level at all times. Just in case. The rest could be shaken and shivered off in a shower. Ingested, not so much.

So, with the obstacle grown to six, it meant a few more fakes and fumbles for me, as I crossed from one side of the deep end to the other. I even tried my kicking-up-a-storm routine, splashing and gesturing as I got to within a couple of feet of the party-of-six. If you can't join them, splash them.

But when additions became a multiple from the original four, I acquiesced. Not defeated. Acquiesced.

The lane for lengths would be my next zone to conquer. It would only force my legs to work harder, nerves to pump and regenerate more. Better stronger, faster? Besides which, the legs didn't have the goods to kick-up-a-storm for eight. Six was pushing it a little. Eight, nada.

Lengths it would be. 30 metres. Swimming, sharing a lane with others, ahead or behind me. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, stroke, breathe. Stroke, breathe. Breathe. Breathe.

Float on your back, quick. Turn over, now.

Mayday. MAYDAY.

Who's Your Daddy?

Back at the pool, it appears the fearsome foursome have gone missing!

At least for the past week.

When I made my way over to the deep end last Thursday, I started slowly swimming from one end of the pool to the rope, and back again. I kept that up for several minutes, but with my radar in place, scanning the horizon and pool side for a glimpse of silver hair. One lap, quick peek, nothing. A couple more laps, a nonchalant tossing of the head, and still nada. Except for a stiff neck. (You have to suffer from back woes to understand how the mundane become the PAIN).

Not a gray to be had, unless you consider the gray in cognito in most of the over-forty heads of hair. Sure they appear to be fire-engine red, majestic auburn, mocca brown, or sun-kissed blond, but only that little plastic bottle paid for at the cashier or our colourists know the trueness of the gray underneath.

The silver, though, at least in the quad formation of the fearsome foursome, was no where to be seen at Glen Abbey Pool. In the water, on the deck, in the change rooms, nor in the showers. And to think, all it took was some vigorous splashing to stake out some territory.

Fearsome Foursome. Where for art thou? Stay tuned.

Commotion at the Combo

Part of my physio routine post spine surgery is swimming in the local neighbourhood pool. I use the word swimming loosely, as I attempt to build up some strength towards actually swimming laps.

I chose the "combo" session, twice weekly, as it has one lane, and ropes separating the deep end from the rest of the pool. It affords me the space and paraphernalia to warm up, and is non-structured enough that I can do as I please.

You get a smattering of other folks, generally seniors, working through various routines under water, limbering up joints and muscles that stubbornly stiffen with cold or just age ungracefully with arthritis; some mummies or grandparents with pre-school aged kids just learning to tread, on their way to becoming one with water; and some in betweens, like me.

After warm-up, where I try and coax my low back, hips and shoulders into some sort of submission, or at least work through enough kinks that I can actually bend, rotate, extend or flex said joints, I head to the deep end. Here, I can "swim" using front crawl and back pedal kick from one end of the roped area to the other, building atrophied muscles and willing and pushing those nerves that were damaged in my legs to pump rich new blood.

When I first checked out the various pool sessions available at Glenn Abbey Pool, I purposely stayed away from the family sessions to avoid swimming amongst young families, not trusting myself to be nimble enough to avoid young and powerful limbs underwater or exuberantly swinging arms above. I also declined lengths, until, well I could actually swim a length without my legs burnings or hips/back aching; same for water jogging, leisure (what is this the ocean or a pool?), and the ubiquitous rubber duckie (the imagination runs wild).

Combo, as described above, seemed the perfect fit. That is until I watched a fearsome foursome of silver-haired ladies, gradually wade towards the deep end, staking out their positions in the water, smack in the middle of the deep end, arms stretched out, supported by tubers or other flotation devices, completely oblivious to the rest of us who were already there. Once in position, it becomes virtually impossible to try and get by them. You think you have a straight line to the other end, when one floats oh so casually right in your path, so you swim or tread around them. You're in the middle of a stroke, when you get struck by an arm that's cupping water underneath, or demonstrating just how large the portion was at a daughter-in-law's anniversary party. All done with a knowing glance that whether they arrived first, second or last, this is their end, their reserved section, staked and soldiered.

At first I was patient. I waited; they laughed and floated. I arrived extra early; they arrived in mid-session and still they floated. I head-faked and arm-faked, swimming in one direction, then the other, in an indeterminable manner; they glanced and floated. I tried to smile and nod; they ignored and floated. I needed a new game plan.

I arrived early on Monday, warmed up, and walked underwater towards the deep end. There was no one there. I smiled and started my front crawl and back pedal.

Ten minutes in, the fearsome foursome appeared.

Slowly they made their way to the deep end. They floated by the ropes; I rested against the pool's edge, ready to enact the new game plan. Once they assumed their position, floating to the middle of the pool, I took a deep breath and started off. As I nudged by them, on my way to the other end, I kicked up a storm of water. On my next swim by, I exaggerated my kicking and splashed some more.

They sneered. I ignored.

Serve and game. My legs were burning anyway.