In A League of His Own

All in all, it was a good weekend, despite Audrey being away for a family visit down south. I had plans to have friends over Saturday night to watch the Australian GP with Glory and I, and a crock pot meal to simmer whilst I did other things during the day.

But when I removed the seasoning package from the cupboard Saturday morning, I wondered just how long it had lingered there, and whether envelope food even has a best before date - turns out it does indeed:

🤯

I made this discovery a little after 9 am, and with an 8 hour cook time (because fast cooking in a slow cooker seems pointless to me), I dashed out to the grocery store immediately but discovered shortly after arrival that they do no make that package any more, or at least my neighbourhood Save-On does not carry it.

"Well that's just great," I thought to myself. "I already have all the other ingredients and time's a-wastin' - what am I supposed to do now?"

(Does anyone else ever have those moments where your own mind or self or consciousness somehow speaks to you directly and pull you up short? If not, buckle up.)

A voice inside my head, audibly exasperated, spoke with crystal clarity, saying "are you serious? what kind of chucklehead makes stir-fry in a slow cooker in the first place? just buy the sauce, dumbass."

Shocked and chastened but in complete agreement, I did exactly that and dinner was saved - and quite tasty to boot.

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That evening four of us sat down to watch the first Grand Prix of the Formula 1 season, in Australia. Yes, Glory's sudden onset interest in this sport has not abated and I continue down the rabbit hole after her.

This year the four of us entered the F1 fantasy league, which allows to pick a team of five drivers and two constructors under a set budget of $100M. The top drivers and constructors are all $20M+ so judicious selection is critical - seven average picks, or carve out the middle with one ace driver and several ho-hums?

As a newbie who is kept in the loop primarily by his daughter and her TikTok intake, I thought there was merit in nabbing the lead driver for Mercedes, George Russell. Full disclosure, I like his teammate Kimi Antonelli more (friggin' kid is adorable), but George gives great radio and is being tipped to have quite a season. And with the Mercedes car provoking other teams to call them cheaters, that seemed like a good team to pick, despite the expense.

This didn't leave me a lot of money left for the other five slots, but I got it rounded out eventually, and loecked in about an hour before qualifying and the cutoff for entries. My picks were based more on drivers I want to do well who fit in my budget as opposed to my hopes for their season, but I got this year's rookie, Arvid Lindblad, who is clearly just giddy to be there (like Kimi last year).

The new car construction rules (or "formula") have been a challenge for most teams and many drivers are unsure or downright skeptical, but I will say it was an exciting race with a lot of overtaking, and a solid finish for Ferrari who had a rather terrible 2025 season. 

My boy George took first place (which was great as I doubled down on him for points), and his teammate Kimi getting second was great for my constructor points.

Feeling smug, I was shocked to check our 4-person league standings today and learn that Glory had snaked me by 20 points!

Despite finishing in P6, her main driver Max Verstappen had earned 100 points compared to George's 79.

This is because you get points in the league for more than just final position; points for having the fastest lap, for overtaking positions, and in his case, winning the Driver of the Day poll (normally 10 points, but worth 20 from Glory doubling down on him).

When I complained in our group chat about this unexpected change in positions, her response was unequivocable, direct, and completely consistent with her personality:

"Get wrecked"

Ah well, perhaps the Shanghai results next week will turn out better for me.

You-Know-Who Off the Starboard Bow

I am willing to wager that, in 1985, the nerdiest group at Leduc Composite High School was probably our Star Trek game club.

Sure, we would get together over lunch to play the excellent Star Trek role-playing game FASA produced, similar to the D&D club. But one of the best parts of the deluxe boxed set I had splurged on was that it not only came with all the RPG rules, character sheets and a book of scenarios, oh no. It also came with their Starship Tactical Combat system, a good-sized hex map and a set of counters.

This was my favourite space combat system for years; fast, elegant, and fun to play, with a dizzying array of spaceships to choose from in a great collection of sourcebooks. 

Best of all though, in addition to allowing players to command individual or groups of ships, it came with a set of helm displays so that each RPG character could control their own bridge station: the captain would give their orders and general plan, the engineer would allocate power to movement, weapons and shields, and three different crew would then execute the orders as best they could, based on energy allotment, dice rolls and enemy action.

