Inspiration by Google and Jack Johnson

Pacing the Cage

This is the weekend to sit around the house in my long underwear and catch up on some grading which has been begging to be considered for the last long while. The dining room table is piled sky high and the coffee machine is chugging away as I push aside some of the papers so that I can create some space for me to do hours and hours worth of Su Doku puzzles...thanks a lot Alice.

This week Tuesday is my last day of work at my current position. I must admit that I am beginning to worry a little. Today I found myself tearing up as I was listening to a promotional CD for an upcoming CD release and concert by Steve Bell. The concert is titled Steve Bell - my dinner with Bruce. All of the tunes will be Steve's interpretations of Bruce Cockburn's songs. The song that caused my eyes to well up was Pacing the Cage and Steve's words that accompanied it. He said that when he heard that song for the first time, it was during a period in his life, and we all have these, where confusion, uncertainty, fatigue, and the reality of human suffering were pressing in. He found himself on the floor, weeping beside the stereo holding his stomach in grief. I wasn't in great turmoil this afternoon as I sat in my long underwear at the dining room table, but I felt someone else's pain, and I closed my eyes and cried. I felt one with Steve, and Bruce, and my situation, all mixed up and uncertain.

I felt like doing something other than writing percentages and comments on student's work, so I picked up my guitar and fiddled with the song that had just moved me. It wasn't long before it could have been me playing for the recording.

Later on, after Joyce had returned from her trip to the mall to pick up my ordered book from Chapters, I told her of my wet eyes. My daughters overheard and remarked that they had never seen me cry. I told them if they came with me to the concert on Thursday, they would see their dad crying like a little baby. They plan to join me.

I'm thankful that I have something to look forward to this week, as after Tuesday, I have no classroom to call my own and pace back and forth in. Getting out of the house will be crucial as pacing at home will certainly lead to a hasty emergency relocation for this wild animal.

Anyone need a sick day this week? I know a good substitute teacher.

jurisprudence of public speaking

The volume in the classroom varies drasticly during the day, depending on the activity. There are number zero activities where no talking is allowed. During a number one activity there is a minimal amount of communication allowed, but only when necessary. And then there are numbers two and three, where three would be at free centres time and all sorts of fun and exciting sounds are welcome and expected.

There are several students in my class, boys mostly ( its always the boys isn't it ) that love to talk loudly, and especially to someone on the opposite end of the classroom. They will be in mid shout when they will receive the evil teacher eye from me or hear the first syllable of their name from my lips, and they will know that the sound laws have been broken. Quickly, and ever so humbly, they will give me the look which shows they realize their transgression and peace is once again restored...until the next exciting communication opportunity, and the cycle repeats. "But it's not because he is deliberately being disobedient", I tell the parents at interview time. "He's just a kid and he's excited".

Every Thursday before lunch time we have free writing in our journals. This is a time where the students can write about any topic whatsoever...and there will be no editing by me, none at all. I won't even care if they write about Bionicles or Barbies, Nintendo or My Little Pony. The only rules are that they can't use potty language and can't use repeated words...such as "I love my teacher very, very, very, very, very,very much." The kids like to do that so they get their quota of words in without working too hard. Plus I give them secret bonus marks for saying something really nice about me...it's my love language.

When the writing is done, they are each given an opportunity to come to the "stage" which I have set up ( a music stand and a microphone hooked up to my boom box). When the reading is going on, it is considered, for the students listening, to be a number zero activity, no exceptions. If this law is broken during public speaking, the teacher's death stare becomes thrice multiplied.

It was excited boy's turn to read. He walked to his position and began, quite confidently, to read his tale of St. Valentines love. Near the end of his 90 second oration, his speech began to increase in speed and intensity...almost in a panic. When he finally finished, he was breathing heavy and looked really upset. I asked him if he was O.K. and he very quickly said "No...I peed my pants." As he made his way out from behind the music stand I could see the facts. "You shouldn't have called me up there..." he shouted. "I had to go to the bathroom." Without trying to defend my position and realizing his utter embarrassment, I quickly whisked him out to the bathroom, but not before giving the death stare to three students who were laughing.

We returned from the changeroom and all was remedied..all except his pride. Excited kid number two, from the other end of the classroom, calls out through the silence of the number zero activity, "That's O.K....It happens to me all the time." And suddenly a mini discussion begins about wetting ones pants, who still wears pull-ups, and, "I wet my bed lots of times."

