The "F" Word

   The "F" word is my least favourite word, for a variety of reasons.
   From a literary standpoint, it simply is overused; the shock value it once had is now so severely diluted that any one of a number of terms or phrases can amply take its place and be just as significant.
   Sociologically-speaking, how and when (and the frequency with which) the word gets used tends to relegate its user to at least some level of intellectual functioning.
   I remember sitting in a hockey dressing room once and one of the guys on the team was engaged in a long, descriptive narrative. He used the "f" word at least once in each sentence. In its various forms, he used it as a noun, adjective, adverb, and interjection. I can usually mildly tolerate this word but, in this particular instance, it was extremely painful to be within earshot. As this man's dissertation continued, it was as if he visually began climbing back down the ladder of evolution, right there in front of us all. At the end, it was almost like visiting a museum exhibit ("Holy cow, so that's what neanderthals looked like...")and I was happy to leave that dismal little dressing room.

   Most disturbing of all was that it was a grown man engaging in this particular use of language. Adolescents, who generally use it seemingly as though they'd discovered it, hopefully will engage in its use until they are tired of it, or realize that they've really outgrown it, at least as a common expression. This is what happened to me, I seemed so much more grown up when I was using the "f" word. At some point, though, you realize that you seem more grown up if you don't use it. Which is not to say that I've abandoned it entirely, far from it! It generally creeps up when I'm frustrated or angry. Hopefully, mostly under my breath. Bang my head on something, though, and it's a whole different story; the "f" word comes stumbling out in a variety of permutations. Used singularly, used in machine gun fire rapidity, used in supplication to deities.
   I also occasionally use it in private, with people who know me well,at times when it is probably the single most inappropriate thing to say at utterly the most inappropriate moment to say it. I do this to be funny. And, some of the time, I am!
   So those are about the only times I use the "f" word.
   There is some division as to the origin of the word. One of the more common ones dates back to medieval times when commoners required permission of their king to bear offspring. Permission granted, a sign would then be posted on their abode, declaring "Fornication Under Consent of the King". Another possible origin is the acronym "For Unlawful Carnal Knowledge", a sign posted when prostitutes were locked up in the stocks, on public display. Possibly the more likely origin was that it developed naturally and fully formed from Dutch or Low German back in the 15 century.
   Regardless of its origin, its usage these days seems to have very little to do with procreation. The FCC in the States has difficulty even labelling it as obscene under its own definition of obscenity because that definition refers to a sexual act. The way the "f" word is used these days, the sex act seems irrelevant.

   So there you have it, an ugly, overused word that no longer denotes or describes what it was it was originally intended to. It is not the only overused and nasty word I don't like. But you don't want the list. I don't think.
   Most assuredly the "f" word will not fade away any time soon, as previously noted it has been around for a long time. This doesn't mean, however, that we need to give in to it. Please feel free to challenge it at every opportunity, its users need to know they can do better than that. And I will try and do better than that, too!
  
  
  