Before beginning our campaign in earnest, we thought it a good idea to try a simulator session to familiarize ourselves with the system, a la Kobayashi Maru. The Constitution class was a bit overgunned for the classic Klingon D7, so as the gamemaster I ran a D10 heavy battlecruiser as OpFor and we set the two vessels up facing each other a good ways apart. 

In space games there is not a lot of terrain to contend with, so most engagements start out looking like a game of chicken. As I recall, the turns were broken into segments, and the more energy you had allocated to movement, the more segments you would move on. Once per turn, you could choose to fire any powered-up weapons in the correct firing arc (such as port, forward, aft, etc.).

I did my best not to listen in on their plans, as that would be both unfair and unrealistic - after all, how would the Klingons overhear enemy bridge chatter which was such a key part of the Trek canon? And besides that, I already had a fairly significant advantage.

What? Gawd, no, not any sort of tactical genius (snort) - ask anyone who's played me. No, my advantage was made crystal clear as Capt. Earl asked his crew for tactical input and they made a variety of cases for him to consider. My Klingons, meanwhile, had perfect communication and execution as their entire bridge complement (and everyone else for that matter) were all controlled by a single player - me.

After taking some ineffectual long range shots at one another, the Federation ship (whose name Earl and I believe was the USS Excalibur) and Riskadh-class battlecruiser closed to knife-fighting range. The Excalibur had reduced movement to intensify their forward firepower and shields, while I...had not.

"Helm, bring us straight in. Weapons, hold fire until point blank range," Capt. Earl ordered as he leaned forward in his desk. Each segment, the two warships moved closer and closer to each other. "Almost there..." he murmured - just before the segment arrived for my double-move and I skipped the D10 directly over the Excalibur and into the hex directly behind it.

Now, at that time, in that system, the Constitution class had absolutely no aft-firing weapons.

The D10 did, though. 

Not big ones, just two small disruptor batteries. However, if one had not allocated any real power to the aft shields because they'd reinforced the front, any disruptors at all are bad news, particularly at point blank range.

The Excalibur was rocked with structural and systems damage, but nowhere near out of the fight - a wounded and cornered animal, more than capable of evening the odds.

Frustrated and disappointed but his composure uncracked, Capt. Earl gave his orders: "Damage control parties to all decks. Arm photon torpedoes! Bring us around and let them have both barrels before they can pull out of range and make another pass."

The Excalibur's damaged state did not give them any spare energy to speak of, so movement would need to be slow in order to allow sufficient power to the weapons and forward shields. As the segments counted down, they finally and painstakingly turned a single hex face, while the D10 had not yet moved. 

A few more segments and then another turn in place...one more turn and the photon torpedoes would have a bead on the Klingon ship! Even if I had reinforced my rear shields, they could not possibly withstand such an onslaught. 

As it happened though, I had not allocated any power to my rear shields at all.

Finally, they used their last remaining movement point to turn the final hex face and point their incredibly dangerous nose towards my Klingon's exposed backside. 

But in that final segment I also got to move, and having remained still for an entire turn and allocated almost no power to shields, was now permitted to move straight backwards two hexes. Which I did! And which brought my own panoply of now-overcharged weapons directly to bear on the familiar and still unshielded aft facing of the Excalibur.

There was a low moan from several of the crew as I collected all the dice I needed and let fly. With no shields to blunt the disruptors' assailment the Excalibur's systems were demolished and the superstructure was irreparably damaged. 

Crestfallen, the crew looked to Captain Earl, who gave the only orders he still could: "All hands - abandon ship. I say again abandon ship. All crew to the escape pods. Comms, launch a signal buoy with our position and distress beacon..."

After a moment, I said, "well, good thing this was a simulation, right? There is no way you will let me get away with that nonsense next time!"

In fact, as I recall it, there was enough time to get a rematch in during that same lunch period, and the Excalibur's now-seasoned crew made a much better showing.

Still, the look on their faces when I moved backwards to attack them from behind a second time still makes me smile four decades later.

The More Things Change, et cetera

I try to be consistent with my blogging. I would rather babble about something unimportant than either miss my self-imposed weekly deadline or post something brief when more time or space is required.

For these brief posts I will often look for cues or prompts within recent photos, often triggering a memory of something incidental I have forgotten. When I looked today, I found a picture I took in near darkness while walking Canéla in the morning last week, where she demonstrated the accumulated snowfall by walking into a driveway from the back alley, up a snow bank and up onto the hood of a car. Given how popular a topic snow removal is in Edmonton at this time, it certainly seemed topical.

