Sucker for a French Accent

I called the bank the other night because I couldn't reach their online site. I patiently went through five minutes of "press one for English...etc." tripe, and sat for nearly twenty minutes with phone to ear, for if I were to hang up I'd lose my place in the queue and need to start over. Who wants to do that?

Finally a voice came on the line. Imagine my surprise to hear a lovely male accent that was not from some third world country, but Canadian, likely Quebecois.

I could have spent a lot more time listening to that fine voice, but alas, the problem was quickly fixed, the call was at an end.

After I gave my thanks, I blurted, somewhat foolishly in hindsight, "I like your accent."

To which he replied, in true Gallic fashion, "I like yours, too."

He was only being polite, I know.

Because I do not have an accent.


--Cat

Neighborhood wild things

My husband came in last night and said he heard the neighborhood owl hooting. The owl is big and beautiful, white or gray, and has been around for some months, probably because to him this neighborhood is like a smorgasbord--all his favorite dishes can be found.

The owl's spooky who-who-who certainly invokes shivers. And we talked about the times we camped in the wilderness and at night heard owls and coyotes. Such lovely times.

Hah, my husband said, we hear owls and coyotes here all the time.

Of course, that's true. Wilderness, it seems, has come to the city.

And it's justified, right? We encroached on their lands, so they return the favor. Only they have no chance here.

Not long ago we saw two coyotes just outside our back yard, warming themselves in a sunny spot in the greenbelt. I wanted to write a poem about them, about how wrong it was for wild animals to pad along concrete streets, they should be free, yadda, yadda, yadda. I planned to write it in the style of a sonnet.

Well, there are sonneteers.
And then there's me.

But I will prevail.

Here are the first few lines I wrote:

City Coyotes

Beyond the fence, beyond the grass-banked stream,
I saw coyotes bask in morning sun.
They slept until the warming light was done,
Then wakened from their atavistic dream.
Their slitted eyes stared at encircling homes,
At fences slicing land that once was free.
Yet I believe their hearts can only be
On ranges where their untamed cousin roams.


A picture of the backyard coyotes:



-- Cat

in Memoriam

Kevan F. Hartwell

Dec. 21, 1920 - Oct. 3, 2001

Remembering always,

"If the people we love are stolen from us, the way to have them live on is to never stop loving them. Buildings burn, people die, but real love is forever.”The Crow (1994)

--Cat

That day AGAIN!

October 2 -- an auspicious day.

So I'm one year farther from my birth and closer to my mortality.

-- Cat

End of an Era

Luciano Pavarotti (October 12, 1935 – September 6, 2007)

I was reading some of the tributes given to this man by the people, ordinary people from all over the world who loved him, loved his voice, and was moved enough to cry.

Though I've listened to classical music since young, I came late to the lavishly-set opera table. It used to be something I endured as I waited for the next Beethoven, Strauss, or Rachmaninoff on the classical radio channel.

I knew of, but paid scant attention to, the Three Tenors. Knew their names, knew Pavarotti was the big guy. I rather liked the more "pop" sounds of Josh Groban and Il Divo. I could listen to Sarah Brightman sing anything.

Then I heard the music to a song identified only as from the Puccini opera Turandot. It was the type of music that stays in your mind (playing over and over) and I needed to learn more about it. Thank goodness for Amazon and other internet music sellers that let you hear samples from each work. I identified the song as Nessun Dorma and then trotted my fingers over to YouTube. I listened to Andrea Bocelli's version. Lovely. I listened to Pavarotti and was ... electrified. I listened to his other arias. Really listened. What a splendid voice.

Inspired, I purchased a mix of various opera songs, and I've found many that I truly enjoy hearing. Some, I still only endure (too lazy to skip to the next), but I feel my life has been, maybe only in a small way, enriched by the super voices of opera singers.

Especially Pavarotti.

May he rest peacefully, and as someone said, the man with the voice of an angel now sings with them.