Sometimes it's O.K. to break your own laws of silence, and allow good, spontaneous, and honest speech take place.

Marcel Dubreuil

High school has always been a time of excellent memories for me. Even though I chose to spend much of my time hanging around with people that couldn't give a rat's ass about life, I cherish the remnants of hope and beauty which regularly rose to the surface during our times at the pool hall and smoker's corner.

As one of my electives, I chose art with the very interesting teacher Marcel Dubreuil. Many of my friends also chose art, as they thought that all we would doing was filling in the spaces between the lines in a well-chosen colouring book. They were, I hope, pleasantly surprised.

I think I remember every lesson taught by Mr. Debreuil, and I use many of the same lessons, scaled down a bit, to teach art to my grade two students. The lessons are simple and yet very intelligent; easy and yet very challenging. Of all the classes I've ever taken, I remember and cherish these the most.

This is a drawing that I was inspired to do during my grade twelve year. I had it matted and had it on display for a while, but it somehow got into the hands of a toddler and received a bit of extra love. I've fixed it as best I could manage using Photoshop...

...and then destroyed it again...
Isn't this fun?

Photoshopped Joyce

The photograph of Joyce that I posted yesterday must have frightened everyone away, as only Rod the Brave was courageous enough to comment.

I've been practising using Photoshop to get myself ready for when my house will be flooded with 10 megapixel digital images from my new camera. I haven't purchased it yet, but the money is steadily filling my milk jug savings account.

My daughter Jane and I counted the contents, and I am now up to $418.89. At this rate it should only take me another 6 months to gather the rest of the necessary loot. I can't wait.

All the better to eat you with...

since feeling is first
e.e. cummings

since feeling is first
who pays any attention
to the syntax of things
will never wholly kiss you;
wholly to be a fool
while Spring is in the world

my blood approves,
and kisses are a better fate
than wisdom
lady i swear by all flowers. Don't cry
—the best gesture of my brain is less than
your eyelids' flutter which says

we are for each other: then
laugh, leaning back in my arms
for life's not a paragraph

And death i think is no parenthesis

Protocol

Sitting alone in the 30 person hottub this morning, I was thinking about rites of passage. I was twenty eight minutes into my forty two minute swim this morning, when I received a rap on the head. This large fleshy laughing man in a blue shirt decided to introduce himself as I approached the home end of the swimming lane. He said that I should pick a side so that he could share my lane. He said that he tried to get the guys attention in the lane next to me, but when he approached, he was off like a rocket. I managed to gasp, "O.K." and launched myself off in the opposite direction.

Later, sitting alone, cooling off in the hottub, I was wondering what goes through a person's mind just before they rap someone they don't know, on the head. What "rite" have they passed?

Soon there were three of us cooling off. One of the others asked me how it felt to have my head rapped so early in the morning. "Oh, you saw that, did you?" I said that it took me by surprise...and I didn't know what to think. "I thought that there was some sort of protocol to enter a shared lane", I queried. "Something like sitting on the edge of the pool and hanging ones legs in full view of the oncomer, so that they would know that someone was joining." They both agreed...including the man with the smooth voice.

If the man in the blue shirt would have passed the required passage, it may have been different...but as it was , he clearly didn't know me at all. If gaining entrance into a shared lane required rapping the slowest swimmer on the head, then he was knocking on the wrong door. During his moments of waiting, he clearly didn't observe the wake left behind my sleek form and failed to notice the "off like a rocket" man envying my graceful strokes.

BACK OFF, BLUE SHIRT MAN...NO TOUCHY!

Can you feel the love tonight...

As I drove in to work this morning, the pair of male voices which made up the morning crew on 99.9 BOB FM, asked the question; one of several to be answered correctly to win the chance at a winter meltdown in Mazatlan; who received the most cards on Valentine's Day. Was it a) Mothers, b) Grandmothers, or c) Teachers. I immediately shouted towards the direction from where the voices came, "Teachers". I was correct.

I was looking forward to coming home today with my large bag filled with cards and chocolate and then dumping the whole works onto my scanner and posting the results...but I only remembered the plan when I was halfway home. I entered the classroom this morning to see that my Valentine's mailbox had had a bingeing episode and was nearing a necessary purge.