But my photo page also displayed a slideshow of Januaries from previous years, including this one from 2016:

January 11, 2016

And I was struck by just how much has changed in the decade since.

First of all, some context; this was taken during my late mother's holiday visit from Osoyoos for the Christmas of 2015. This is the same trip where she fell in our back alley while walking her dog, Willow(damned ice again!), and broke her arm really badly. But she kept her spirits up, stayed for the remainder of her trip, and played a few games with us like Ticket to Ride here before flying home.

Obviously the biggest change is Mum's absence, as she died in December of 2019, and we all miss her dearly.

But seeing the girls at the table with her reminds me how blessed I am to have them (and Audrey!) in my life today.

10 years ago, Fenya was preparing to graduate high school. One year ago, she was married and living in Toronto before that came to an end and she was able to return home for a bit. She convinced her employers to create a new job position she can help them with and who knows where that might lead?

A decade back, Glory was only in junior high, still competing in Irish Dance. Now she is a Registered Nurse working in a palliative ward and pursuing the elusive full-time line in Alberta health care. And still dancing, when she can!

Friday night the four of us went to church to get a family photo taken for our directory (replacing the 2013 edition!). Afterwards, the two of them decided it was two early on a Friday night to just head home with their parents and asked us to drop them off at Gracie Jane's, a boutique gallery bar just down the street from St. Albert United. They sang karaoke and even bumped into someone else from church there.

There are so many differences between the people they were then and the young ladies they have become, and yet, they are still fundamentally the same: kind, funny, smart, compassionate and hard-working individuals, prone to fits of both insight and whimsy.

Having two adult daughters at home who not only get along so fabulously is truly a blessing. The fact that they have time (or make time) for hanging out with their folks to play games or watch shows is truly icing on the cake.

Moving out feels a lot tougher now, financially, than it did when Audrey and I got married, but I know they will soon want their own space, and that's great - it is how it should be.

But in the meantime, I am greedily sopping up moments like the one pictured above like a sponge. I'm pretty sure that would've made Mum smile too.

Like I said, photos are great prompts and memory triggers, so I am going to put Canela's picture here anyhow - this snow can't last forever, right?

Ancient Lead I: The Half-Orc and Other Specialists

Watching the fifth season of Stranger Things last week, there is obviously lots of room for nostalgia if you were a nerd who came of age in the 1980s, as the main characters are. The one that jumped out to me in the first episode though is where Mike shows the minature of his D&D character, a paladin, to his younger sister Holly. When he did, I blurted out, "Holy shit, I think I still have that figure."

But tonight, when I went though my old metal miniatures, I found a lot of figures from the same period, and even most from the same set, but that paladin model was nowhere to be found.

It's strange for him to be missing when so many other figures from that period are still lurking about. It is a bit ridiculous, actually- if I ever had an encounter where the party needed to fight a dozen or more holy knights, I can probably pull it off without substitution (although the scale - as always - would be highly questionable). 

I think my friend Brent may have used that miniature for his paladin Nigel d'Artagnan, in our one-on-one campaign in high school or junior high. Nigel later on became a bard, unfairly dismissed from his order, but who gamely kept on adventuring around the City State of the Invincible Overlord. I haven't spoken to Brent since my dad's funeral a decade ago, but now I find myself hoping that figurine sits on his book shelf or in a curio cabinet somewhere, and perhaps prompts a fond reminiscence from time to time. I can't be the only one who does this, can I?

But in looking at the other miniatures I had dug up, I was struck by one in particular - the half-orc fighter in the middle of the second group.

Initially, very few people I knew wanted to play half-orc characters, having been conditioned to despise them due to multiple readings/ viewings of The Lord of the Rings. But there he was in the Grenadier Models set 2006 - Specialists, with other heroes, including a cross-wielding cleric and a skullcapped wizard clearly evoking Nicol Williamson from Excalibur.

I remember painting him when I was perhaps 13 years old and thinking, 'who'd want to play this ugly git with the sloppy armour and broken shield,' when I thought, wait - maybe the shield is a choice, reflecting his fighting style...

I imagined this fellow, whose -2 to Charisma (a dump stat to everyone besides paladins back in the day) afforded him a +1 to both his Strength and Constitution scores, cagily lurking behind his shield, watching opponents weary themselves against it, perhaps even resting his own sword against the lip of his shield, patiently waiting for an opportune moment to strike, maybe even ending the combat in a single blow.