Here is my favorite aria Nessun Dora by my favorite tenor:







--Cat

Dream du Jour

Here's one for the dream projector --

I dreamed I was at a gathering of sorts -- all women and children.

I held one woman's little one, a chubby-cheeked cherub, smiling, jabbering away.

"That's his happy talk," the mother said.

And as if this were a Broadway musical and that was my cue, I began singing Happy Talk, from South Pacific. In the dream I had a pure and lovely voice; in real life let's just say I might know the lyrics, but can't carry a tune, not even faintly. (Ah, that's the nature of dreams.)

A chorus of beautiful voices joined in -- all the others at the gathering, I reckon.

What makes it more peculiar is that in the dream the chorus got one line wrong. I began the song again with the correct words.

Happy Talk is a charming song from my favorite musical. My father had a reel-to-reel tape player and when I was a kid, I played South Pacific over and over again. The words to the song are no doubt burned into my subconscious.

Here are the words. In my dream we sang the first four lines:


Happy Talk

from South Pacific.

Music by Richard Rodgers, Lyrics by Oscar Hammerstein II

Happy talk, keep talking happy talk
Talk about things you like to do
You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream
How you gonna have a dream come true?
Talk about the moon floating in the sky
Looking like a lily on the lake
Talk about a bird learning how to fly
Making all the music he can make!
Happy talk, keep talking happy talk
Talk about things you like to do
You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream
How you gonna have a dream come true?
Talk about the sparrow looking like a toy
Peeking through the branches of a tree
Talk about the girl, talk about the boy
Counting all the ripples on the sea
Happy talk, keep talking happy talk
Talk about things you like to do
You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream
How you gonna have a dream come true?
Talk about the boy saying to the girl
Golly, baby, I'm a lucky cuss
Talk about the girl saying to the boy
You an' me is lucky to be us
Happy talk, keep talking happy talk
Talk about things you like to do
You got to have a dream, if you don't have a dream
How you gonna have a dream come true?
If you don't talk happy, and you never have dream
Then you'll never have a dream come true!

A dream about a song about a dream. Is this a message of some kind?

--Cat

Uses for dreams

We were talking about dreams, my husband and I, the kind you have when you sleep.

I said it would be neat if there was a way to project the dreams onto the ceiling.

So you could watch them, he said.

No, I said. So you could watch them. (I have some very interesting dreams.)

Taking it a step further, we could tape the good ones for later viewing.

One could have a whole library of dreams. Like books, like DVDs.

Laugh all you like.

Scientists may be working on this right now.

We'd all become micro-movie makers. Surreal movies, for most dreams are just that.

And the Academy Award for dreams goes to ....

--Cat

An anniversary of sorts

Sometimes I think about smoking a cigarette.

I even dream about it -- not the act itself -- but I'm rummaging through my purse and find a pack there, or I'm off to the store to buy them.

It's been 15 years since I went from a pack-a-day habit to none.

I remember the day I smoked my last cigarette, June 20, 1992, my son's birthday. It was my gift to him, something he really wanted, something he nagged me about for months (years?). So on June 21, 1992 I quit, cold turkey.

That wasn't the first time I'd tried to quit a habit I'd had since I was 17. But for the first time I was truly ready. It wasn't easy, but as time passed, as I grit my teeth and sat on my hands waiting for the craving to pass, the pangs became less and less urgent.

One of the hardest things I found in giving up this stinky habit was in the mind -- the association I had with smoking a cigarette at every major or happy event in my life. How many photos do I have of those pre '92 years where I'm holding a cigarette?

Those nostalgic associations between smoking and happiness eventually faded.

And now I would not fill my mouth, let alone my lungs, with cigarette smoke. Distasteful thought.

But you know what? My son started smoking.

Go figure.

--Cat

Today was...

Well, Only in America. Enough said.


A humorous childrens verse I wrote appears here in Bumbershoot, an online literary ezine.