Oxford Street

   It seems as though I have been driving down Oxford Street my whole life. I got my driver's licence round about '71 and my Oxford Street history commenced then. Prior to '71, we grocery shopped at the Loblaws(?) at the Oakridge Plaza at Hyde Park and Oxford. I remember this mainly because I'd moved here from Vancouver in '64 and never in my life had I experienced humidity like they have here in London. The Loblaws store was also the first place I'd ever experienced air conditioning and it was such a wonderful place to be! We also made occasional forays along Oxford to get to the Twilite Drive-In at Highway 22 and Hyde Park.
   At this point I should probably mention that, at the time, I was living and growing up in Oakridge Acres. I attended Hutton Road Public School, corner of Hutton Road (now Wonderland) and Oxford and then Oakridge Secondary, on Oxford near Hyde Park.
   So it seems as though my early life was intrinsically tied to Oxford, and the closely surrounding area. In the sixties, there was a very rural feel to the whole area. Hutton Road School actually bordered a farm and I can remember one day when a bunch of us gathered by the school fence so we could watch a calf being born. Doesn't get too much more rural than that!
   Progress, however, well... progressed. Farms were torn down for firehalls and housing, malls were built, and highrises went up. All the people living in, working at or shopping in these places travelled along Oxford to get there and I soon joined them!
   Shortly after getting my licence, I occasionally was allowed to drive our second car to and from high school. I'd pick up my friend Bob from around the corner and off we would go. At the time, we had some kind of car that used what my Dad referred to as "vacuum wipers". Don't know if this was the actual term for them and for sure don't understand the technology behind them but the end result was that when you sped up, the wipers slowed down!
   Because of this, I distinctly remember one very rainy morning when Bob and I were attempting to negotiate the hill on Oxford just east of the high school. It was a downpour and we found we more or less had to gun it to get up the hill. Well, the more we gunned it the slower the wipers got! As a matter of fact, before we reached the apex of the hill they stopped! Much nervous laughter between two neophyte high school drivers ensued (along with some cussing...). To this very day, I find myself remembering this just about every single time I drive up that same hill.
   Eventually, as progress progressed, Oxford (in the Oakridge area anyway) turned from one lane to two, speeds increased, etc. and it became much more of a thoroughfare. My old public school was sold and eventually demolished, its bricks became a tiny little strip mall and its playground became a Gulf station. All, of course, at the corner of Oxford and Wonderland. And I, of course, ended up working at the Gulf station, watching Oxford pass me by every day.
   My first apartment was kitty-corner to that wonderful air-conditioned Loblaws and I took the bus down Oxford to get to the gas station(I washed cars there). This led to other stuff, different jobs, strange romances, a wonderful woman, wonderful kids, a home in a totally different part of the city, another wonderful woman and more wonderful kids and now I travel down Oxford street every day of my life.
   Pretty well every day of my life for almost 20 years now. And along the way there are familiar faces. I only know bits and pieces about most of them and about some of them I know almost nothing. If you travel Oxford Street at all on any kind of regular basis you may(almost assuredly) have passed by them. You may even have noticed them.
   There is a woman. She lives in a building reserved mainly for people with psychiatric issues. I noticed her the first time about almost ten years ago. She smokes and is nervous. Her hair used to be straight and jet black. It is almost white now.
   There is a man, standing by the side of the street, watching the traffic. His mouth moves, his hands wave and he plays with things. He's had cancer but you wouldn't know it. He'll talk yo you. Unless he knows you.
   She has a walker and crosses the street slowly. If the sidewalk is impassable, she will walk down the roadway and there will be almost no room for cars to pass safely.
   He propels his wheelchair with his feet, not his hands. He's looking to remove any little bit of garbage he can find, mostly because he has to. One hand is almost useless and he'd like a doctor to cut it off but the doctor won't.
   There is a man on an island. I understand(co-incidentally)that his name is Brian. He drags one foot behind him and he carries a sign. He limps badly, unless he is in a Tim's, in which case, he's fine.
   A man on a bike, everywhere, aluminum cans and glass bottles in his bike carrier.

   I don't talk to most of these people, as I don't know them. I almost feel like I could though, there is that growing familiarity. Maybe even a wave would do, a honk on the phone.
   My car gives me a level of anonymity as I travel up and down Oxford Street, otherwise I wonder if some of these same people might notice me.  And, as much as we are all a constant with each other, Oxford Street itself changes slowly but relentlessly. I am blessed in that I am able to see this happen as it happens and not return, after perhaps having been gone for years, and not really know where I was anymore!
   We all have routes we travel every day. Mine is Oxford Street and these were some of the people who frequent it. I'm glad for their presence, too, it is a long stretch of road, from one end of the city to the other, and a familiar face enlivens it. Perhaps, one of these days, I should get out of my car...


* if you can guess the significance of the colour scheme I used in this blog, please comment*

P.S. Also, hope you enjoyed the 3D effect...
  
  
  

  

Dad, these days

   Spent a big part of the late morning and early afternoon with my dear old Dad today. The two of us get together every Monday to play some golf in the summer and pool in the winter. The weather being as nice as it has been has enabled us to play this late into November.

Dad and I on my wedding day

   My dad's name is Ken and he has Alzheimer's, in its early stages. He was diagnosed about 2 and a half years ago and the disease seems to be progressing pretty slowly. As a matter of fact if you were to meet him casually you might not even suspect anything was the matter. Once, however, you find yourself dealing with the finer details of his life you quickly begin to understand what he (and we) are up against.
   His memory is the pits. Unless you ask him about anything that happened before the nineties. Within this time frame he is impeccable with his recall. One of the bonuses of having Dad living here in London is that I've had the opportunity to sit with him many times and hear his stories from the "good old days".
   I found these stories fascinating the first time I heard them. Subsequently, I have found them fascinating the many times I have heard them since! The stories never vary; the sixth version is generally word-for-word the same as the original. Not only are they interesting, when strung together they almost seem exciting, like scenes from a movie.
   My dad grew up in the thirties and forties in western Canada. He was born in Calgary, Alberta and he and his family vacationed on the west coast in Gibson's, B.C. Because of this, he has stories from the prairies and stories from the mountains and ocean. I am a westerner myself and because of this my dad's stories resonate.