My 25 students and I spent the afternoon giggling about cards, love, kissing, and "will you be mine". Of course this was only after they had gym to prepare their metabolisms for the heavy consumtion of candy and pink-frosted, heart-shaped, last-night's baking. One of my students was wearing his favourite sweatshirt today which has a logo quite fitting for the afternoon's activities. It read, "Danger: Kid on Sugar". I sent them all home today with a non-apologetic smile. I'm sure they'll send me their love tonight.

Instead of yelling out my answer to the question this morning, I wish I had been the caller...the fifth caller. I would love to spend six days and seven nights in Mazatlan. I would love to spend any amount of time in Mazatlan. Heck, I'd take a couple of hours in a hotel with a hot tub that has a painting of any place warmer than it is in Manitoba tonight. Oh well...if I can't feel the warmth, at least I can feel the love.

Happy Valentine's Day everyone.

Consumerism

There are two recipe books which Joyce and I are proud to have in our possession. Not only do we possess them, but we make it a practise to make something from them regularly. I know that they are Canadian best sellers and wouldn't doubt if they were very popular in the States as well. The books are The Mennonite Treeasury of Recipes and More-with-Less Cookbook. Both are dedicated to promoting healthy eating and, at the same time, consuming fewer of the worlds resources.

I called Joyce from school today during my prep and she told me she was cooking. When I got home, I immediately smelled the delicious aroma of one of my favourite Mennonite soups: Cabbage Borscht.

Joyce bought her copy of "The Treasury" from the local MCC thrift shop for 25 cents. It came complete with some elderly Mennonite woman's handwritten notes telling what's good and what works best. It's almost enough just to read the cookbook and not use it.

No soup for me, however, as I decided last night that my body needed another cleansing and started another five day fast.

Meaningful gifts

When it has anything to do with composing a picture, I cannot recall a time when my daughter Jane has ever taken the easy route to getting a project done.

Today, she had her best friend Eve over after dinner.They had a lovely time playing, as usual, and when it came time to leave two hours later, Jane wanted to give her a parting gift. Jane composed, using her large collection of smelly markers, this lovely field of flowers. I only got to see it as Eve was leaving and asked if I could quickly scan it before she left.

If I was a nine year old, I would want to be best friends with Jane.

I have written before that I think Jane has an artist's eye, and a purposeful touch with a brush. As early as preschool she has caused me to look more than once.
Jane called this one "sisters" because she loves her big sister "Eeyanna".

She didn't have a name for this one but described it as having gold colours and pretty designs.

I had the privilege of being Jane's classroom teacher for one year. She was in my grade one class at Christian Heritage School in Brandon. Just 10 kids to mentor that year. Private school...how dreamy.
I read Psalm 100 to the class and asked the students to draw a picture of what those words made them see in their imaginations. Jane drew the above picture..."These are the people, and they're praising the Lord".

If there's anything I have to praise the Lord for, it's the three women in my life.

My desk drawer

I've been on a mission lately to save enough money for a good digital SLR camera. I've narrowed the search down to three excellent choices. In order to speed the purchase process, I have resorted to drastic measures which, as it turns out, my be not so painful in the end.

I made a decision a few weeks ago that if I was to justify buying a GOOD digital camera, I would have to make a compromise in the spending priorities. I could never justify going out today and spending $1600.00 on a camera, so I had to decide, if this is in fact what I want to do, I need to plan for it. As it is, if I put away an amount of money away per month that I felt may be considered as extra cash, it would only be perhaps $10.00 per month. 1600 divided by 10 equals a hell of a long time. So I decided to take a look at what I spend per week on wine, beer, and the like. I found approximately $160.00 per month, which doesn't seem like a whole lot when I think back and compare it to what some of my university acquaintances spent on one night at the bar, which usually exceeded $200.00. I did further calculations: 1600 divided by 160 equals less than a one year sacrifice of no purchased alcohol to have a good digital SLR which would last a very long time. So now, on Fridays, instead of walking down the liquor isle in the local grocery store, I take $40.00 from the bank machine and put it in my camera fund; along with whatever I find laying around the house...a quarter here, a loonie there...just not the dollar coin from the change tray in the van. If I ever touch the sacred shopping cart loonie, I'm a freekin' dead Mennonite.