Smile.


--Cat

Curious Bereavement

I have a theory about the people on this earth.

We all know the earth is round. Let's for the moment look beyond the geometry and think that the people who inhabit it form one large jigsaw puzzle. There are roughly 7 billion pieces. Every person alive is a piece of the puzzle. No matter how poor, how rich, how much land they own, they are one piece of the puzzle, equal to each of the others. As the population increases, the edges of the puzzle expand. As people die, their little space disappears and there's a shift, a cosmic shift if you like, as the puzzle is rearranged. At the current rates of growth and attrition, the puzzle is constantly adjusting itself.

One might say it lives. It breathes. It seethes.

Now, getting to the point of my subject title above:

When I first ventured onto the internet, I discovered forums, where like-minded people hung out and messaged each other. My first forum was moderated by a nice lady whose name I've forgotten, but I'll call L. I haven't forgotten L, though. As time progressed, I learned she had grown daughters, roughly where she lived, that she liked cats, baked a lot, simple small details of her life. I knew from the tenor of her messages that she had a wry sense of humor and took her (unpaid) job seriously. I may have exchanged two or three messages with her, and I believe she knew me only as a name, if that.

One day her daughter posted a message. L had died. A heart attack, I think it was. Though we were barely acquaintances, I felt a surprising sense of loss. This person, who had become a tiny part of my life, no longer existed, leaving an empty space in the puzzle.

Other forums, other years, other people I knew-but-didn't-know passed on. And I always felt first surprise, then that odd sense of loss. I don't grieve as I would a family member or close friend, but I miss that presence, the person who had become real because of thoughts shared, personalities made known, messages placed on a medium seen potentially by billions .

I occasionally surf blogs, and when I come across one that interests me I leave a comment. A person I'll call X, a writer, poet, replied to the comment I'd made. That was the sum of our involvement. Once in a while I'd visit X's blog for new posts. There were no updates for months. Perhaps X was ill. It 's more than a year now. The blog hasn't changed.

I do not know X's real name, where X lives, works, anything. I must presume X is dead. This sense of loss is somehow different. We were nothing but two ships passing ... no, not really. Two canoes who for the briefest moment swept the same wave with our paddles.

Was there a cosmic shift? Was the puzzle realigned due to X's disappearance? I'll never know.

I think that blogs exist forever, or as long as people view them. I'll check X's blog now and then. Leave a thought, if nothing else.

Fair tv Fare

Note: Some people use capital letters when abbreviating the word television, but my use of small letters explains my regard, or lack thereof, of the medium.

Some years ago I read that to be a true tv snob you must watch all of the programs, or none of them.

The former being impossible for me, I chose the latter.

For a long time I watched nothing, and whenever someone said, "Did you catch X on tv last night?" I could honestly reply, in true tv snob fashion, "Oh, I don't watch television."

There were occasional inroads. My daughter, working nights at the time, watched afternoon soap operas and I began watching The Young and the Restless with her. I still watch to this day, and make no excuses for doing so.

Then there were shows like ER and NYPD Blue. I loved the tension of those early ER shows. I will always remember one episode where at the climax I burst into tears. A movie, tv show, or book that makes me cry has rare power. That episode was, for me, an "eleven." (on a scale of one to ten....)

I stopped watching ER when it became too depressing for me. NYPD Blue, though I watched, and enjoyed, from beginning to end.

At one time my desk sat in a large room that also had a tv set. For a time I shunned that tv set, though I only had to look slightly to the side to see it. Then I discovered British mystery series on A & E.

What a wonderful variety! I watched them all: Prime Suspect, A Touch of Frost, Inspector Morse, Miss Marple, Hercule Poirot, Sherlock Holmes, Lovejoy, Dalgliesh, Inspector Alleyn, Brother Cadfael, Ruth Rendel Mysteries, the gritty Cracker--my favorite. (perhaps others I've forgotten...)