Bryant, my son, Dad, me and my other son, Ben

   One of his stories is about the death of his older brother Ron, when they were both children. Ron died of polio and, because of this, the whole family was quarantined to their farm which, at the time, was 10 miles outside of Calgary. Groceries and provisions needed to be dropped off at the end of their laneway so that one of the family members could venture out and pick them up. They lived on one of the main trails into Calgary and dad tells me stories about how the native peoples would pass by their farm on the way to the Calgary Stampede and would walk down their laneway to try and sell them blankets and trinkets. They were unable to read the quarantine signs and my dad and his family had to go to great lengths to try and keep them away! 
   This is just one of the stories he has told me about his early days and there are many more just as interesting (I should really sit down with him sometime and do some transcribing...).
   What he can't do, however, is tell me an interesting story about last week.

My cousin Carol, me, Dad and my other cousin Stephanie

   Because of this, I find myself doing much back-tracking and double-checking as to what's going on in his life. Pretty constantly he tells me about an appointment he had for this or that but then can't remember what it was about. Or, if he can remember what it was about he may not be able to remember what the result of it was. So I do have to double-check. Lately, as much as possible I've tried to attend appointments with him. This, in itself, sets up a scenario whereby I know something about him and he can't for the life of him figure out how I know all this stuff. Yep, I feel pretty magical sometimes.

Me, my Aunt Leslie, and Dad

   Not only medical appointments are up for scrutiny. More and more I find myself having to pay attention to my dad's financial affairs. Now, my dad has always been the financial guy. His work history is in the banking/insurance field and he is a whiz with numbers (he adds up a golf score much more quickly than I do!) What I've discovered lately, though, is that he's starting to lose awareness of the state of his finances and I've had to step in and provide some direction.

My brother Bob and I

   What all of this means is that I've found myself walking that fine line between wanting my dad to be able to hang on to every vestige of independence he can and needing, at the same time, to ensure that his needs are met.
   Not long after the Alzheimer's diagnosis, dad entered into the support system set up here in London to assist people and their families deal with this disease. One part of this involves going about every nine months to the Aging Brain Clinic at Parkwoood Hospital in London. He sees Dr. Wells, she does some testing and, generally, asks him (and, lately, me) how he's doing. He tests very well, so much so that if you went only by the test results, you might assume he didn't even have Alzheimer's. As much as these test results are encouraging, when you see him functioning in daily life it is not hard to fault the diagnosis.

Back in the "olden" days at Gibson's, B.C. Starting at the left is Aunt Girlie, my Uncle Keith, Aunt Leslie, Uncle John. my mum, and my dad. Seated are my Gran and Grandad. On my Granny's lap is an unidentified cousin of mine. My Dad remembers these days well, and with great fondness, as do we all.

My wife, Doralyn (who's very special to me), Dad and the aforesaid me

   One of the other supports that has been lined up for Dad is the McCormick Home and its Alzheimers Outreach Services. The AOS runs a day program which Dad attends on Thursdays. He seems to really enjoy having added this to weekly routine, as one of his most constant complaints is having nothing to do (apart from the wonderful Mondays he spends with his son!). What has arisen out of this, though, is that the odd communication from the program goes to me and I then run it past Dad. He has a difficult time understanding why they don't just talk to him, instead. It's their policy, of course, to deal with the family members for important issues rather than trust suspect memories. Explaining this to Dad, as you can imagine, is somewhat uncomfortable for both of us. As little shreds of his independence are torn free in this manner the end result is that he seems to be fading away. And I don't like this.

Mum and Dad--not sure if I was even a twinkle at this point...

   It's hard to say what the near (or far) future holds for Dad. He seems content to continue living in his apartment and seems to function pretty well there. I'm fortunate insofar as I get to see him every week and can make some estimation as to how he's doing.
   I admit that I am a little fearful. There are not a lot of really happy Alzheimer's stories out there. On top of everything else, I can feel myself slipping a little and sometimes when watching Dad I wonder if there is mirroring going on.

Standing (L-R) are my Uncle Keith, Aunt Leslie, Uncle John, cuz Cynthia, and Dad. Seated (L-R) are Keith's wife Barb and Jean, my step-mum

My brother Bob Glover, me and my Dad

   Tomorrow (by now I have been working on this blog entry for several days) Jayne, my sister, and her husband, Mike, will be visiting on their way home from Florida. This is good, I've been trying to scrounge pictures of Dad and the important people in his life off my computer for the last couple of days and this will give me the opportunity to snap a few more pics to include here. It is also good just from the standpoint that Dad enjoys seeing family and, as the group of us seem to be scattered all over the country, it's always nice when we do get together. 

Dad, sister Jayne and her hubby Mike

   So life goes on, I guess, and my Dad still spends much time planning around how he's going to buy a boat, how he's going to get a girlfriend and how he's going to start hitting 280 yard drives. I try not to discourage any of this talk too much (I, as well, have dreams that aren't very realistic and don't we all?). We do, though, spend a little time talking about how he's going to remember where he parked the boat...