This was largely impossible, of course - fighters in AD&D (and in many ways, the system itself) were pretty much incapable of ending most fights quickly. But something about that combination of pose and equipment spoke to me in a manner that evokes strong memories even now, four decades later.

Sadly, with miniatures increasing significantly in both quality and scale over the years, it is hard to fathom an opportunity to use this intriguing fellow in the future. 

But I am in no hurry to give him up, either!

The Art and Science of Striking Out

She entered the restaurant without trepidation. Well, mostly. 

This was their third date, and he had asked her several times to pick a restaurant so they could celebrate her passing a notoriously tough licensing exam. When she at last suggested a mid-level Italian place on Whyte Ave, he'd responded, "Oh, you like pasta? Have you ever been to Campio? They make really good pizza."

Puzzled at the jump from pasta to pizza but encouraged by his enthusiasm, she'd agreed. They're both Italian, she supposed.

After they'd ordered their food, he asked what kind of music she liked. Having a deep affection for a broad range of musical styles, she began by saying her preferences are very mood dependent but framing it up in terms of live music, she mentioned her very first concert experience was Muse, but in the last year or so she had attended Charli XCX, Hozier and Noah Kahan, and she'd also gone to Edmonton's Folk Fest in past years.

When asked the same question, he said he also liked a variety of music, and showed her his phone's music player, adding, "the first two playlists are what I typically listen to."

Scanning the lists, she noted a lot of classic and classic-styled rock, and the list labelled 'Metal' contained everything from Lynrd Skynrd to Rob Zombie and Nickelback. Maybe someone else named the list, she thought. "Are you a metalhead?" she asked as she handed the phone back.

"Not really," he admitted. "I'm mostly a rock guy, to be honest."

"I like a fair bit of metal," she offered.  "Mostly power metal, but...do you know Rammstein?"

"Yeah, I know Rammstein."

"I went to their concert a few years ago with my dad and my sister and that was an amazing show; super fun."

He nodded, but was there a trace of smirk in his smile? "So you like Rammstein? What's your favourite song?"

Ignoring the soft sounds of a warning chime deep in her mind, she tried to formulate a succinct but fulsome answer. "Oh, that's too hard to pick - give me a second..." she replied, and began collating a short list in her head.

But before she could answer, he offered a suggestion: "Du Hast right? Probably?"

Taken a bit aback, and aware of the warning chimes increasing in frequency and volume, she replied, "umm, no, actually; I'm not sure that would even crack my top ten. It's a great song and all, and everyone knows it so it's great to hear live, but definitely not my favourite. At the concert, Sonne was the most fun."

Giving no indication he was familiar with that song, she sought to move on. Unlocking her own phone and calling up a list of liked tunes, she handed it over to him and said, "here is the kind of stuff I am listening to lately."

Scrolling through, a chuckle escaped his lips. "What?" she inquired, grinning. "Have I got something weird on there?"  (said knowing full well that she just might).

"No, no, it's nothing, just kinda funny..." he replied.

"What is?" she persisted.

"It's just, you know, this is kind of just... basic white girl music."

"OH." she said. She extended her hand for the phone, choosing, for the moment, to snooze alarm the warning chimes just as they got upgraded to bells.

Later on, the topic turned to travel, after his admission that he had never been out of Canada. "Oh," she brightened, thinking everyone has that bucket list. "So where would you like to go?"

"Oh, I dunno," he said, non-committally. "Probably somewhere warm, like Mexico."

"Ah, cool," she nodded. "I went there twice last year actually, but they were very different trips. Are you more a beachy, resort kind of guy, or would you rather stay in a city and check out all the local things and the culture?"

While not definitively derisive, his snorted chortle certainly underscored his response: "Pfft! Nah, yeah, I would go to a resort - I don't need to get 'cultured.'"

She took a sip of her drink while nodding, not trusting her expression, and muffled the bells that were now clanging like some sort of  incompatibility alarm. and the conversation drifted into safer territory for the remainder of what had just become their final date. 

Bench Works

I went through a bit of what must have been a nesting period in 2007 when my work situation changed suddenly. I found myself out of my position with 11 weeks of severance pay and (blessedly) health care for that period as well. I wanted to take some time figuring out what I wanted to do next, and was doing some work along those lines at the Bredin Institute, but I also knew my capacity for indolence was practically limitless, and endeavoured to find productive distractions around the home Audrey and I had purchased barely a year earlier.