Alas, we moved and things changed, my ability to view these shows while I worked at my computer came to a regrettable end.

But then came the autumn of 2000, the autumn of the Olympics in Sydney, the autumn of Who Wants to be a Millionaire, the autumn I spent several weeks in a hospital.

Almost overnight I went from tv snob to tv slob.

I watched EVERYTHING that was on. All the game shows, all the sitcoms, all the dramas: Cops shows, lawyer shows: Ally McBeal, The Practice, Family Law, scenic shows, e.g. Baywatch! on and on ad nauseam. The good, the bad, and the really ugly, it made no difference to me, I was passing time and for once in my life had not the will to read. (As if that were some sacred act not to be performed in the mundane setting of a hospital.)

My tv extravaganza came to an end when I came home. I tried to keep up with some of the better shows, but my interest soon waned. I had no patience left for silly sitcoms, though I always made time for Frasier.

Now I've come to that point where I recall important times of my life by the tv shows I watched. Who can forget the summer of 1980 when Who shot JR? was a question that held an entire continent in thrall? (This, before my tv snob days!) And how about the years I spent watching Sesame Street and Mr. Rogers with the young ones?

I remember books I've read, some the age I was when I read them The same with movies. But television goes farther than that. Because of the nature of the beast, the long running shows mark a passage of time, for some the change of an era. My son was a kid when he began watching The Simpsons in 1989. Almost 18 years later he still watches it when he can. Heavens, I aged 12 years during the course of NYPD Blue.

And now this entry, like a tv show that's been on too long, is losing it's original intent. I digress easily when it comes to this subject. I'm not qualified to criticize tv shows. I know what I like, what I find good. What others like, and watch, is their call.

I will admit there's lots that good. Even fascinating. But more that's bad. Even plain stupid. Would I miss it if it vanished?

I honestly think not.

--Cat

Me and Charlie Brown

The Peanuts comic strip debuted October 2, 1950.

I don't recall when I started reading it, but it was a fixture of my daily life for several decades, right until the final sweet goodbye on January 3, 2000.

Gotta love that Snoopy for his sense of whimsey, his keen imagination, his soaring daydreams. He could be -- and was, in his own mind -- anyone and everyone. Having for a long time lived in daydreams myself, I understand that fascinating Beagle. And we share a certain ambition: to write that great book of all books!


And who can forget Snoopy's devoted master -- the one and only Charlie Brown?



Charlie Brown and I have several things in common.

We share the same October 2 birthday. (different years, though)

He's been called, among other things, wishy-washy.
Now, I don't consider myself wishy-washy. Perhaps I lack instant decisiveness. But you see, I believe in looking at all the sides, weighing all the angles (this odd cliché comes from mathematics!) Thoughtful delayed decisiveness is, to me, a signature Libra trait.

Like Charlie Brown I often felt as a kid that no one understood me, and I was something of a loner. I had a reason for that: you have to be alone to read, and I was a reader. I did have that Snoopy-like imagination to fall back on, as well as a large interesting family and, like Charlie Brown had, an array of diverse friends.

My husband and kids will say that at Christmas I usually selected what was known as a Charlie Brown Tree, some poor misshapen lopsided tree that no one but its mother could love. They wanted a perfect, lush, beautiful tree. I reasoned even the most grotesque set of twigs deserved a home at Christmas and would look beautiful when decorated. And I was right.




Snoopy called Charlie Brown "that round-headed kid." And I guess he was.

I was known as having a round-shaped face--as stated in the passport I had at age four:

Cat - age 4

The final Peanuts comic strips are here.

Charles Schulz died February 12, 2000, a little more than one month after he bid a beautiful sad goodbye.

I have missed that comic strip ever since. My gaze still automatically gravitates to the space it occupied in the daily newspaper.

I thank Charles Schulz for having created the best ensemble cast of lovable cartoon characters. Ever.

--Cat

If only ....

Yes, I like Tony Bennett.