I've now saved somewhere around $250.00, and am not feeling the least bit deprived. You see, when I say that the money saved will be from alcohol not purchased, it doesn't stop people from bringing the drink, which they have purchased, to our house. (Sounds like a freekin' Mennonite thing to do...doesn't it? ) Walter still comes over for dinner every Wednesday and brings a bottle of some fine selection. Our Superbowl guests came with their arms full yesterday and had many varieties of fermentation. And to top it all off, Alice, dear sweet, thoughtful and generous Alice from the land of milk and honey, was in the liquor mart on the weekend and was feeling guilty about her purchase because she knew poor Brian was at home with his $40.00 in the jar and nothing to drink, when she decided to buy him a little taste of heaven. She came into my classroom this morning and presented me with these little pallet pleasers. I told her that I had always wanted a bottle of liquor in my desk. You never know when the appropriate emergency, or combination of emergencies will arrise. I told her that she was a good friend. As she walked out of the room, with a big smile and a laugh, she said, "No...I'm a 'du' friend."

Where does this feeling come from?

You would think that after three trips to the lap pool and nearly 20 miles run this week that I would feel good about my performance. Well think again.

This morning I got up at 7:10 and got ready to go for my weekend run with my running buddy Merle. As I was getting dressed I noticed that Joyce was not sounding too good as she had quite a bad cough and sniffles. I medicated her twice before walking out the door. As I was on the road running, Merle and I were talking as usual when I suddenly had this feeling that I needed to cut the run short as I was worried about Joyce. I think I ran only about three miles in the end.

Joyce still had a bad headache but she was essentially fine. I needn't have worried but I was glad to know that the feeling of compassion was something still alive and well within me.

A feeling that I am concerned with is the feeling of self-condemnation. I am already thinking to myself that I this morning's run was a failure...and the feeling that this whole week has been a loss. My question is where does this feeling come from? Just because I didn't set out to accomplish what I had intended to do this morning shouldn't negate all the good I have done. This feeling frustrates me and I don't know what to do about it other than go for another run to make up for it...but that, to me, doesn't solve the problem of where the feeling comes from.

Any reductionistic theories out there?

Fall Family Photos

One of our favourite Manitoba locations, besides home, is Clear Lake. Every October, the full extended Kehler family will retreat to the rented cabins for a long weekend. The lookout deck over the marshwalk has always been a place to stop and take family pictures. This year was no exception.

Arianna, our oldest, is confident and full of energy for her friends and soccer with boys at recess. She loves consumerism and would love it if mom and dad's bank accout were limitless. "Because you know what I really need? I really need a..."

Jane, next in the line, is a the truest friend any nine year old girl could ask for. Loyal and giving to the core. She is one of my six classical guitar students and has a good ear. She has an artists eye and a love for flavour. "I'm full but it just tastes so good..."

Big brother Micah and little Sammy are the best of buddies. Micah, not wanting Sam to feel left out of Nintendo even though Sam doesn't know what to do, will hook up a controller for Sam so that he can play too. I actually think that Micah secretly just wants to have an opponent to play against that won't fight back...and then pummel the crap out of Sam's guy. They would sit there and play and laugh all day if we let them. Off to read some books...we don't want our worlds to consist of merely the make believe...do we? ( note to self )

Sammy loves his mommy and can't stand it when she hints at leaving the house. "Don't worry Sam. Mommy's just going to get some milk. Mommy will be right back." Going for milk is the only excuse Sam will accept. "Joyce...whats with all this milk in the fridge?"

The "du" factor

du [doo]

Making friends is a very slow process for me...one which requires patience, but not from me, because I am not in any particular rush.

When I spent a couple of months in Austria, I became familiar with the Germanic attitude towards friendship. When the need arises to refer to someone with whom you are only familiar with, you refer to them as bekanntnes (acquaintance). Even if you have been getting to know this person for some time, the person is still referred to as such. There comes a point in the relationship where, when one refers to the other using the unfamiliar "sie" (you), there will be an acknowledgement or an invitation from the other to no longer to use the unfamiliar "sie" but rather use the familiar "du". This is a significant hurdle in the relationship, and the two now refer to each other as Freund (friend). We, in the English world, have similar rites, but they seem to be more pronounced in the German society. I call this the German "du" factor.

Rod, a man in my community, has been slowly fulfilling the rites of the "du" factor. When I refer to him, it no longer feels right to say acquaintance, but I wouldn't yet say we are "du" friends...that is yet to come.