One of these projects was a workbench and toolboard, something I highly recommend if you have any love of organization whatsoever. The workbench itself, a chintzy Chinese-made jobbie from Canadian Tire, was no great whoop but at least gave me an elevated surface to work from, and a shelf to keep some larger tools off the floor. With some added pegboard and hooks from the local hardware store, I had ample space to arrange my modest collection of tools, including the big set of screwdrivers my sister- and brother-in-law had gifted me the previous Christmas.

I also wall-mounted the grey tool box we'd picked up from Costco shortly after getting married. Again, the tools weren't of any particular quality, but the socket set was decent enough, and it had a specific spot for everything, which I appreciated.

An old change table fit under the grey box as an additional workspace, and it made a good spot for the nuts and bolts organizer drawers I also got as a gift.

To be clear, I do not do a whole lot of handymannin' or project work, but when tools are needed to hang a picture frame, replace a car battery or jury-rig some barriers to isolate the winter tires beside the garage, it is gratifying not having to search too far for the right tool for that job.

And being without work at the time made this an even more satisfying project; lining up the hooks and tools and arranging the screwdrivers was like a mundane and Western version of a Zen garden. AT an unsettled time in my life, this bastion of organization and potential productivity was a genuine balm to my spirits. It made me wonder if Dad had felt the same way about his workspace in the garage in Leduc.

Dad's garage workbench was homemade, constructed out of sturdy 4 x 8 boards and long steel woodscrews as I recall. He mounted both a decent sized vise and a small electric grinder wheel  on it, as well as an overhead fluorescent light. The majority of his hand tools though, he tended to keep in a nondescript but tough canvas bag that I think he'd had since his days in the navy. His electric drill had a dedicated steel box and I recall a few wrenches on the wall, but I think my pegboard game might actually have been better than his. 

That workbench was some kind of solid though.

This weekend, two friends and I went out to their late mother's house in Leduc to get their own dad's workbench out of the basement, in anticipation of selling the home. It's a nice unit, with a treadplate-fronted cupboard and drawers containing that cushy mesh so your wrenches and such don't slide around or clank loudly every time you set them in there. Best of all though, it has a gorgeous, thick wooden top.

Neither of my friends recall this bench from their childhood, reckoning it came in after they'd left home, possibly after their father had retired. What had prompted the purchase? Was it for a special project, of just too good a deal to pass up? Regardless, neither of them had space for it, and I was grateful for the opportunity to give it a new home. 

In anticipation of its arrival, I had pulled the change table out of its niche and swept out almost two decades worth of dust and mouse droppings. I moved the old chest of drawers out of the corner so I could more easily reach the top drawer full of nails and screws, as well as the others with their miscellaneous collections. 

The Mastercraft bench is sturdy and awkward, so getting it up a narrow staircase with a 90-degree turn in it was a challenge, but we managed to do it without damaging the walls or ourselves. It fit easily enough in the back of the 'Lander once one of the second row seats was folded down, and unloading it my garage was a piece of cake for two people. 

When Audrey saw it, she observed that the beautiful wooden top could actually let it serve as a kitchen island if needed. I started to reply about treadplate being an odd design motif for modern kitchens, but stopped when I realized yeah, an incongruous industrial style like that could actually look pretty cool...

There is still some re-organizing needed, as well as a trip or two to the Eco Station and Reuse Centre, but even these initial steps of tidying and reorienting are a salve to my soul, similar to when I had initially set it up. Would that everything in my life could be sorted so easily!

A Half-Century of Terror and Fascination - Jaws

We saw the 50th anniversary re-release of Jaws this weekend, one of my all time favourite movies, and one that had a profound impact on me as a kid. It is a 4K remaster being shown in IMAX, so probably the first time I've seen it in a cinema since, well, the first time, in 1975.

I would have been eight years old at the time, and I have no idea what my dad was thinking when he brought me. I think I wanted to go and may have asked him? Or perhaps he was going anyways and asked if I wanted to come. I know many people in my 4th grade class were two scared to go, and rumours of people becoming physically ill in Leduc's Gaiety Theatre were rampant (and likely apocryphal).

I had planned to put an empty popcorn tub over my head if things got too intense, but a a stern look from Dad dissuaded me, so I watched the film in its entirety. I remember being disgusted at the severed leg settling to the bottom of the estuary, but it wasn't the gore that stuck with me - it was the intensity.