Was listening tonight to THE ULTIMATE TONY. The lovely words to If I Ruled The World*, seem to have come from another century. Well, they ARE from another century. But then, they could just as easily apply to this century, this year.

*written in 1963 (thanks for finding the date, Gloria!)

Tony Bennett

IF I RULED THE WORLD

Words by Leslie Bricusse/Music by Cyril Ornadel, 1963

If I ruled the world, every day would be the first day of spring
Every heart would have a new song to sing
And we'd sing of the joy every morning would bring

If I ruled the world, every man would be as free as a bird,
Every voice would be a voice to be heard
Take my word we would treasure each day that occurred

My world would be a beautiful place
Where we would weave such wonderful dreams
My world would wear a smile on its face
Like the man in the moon has when the moon beams

If I ruled the world every man would say the world was his friend
There'd be happiness that no man could end
No my friend, not if I ruled the world
Every head would be held up high
There'd be sunshine in everyone's sky
If the day ever dawned when I ruled the world

~

One can always dream.

--Cat

The more life changes ...

The more it stays the same.

Two recent articles on the CBC News website caught my attention, simply for the absurdity of placement.

More working poor using food banks: study
November 28, 2006 | 12:05 PM ET
CBC News

BMO sets profit record despite fourth-quarter weakness
Last Updated: Tuesday, November 28, 2006 | 12:01 PM ET
CBC News

I've posted the articles below, with pictures I've found. Exaggerations, maybe. Maybe not.

The Potato Eaters, 1885
by Vincent van Gogh (1853 - 1890)

More working poor using food banks: study
November 28, 2006 | 12:05 PM ET
CBC News

More people with jobs are relying on food banks despite an 8.5 per cent drop in overall use, says the Canadian Association of Food Banks.

According to the group's HungerCount 2006 report released on Tuesday, the percentage of food bank clients who are working is 13.4 per cent, up from 13.1 per cent last year.

The survey says the "working poor" continue to comprise the second largest group of food bank clients after social assistance recipients, who account for 53.5 per cent of clients across the country.

"People like you and I, people working, can't manage to feed their families," said CAFB executive director Charles Seiden.

"Low wages may be only one of several factors contributing to the working poor phenomenon in Canada. But the fact that real wages in the country have not improved over the last several years tells us that our leaders have neglected the country's labour rights and standards."

The study also showed children account for 41 per cent of the estimated 753,458 food bank clients, although they make up only about a quarter of the country's population.
Continue Article

Seiden said food bank use has risen 99 per cent since 1989, when the first food bank study was conducted.

Government must step in: Seiden

He called on the government develop policies to strengthen income and employment security and help Canadian families with housing and day care.

The CAFB represents food banks and food distribution centres across the country, serving 90 per cent of the people who use emergency food programs in Canada.

Other findings include:

* Highest provincial per capital food bank use: Newfoundland (5.6 per cent).
* Province assisting the largest share of food bank recipients: Ontario (330,491).
* Percentage of food banks with difficulty meeting demand:34.per cent.
* Years since the federal government promised to eliminate child poverty: 17.

~In Canada, a land of plenty, people can't feed, house or clothe their families. We have a large homeless population, not just junkies and binners who like the life, but poor people who cant' find that elusive thing called a home. Rather shameful. I blame Wal-Mart.

~~

The following painting depicts US senators deciding where all the money will be spent. I think it perfectly represents our banking hierarchy deciding how to milk more dollars from the customers. A pretty painting, but not a pretty picture.

Spending Uncle Sam's Money ca. 1899
by T. Dart Walker (1869 - 1914)

BMO sets profit record despite fourth-quarter weakness
Last Updated: Tuesday, November 28, 2006 | 12:01 PM ET
CBC News

BMO Financial Group set several new records in 2006, as profits rose by 11 per cent to $2.66 billion or $5.15 a share, despite a weaker business environment in the fourth quarter.