The other day, my daughter and I were at his house to pick up his daughter to come over to my house to play. He showed me a set of new nylon guitar strings which he wanted to put on his guitar. I asked him a few questions about the process to see if he was confident to attempt the task. I offered to take the guitar home with me and do the job for him, as it would take me only a handfull of minutes. He declined and looked determined to have a go. Later that evening I received this email from him:

Ode to Brian
(What stringing a guitar has to do with giving birth)

I could still hear his words ringing in my mind
Much like a guitar string rings after the plucking
“Would you like me to take it home and string it for you?”
No, I said, I’ll give it a try. (It’s only six o’clock)

I work with both my hands and my head at work.
I’ve assembled computers from scratch,
Hardwood floors grace the kids’ rooms:
How hard can it be, to string a guitar?

Six strings, six pegs, six turny-things
“How long before you’re done Dad?”
This shouldn’t take long I smile,
Then we’ll have the rest of the night

It’s the things you don’t pay attention to,
The things that suddenly matter.
The old strings are off now but,
Which way did those turny-things turn?

The East Coast comes back as I tie a knot
A simple Figure Eight will do the job.
The pegs are in place and my Tuner is on.
Two more minutes and away we go

Nylon strings have more give, I’ve read
Those turny-things go ‘round and ‘round.
Now string One should sound a little higher
A few more turns should do the job.

“Ouch” is not a sound you expect when tuning a guitar
Nor is the sound of a peg ricocheting off a piano.
But “Ouch” is a perfectly good word to use
When a nylon garrote whips across your fingers

Round One to the guitar, but I’ve leaned my lesson
Set the pegs firmly in place and try again.
“How much longer Dad?” comes from my son.
Five minutes. Round Two will be mine

With six pegs in hand, I find a small bit
To the drill press we go to make this right.
Five minutes later I’m back in the room
Ready to finish this and get on with the show

It was a lesson in physics, and patience and strain
The peg bounced around the room in a similar way
Clearly a different approach was needed
Another trip to the garage should fix everything

String One I tighten until it sounds right
But the Tuner doesn’t register my efforts.
More turns of the turny-things, still no effect.
The auto shut-off – the Tuner’s not on.

Gently I back off string One and reset the Tuner
Bring the tension back up and hold my breath
Success, I tune string One to “E”
Now the Finish Line is in sight

As I tend to String Two my mind wanders,
“How hard can it be, to string a guitar?”
Clearly this is what Women think
“How’s that?” You ask. I’ll tell you.

After Women give birth, they’ve reached a new high
What could compare with the troubles they’ve known
Anything and everything pales in comparison
If you ain’t givin’birth, how hard can it be?

Back to the guitar now, one more string to go.
Luke comes in to the room, looking a little bit older
I finish the job, feeling a little bit wiser
Good heavens! Eight-thirty, where did the night go?

I could have kept this all to myself
Tuck the lesson learned up on a shelf
But I hadn’t the heart, I had to share
I owed it to Brian

The poem having been written, and the unspoken invitation given...I accept your offer of "du", my friend, and extend the same to you.

Suggestion Box

My Monday, Wednesday, and Friday mornings start with my alarm going off at 5:41am. I set it a little earlier than necessary as I know for certain that I will hit the larger button at least twice before I get up. I dress, walk over to the door, open the garage door via the remote button, start the vehicle via another remote button, and have my morning think as I sit and wait for the van to warm up.

I drive the 24 minutes to the pool in a nearby town as my town has yet to develop its aquatic centre. I think it is in the five year plan...along with the seniors housing, hockey arena, curling club, fitness centre with raquetball courts and a lap pool fitted with a waterslide and hot tub...all in the same mega complex. I can't wait for that to open it's doors.

I arrive at the pool at approximately 6:30 when the doors open. As I change, Christian praise music is blaring in the shower room...I think they are trying to convert me. "Our God is an awesome God, He reigns from heaven above..." I obey the clearly marked signs to shower before entering the pool and make my way down the cold hallway, past the hot tub, to the lap pool. I jump in my favourite lane and spit in my goggles to defog the lenses before I begin.