The bank raised its quarterly dividend by three cents, or 33 per cent over the year, to 65 cents a share, giving a triumphal farewell for Tony Comper, who will retire in March after eight years as chief executive officer.

BMO three-month tradingBMO three-month trading

He will be replaced by Bill Downe, currently chief operating officer.

BMO, which trades as the Bank of Montreal, was the first of Canada's big-six chartered banks to reports its results for the 2006 fiscal year.

The 2006 fiscal year ended on Oct. 31.

Comper seemed pleased with the results, BMO's fourth consecutive year of record results.
Continue Article

"It was a good year overall," he announced Tuesday morning, noting that all three operating groups delivered a record net income for the second year in a row, while the bank met or exceeded four of its five performance targets for the year.

The bank missed one of its key targets, improvements in cash productivity, because of its continued investment in retail businesses and a change in the business mix.

The bank set the records despite a difficult operating environment. But Comper said "favourable income taxes" and low credit losses in the fourth quarter helped the bank maintain a strong financial performance.

For the fourth quarter, the bank reported net income of $696 million, up $32 million or 4.8 per cent, with a return on equity of 19.4 per cent, down from 20.0 per cent. Revenue declined by 5.9 per cent, and expenses by 0.9 per cent.

The bank was hit hard in the U.S. market in the fourth quarter, where the income of the Personal and Commercial Banking division fell by $11 million to $23 million due to a weaker U.S. dollar, the cost of integrating acquisitions and expensive technology improvements in its branches.

Income of the bank's Private Client Group rose by 12 per cent to $12 million, excluding gains on asset sales in 2005, due to higher mutual fund fees and interest revenues.

The bank expects moderate growth in the Canadian economy in 2007. The Canadian housing market is expected to slow as past increases in interest rates dampen sales and construction. But business investment is expected to remain strong, due to continued healthy gains in corporate profits.

The U.S. economy is also expected to grow moderately in 2007, boosted by a drop in energy prices. Mortgage rates will keep a damper on the housing market, but business loans are expected to grow.

Shareholders seemed unimpressed with the results. Company shares fell by $1.22 to $70.29 on the Toronto Stock Exchange by late morning.
Related
Internal Links

TSX:BMO
BMO Q3 earnings up 30 per cent

~

I don't understand why shareholders seemed unimpressed. Can they be so blasé that million dollar record profits no longer excite them? Oh, I get it -- share prices fell.

Lest anyone think otherwise, I do believe in free enterprise. I also believe in compassion. Maybe you can't have both.

--Cat

Another Quiz

You know I can't resist these quizzes:


What's Your Literary Personality

Here's my results:

You scored as A classic novel. Almost everyone showers praise upon you for your depth and enduring relevance. According to your acolytes, everything you say is timeless, erudite and meaningful. Of course, none of them actually listen to you. Nobody listens to you at all, but it's fashionable to claim you as a friend. Fond of obscure words, antiquated notions and libraries, you never have a problem finding someone to hang out with. The fact that they end up using you to balance their kitchen tables is an unfortunate side effect, but you're used to being used for others' benefit. Oh the burden of being Great.

A classic novel 61% A paperback romance novel 57% A college textbook 54% An electronics user's manual 43% The back of a froot loops box 43% Poetry 39% A coloring book 39%

Interesting way to kill time

During my cyberwanderings I came across an intriguing quiz:
Worldview Quiz

Here is a projected Worldview of Well-known Figures:

. . . the variety of actual worldviews cannot be expressed
on a 2-dimensional scale, so the quiz is meant as a
thought-provoking and fun exercise.

Here is what the results are meant to convey:

Science vs. non-science: The position on the vertical
axis represents consistency with science,
as opposed to non-science (superstition/supernatural).
The range of values along this axis is from 10 (most scientific)
to -10 (most superstitious).