The first five lengths are fast and I breathe only two or three times per length. After I start to tire ever so slightly, I lock into my well practiced form...smooth, steady, 25 seconds per length, breathing every third stroke. I begin to process the day. I've got 45 minutes to plan, without paper and pen, without students clamouring at my feet, without phones ringing and begging me to respond. My pace quickens after about 20 minutes as I begin to feel the rush of, what I decide is, my second wind. I pass the people in the lanes next to me more quickly and more frequently. I feel good that my endurance is up. The chill I had when I entered that cold hallway past the hot tub has been gone now for some time. A quick glance at my Ironman at lap's end tells me I am done.

I enter the hot tub for a five minute cool down, and retire to the shower. Another man enters from the lanes, starts the water, and says, in a smooth voice, "It certainly is a pleasure watching you swim." "Thanks" I say, not exactly sure what to think, we both being like Adam in the group shower, and me all thoroughly lathered up. I think to myself, "I wonder if this facility has a suggestion box?"

Barbara Reid and the Hildebrands

Well known Canadian author and illustrator, Barbara Reid, has inspired many an elementary student to dabble in the illustrative arts and relate, if even for a moment, to a beautiful world of lovingly created plasticine works of art.

Combining writing and illustrating is like swimming in the dark - its a little frightening and a lot of fun. I can't imagine a better job. - Barbara Reid

For the Hildebrands: my house; there is a generous helping of relating going on as well. The following pictures are several of Barbara Reid's creations that I can clearly relate to.

When Joyce and I moved to Brandon for me to get my education degree, we lived in this great old appartment with hardwood floors, marble staircases, and those cast iron radiators that bang in the winter. Our studio appartment was on the third floor, 43 stairs up and no elevator...but we loved it. It was cozy and we felt very trendy living within its well-aged walls. It was the kind of place where you would like to be a writer or an artist.
























We lived in the core area, right in the middle of the city, well within walking distance of everything our world consisted of. I would walk to University every morning, and it was even close enough for me to return home for lunch. In fact, as I recall, I think that was how Arianna was conceived one Thursday afternoon. Joyce would walk everywhere with our firstborn in the stroller who was never separated from her monkey.













When we outgrew the studio, Joyce's parents bought us (poor students) a house not that far from where we started. Our neighbourhood was old and rough and was in much need of prayer. The neighbours were scarey, all except our neighbours to the South. Lori and Kendell were a gift from heaven. They were a happy family with a solid grasp on good parenting. They lived in a century old castle with many years worth of potential exploring. Daily we would pass our children back and forth over the fence to play in each other's yards. We had a garden, a clothsline, and a playhouse, and they had a treehouse and a swingset. Our children were happy there, and Micah's red hair tossed back and forth on the swing.













When our fourth was six months old, we moved to Niverville to persue a good job and a chance to live closer to family...family with cousins and farms and country living.
















We have settled into our own little castle now of a little more than two years.
























Our kids have made fantastic friends and the wonderful school is only two blocks away. The people in our church are genuine folk who offer grace, questions, clarity, and monthly potlucks.
























I love my job, but I will have to find another one soon, as I am in a term position ending at the end of February. Meanwhile, we continue to enjoy our family of growing children. It puts a smile on my face to watch our blonde-haired Jane be a big sister to Sammy as she reads him stories.



















So thanks Barbara Reid for your art and your ability to inspire. The gathered motivation is not limited to children. This teacher has gleaned from your abilities and chooses to spread the wealth of your excitement. I think my art lesson this week will have something to do with you.

The perfect combo

Some days when you are feeling a little peckish, one of the best things to do is spend money.
Yesterday, Joyce and I, with nothing in the van but empty seats and a debit card, drove in to Winnipeg to spend, spend, spend. All of it was bloody practical though, like $260.00 worth of groceries and shaving gel. It felt simply wonderful to wander around the store unencumbered. I say that thinking about not having the kids...the Superstore, however, was insane. It was like it was Chritmas time once again. Shopping carts blocking every possible passage, and piles of unwanted clothing on the floor in the permanent discount section.

Lately, there are so many things that I would love to spend money on. But there is one thing...the perfect combination of guitar and processor, that I have been eyeing for some time.


The guitar is the Canadian made Godin Multiac Grand Concert SA, Two Voice, and the processor is Roland's VG-88. (Darren, you can probably relate) The owning of this pair would make me truly happy. Not just in the regular happy sense, but orgasmic. I might just come to a place in my guitar playing where I could truly realize my dream...and maybe, just maybe, get my own tour bus.