Value of humankind: The position on the horizontal axis
indicates the value placed on humankind and its descendants.
A high rating means the worldview places a high value on
evolution and progress for humankind and its descendants,
in the natural world. Positive ratings are plotted on the
right, with a maximum value of 10. Ratings near the middle
of the horizontal axis correspond to a desire to keep human
civilization as it is. Ratings on the left are negative and
correspond to the extermination of the human lineage in the
natural world, usually in a divine Armageddon that is seen
as just and necessary, followed by an after-life.

My results: (I was unable to copy my grid.)

Your rating on science vs. non-science: 0

Your rating on progress for humankind: 7

Your position on the worldview spectrum: (7,0)

According to projected views above, my worldview is identical to that
of Bill Clinton.

Not bad company.

--Cat

In Memoriam - K F Hartwell

Kevan F. Hartwell Dec. 21, 1920 - Oct. 3, 2001

I immediately thought of my father when I came across this quote by George Bernard Shaw (1856-1950). These words so aptly describe the way Kevan Hartwell lived, how he eagerly met life head on:

"I want to be thoroughly used up when I die, for the harder I work, the more I live. I rejoice in life for its own sake. Life is no brief candle for me. It is a sort of splendid torch which I have got hold of for the moment, and I want to make it burn as brightly as possible before handing on to future generations."

In Memoriam

Five years, Dad, since you’ve been gone.
And here’s a new October dawn.

Five years passed like one moment in time, the blink of an eye,
a solemn whisper, a small sad sigh.

We miss your music, miss your voice, your wisdom and your cheer.
The world has changed since you’ve been gone, for you’re no longer here.

The space is dark and empty you once so brightly filled,
but we are not forsaken; you're here beside us still.

Your words still clearly echo, your hands, with love, still guide
As we reflect upon the past with tears, with smiles, with pride.

Five years now since you’ve been gone,
And we, the living, must live on.


To you, to the "splendid torch" that you passed.



--Cathrine

Tribute-- Kevan F Hartwell

My father died five years ago, October 3, 2001.

I used to think he would live forever--he had such a strong life force. He died two and a half months shy of his 81st birthday.

He was a giant. Not in the physical sense, but in his character, his qualities.

He loved music. I recall listening to his collection of wonderful 33 rpm records. Before cassettes existed, he had a reel-to-reel tape player. This is where I first heard and sang along with movie soundtracks.

And he was musically gifted. There seemed no instrument he could not play. I remember as a child hearing him with his beloved clarinet. Day in, day out, he played that clarinet, determined to master it, as he did with everything he undertook. And--oh!--how I recall the trumpet.

Banjo, ukulele, guitar...he played them all and played them well. When I married and moved away I no longer heard his music. But the seeds he planted flourished: Though not a musician myself, I had learned to love music of all sorts, and for this I thank him.

Until no longer able to use his right hand, he enjoyed strumming his guitar, sometimes accompanying himself on the harmonica. He would sing words, or just "la-la-la." His way, I'm sure, to relax after a stressful day at work.

He planned early on to be successful. And he was, extremely so. He had a passion for flying, soaring high above the earth in his glider. He traveled, it seemed, everywhere. He liked to drive. Fast. One time my husband and I, driving home from Bellingham, saw him in his Porsche eating up the pavement on the I5. We tried, in vain, to catch him. He was uncatchable. Unstoppable.

My father was a visionary, an idea man, a thinker, a reader, a planner, a doer, with the soul of a true poet.

He was fond of maxims, two of which come to mind:

Attitude is everything.

Winners never quit, and quitters never win.

Words to live by. Words he lived by.

I see my father through filters: those of carefree childhood memories, those of adult, often distant, perceptions, those of now, when he is gone and the full impact of his extraordinary life weighs heavily on me.

Often through the years he had mentioned I should write his biography. Because I thought he'd live forever, I was in no hurry. It was something I might one day get around to doing.

How I wish now that we had done it when he lived! I could have gotten to know him better and, just as importantly, he could have gotten to know me.

I may attempt to do it. Nothing is impossible. That's something he would say.

Buddha said of death:

Life is a journey.
Death is a return to earth.
The universe is like an inn.
The passing years are like dust.

Regard this phantom world
As a star at dawn, a bubble in a stream,
A flash of lightning in a summer cloud,
A flickering lamp - a phantom - and a dream.

Quite a dream!

--Cathrine

Happy Birthday to Me

October 2. Yep--it's that day again. I think birthdays are highly overrated. Certainly, we should not have them so often!


According to Astrologer Georgia Nicols:

If Your Birthday Is Today

Social reformer Mahatma Gandhi (1869-1948) shares your birthday today. You're charming, witty and attractive. You display grace and gentleness: yet you're tough inside. You're also frank, candid and erudite. You have much endurance and perseverance. People respect you. In your early twenties, you become much more aggressive about going after what you want. Work hard this year for success in 2008.

Hey, though long past my early twenties, I can live with that!

~

Last night I dreamed about the Dalai Lama. He wore a red baseball cap, as he did during his recent trip to Vancouver. This small man has a huge presence; goodness seems to emanate from him like an aura. (see below for more on that) He smiled and spoke with everyone, joked and laughed. The dream was sweet and calming--I woke smiling.

Years ago, when I, and the world, were younger and less jaded, I read a book called The Third Eye, by Tibetan T. Lobsang Rampa. It's a detailed account of how young Rampa studied to become a monk in a Lhasa monastery. Under the tutelage of older, wiser monks, he learned the tenets of Buddhism.

(Shades of the Kung Fu television series! However, the book was published in 1956; the series wasn't made until 1972.)

The book simply fascinated me. From the gentle Buddhist beliefs, the teachers honing young Rampa's abilities, to the depictions of ever more-challenging tests he undertook--all was esoteric and new to one who had led a fairly sheltered childhood. Rampa's trials culminated in an operation that opened his third eye, that mystical "eye"whereby he could see people's auras and know if they were good, evil, honest, etc.

I learned much about Tibet, China, Buddhism--which charmed me because it was light years above and beyond organized religions as I knew them. Who could not be intrigued by the concept of Astral Projection, whereby one can be in a meditative or sleeping state and travel on the astral plane, meeting people who are similarly engaged? Who could argue the Buddhist's solemn belief in reincarnation, which they call transmigration of souls?

To someone as young and green as I was then (despite my innate certainty that I Knew Everything) this was all mystical, profound, verging on mind-blowing information. At the time people were expanding their minds many ways--yoga, meditation, hallucinogens. Some trekked to the Himalayas in search of that elusive goal--Enlightenment.

I believed the events of the book, even to the point where Rampa fulfilled his destiny: at the moment of his death during the Chinese Cultural Revolution (misnamed--yes?) he transmigrated his soul into the body of an Englishman, Cyril Henry Hoskins. I believed then that it, that anything, was possible. Ah, youth!

Years later I was disappointed to learn that Mr. Hoskins, an avid student of the occult, had never been to Tibet, was called a hoaxter, the story was pure fiction, and despite the accurate details in the book, no record existed of a Lobsang Rampa ever having studied to be a lama.

He did, however, insist it was all true. And who are we, or anyone, to say it can't be so? Cynic that I've become, I still have brief moments of faith.

So on this birthday I'll think outside the box, outside the norm. Expand my mind. Work my way back to that young person who truly believed.

As Buddha said:

Let yourself be open and life will be easier. A spoon of salt in a glass of water makes the water undrinkable. A spoon of salt in a lake is almost unnoticed.

and

Believe nothing, no matter where you read it, or who said it, no matter if I have said it, unless it agrees with your own reason and your own common sense.


I still admire the Buddhist beliefs, their tenets, their noble truths and precepts. Championing peace and good, honoring all life, can never be incorrect.

And maybe, just maybe the Dalai Lama and I were astral traveling at the same time!




--Cat