If I only had my own bus

I've always wanted to be a rock star. O.K. not the kind of rock star from the 80's like Iron Maiden or Twisted Sister, wearing the tight leather pants and face paint, but the kind of star who gets to have someone open for them... and has a bus and roadies.

When I started taking guitar lessons, I was in grade three and eight years old. I thought I was on my way. After a couple of years of lessons, my brother Randy said to me that he thought I would one day be on stage. That made me feel great. My buddies Warren and Brad would often come over and we would jam with our classical guitars, but we wouldn't play the songs we were supposed to be practicing. Instead we would play AC/DC, Led Zeppelin, and Winnepeg's own Harlequin (remember "Innocence"?). We wanted to one day be on stage and have a bus...and roadies...and naked chicks.

One day, while Warren, Brad and I were jamming in my bedroom with the door closed, my dad walked in and said, obviously annoyed, in Low German, "Daut heeat zich frecht" which I took to mean, "That sounds stupid." We quit playing and his words have been burned into my memory ever since. I have always wished for an apology.

To this very day, when I listen to beautiful guitar playing, I imagine myself on a stage and it is me being the one presenting the well thought out progression of chords, notes, and lyric to the receptive audience. I have written several songs and have yet to formalize them and send them off to someone who would care to listen. I imagine the person on the other end listening and thinking to themselves that they need to get me on the phone...I need to meet this guy, he sounds great.

I have worked on my playing style for thirty years and have recently become more proficient in a finger picking style I've been trying to grasp for a very long time. Bruce Cockburn has always been an inspiration to me, both as a guitar player and as an international thinker. I've been to several of his concerts and very closely watched his fingers, made some notes in the dark, and stayed up late afterwards testing my memory. If I was on stage, I would want an audience member like me...taking notes and shaking my head in wonder.

As it is, I do have my own audience. I have had my campers when I was a counsellor at summer camp and the night was hot and no one could sleep. I pretended I was on stage without a spotlight, playing my classical songs that Ben Kehler taught me during those five years of lessons, lulling those hot campers to sleep. I had my fellow tree planters in Northern B.C. where, with borrowed guitar I played a few familiar tunes to make the bugs seem less buggy. I convinced my wife to sing a song with me as I played during our wedding ceremony. We were each other's audience besides the 250 guests. My students can't get enough of my playing and daily yell, "Sing about me...sing about me" as I pick up my guitar yet again and sing "Dog Bones" or a comforting tune I know from my youth, "Land of the Silver Birch".

At home, where I am needed the most, is my best audience. I'm not on a grand stage with a bus and the clapping people taking notes. I can't imagine a better audience where my only applause is the deep slow breathing of a sleeping child. This hasn't happen often, but once is better than a lifetime of unrealized dreaming.

HTML for dummies

Not only has Andrea inspired me to add a banner to my blog, (She just added an outstanding one to her's) but, together with her husband, has given me much needed assistance in actually showing me what to do to make mine. A couple of sheepish emails from me, and a couple of helpful ones from them, and voilà, there it is.

That reminds me of a story my brother-in-law likes to tell. He has a friend who likes to go on what he calls ride-alongs with the Winnipeg City Police. One time there was this call that came in from a man who had his car stolen. The police arrived and started to take the man's statement. The man was French and spoke in English with a very thick French accent. The man explained that he thought he heard a noise from the garage and so when he went down the hall and out to the garage to check on his car, (and imagine the thickest French accent you can muster) he said, "sure enough...there it was...gone!"

Thanks for your help Greg and Andrea.

Trying my hand

Click to enlarge.

I've been following a number of really good art blogs for a few months and have become enthralled...and jealous. The creative energy undulating through the atmosphere has inspired me to give it a go. I have listened, watched, and made my mental notes. I went through a bit of a draft period to come to my final product (above), which is probably normal.

I started with a simple felt tipped pen drawing (shown below) to set down the concept,

and then decided what medium to use from there. The final product utilizes tempra paints that I found at school, felt tipped pens, and chalk. It is now hanging (30" x 84") in my classroom and I have already had offers to purchase. Nothing puts a smile on my face like words of affirmation...it's my LOVE language.

I think I'll look into taking some local art classes so I can learn some real concepts and not just fake it. I've always had a penchant ( I love that word ) for watercolour. Perhaps I'll try my hand there to begin with.

I'm also hashing through the whole digital camera purchase thing. I'm considering the Nikon D70s. Any thoughts?