No bad dreams followed me out of the theatre, but a momentary fascination with marine biology did, along with a passion for movies that Star Wars cemented into place two years later.

I revisited the movie with my kids years later and it was Glory's appreciation of it that reminded me what an awesome film this throwaway monster movie truly is.

Since then I have shown it to many people for their first time, and although many will comment on how Bruce the mechanical shark (named after Spielberg's lawyer) doesn't hold as much water these days, especially 30+ years after Jurassic Park, everyone comes away with at least a little apprehension about open water.

I had watched the Jaws at 50 Documentary on Disney+ only a week before, and had learned even more about the troubled film production than I had from my reading and all the special features on DVD and BluRay. I knew Spielberg had run way over time and even more over budget on the film, but I did not know that the responsibility he held for this, and for all the people depending on him, took such a toll on him personally.

Seeing the film in IMAX was a great experience - it made the shooting star that Spielberg puts in every movie much easier to find and for the first time I noticed that when Chief Brody takes a glass of whatever homebrew Quint has served him and hands it off to Hooper while saying "don't drink that," Hooper drinks it anyways - I think I am usually too enthralled by the interaction between Roy Scheider and Robert Shaw.

Shaw, in particular, is one reason that Jaws doesn't need an IMAX screen to be impactful. His telling of the fate of the USS Indianapolis during WWII is just as captivating on a 14" b&w tube TV late at night as it is in this 4K restoration. 

And while our matinee showing wasn't sold out, I still found it a little gratifying to discover that this half-century-old film that the director thought would be his very last movie, actually beat two new releases at the box office.

Jaws is a great story, brilliantly shot and acted, and for the time, Bruce was a very credible stand-in (despite corroding almost immediately due to his being designed for freshwater, not salt). And the story about the story is almost as good - the challenges of shooting on water, the use of the natives of Martha's Vineyard as not only extras but speaking roles. I expect I will see it a few more times in my life, hopefully introducing a few new people to it along the way.

But watching it in the water, like they've done at Sylvan Lake a few times? Not a chance.

Satchel Pages: Con-Version VI

I was wondering what to blog about tonight as I haven't a lot of time, so weightier topics must be postponed in favour of sleep. I came across this picture of the satchel I often use for toting gaming manuals and rulebooks along.

There is a lot of nerdy and actual history contained in those pins and badges, from the silly (like the revolutionary graffiti badge from the Amiga game "Fernandez Must Die") to the tragic (the Challenger mission patch for STS-51L featuring an apple for teacher Christa McAuliffe, the first civilian to die in space) and a heap of pop culture for good measure. 

There are quite a few Games Workshop promos in there (including the brilliant new Ultramarine Chaplain pin Bryce got me at a store event recently) and more than a few comic-related ones that are kind of cryptic - like the old Kree military symbol and the badge for Thanagarian police like Hawkman and Hawkgirl.

What a similarly afflicted person might recognize or deduce, those with more mainstream interests might be able to look up, but this one could be tricky: 

The Roman numeral is tricky to make out (honestly thought it was a VII at first...), but Con-Version is pretty visible and there is a Wikipedia page for them.

This was a lapel pin I got at Con-Version VI, a sci-fi con in Calgary in 1989. Some of the lads and I attended a few times in the late 80s and early 90s, with Audrey even coming along to one in 1995 before we moved to Toronto for four years.

The rat on the pin is because the guest that year was Harry Harrison, author of the Stainless Steel Rat book series, featuring a charming confidence man and adventurer in an interplanetary future. I believe this was also the year our alien rock band *Unpronounceable In English made its debut at the costume contest, as we each got a set of the novels as a prize for Best Performance Under Fire.

I may have the program book around here someplavce but it is just as possible it was lost in the purge of our basement bookshelves last year. An archived Fancyclopedia article mentions how they held their final con in 2010, and I see someone trying to sell other lapel pins on eBay.

The pin is a neat bit of nerdy decor and also a useful tether to a time long past and a different person who is still, somehow, me. When I inevitably give away or misplace the pin, how long will the event linger in my memory? Will that person be gone with it?

For now. it is a helpful kind of nostalgia that takes little space and no effort to maintain, so it remains, as do I.

An Introduction to Bad Parenting - The Orphanage Line

Glory is on her way back from a week in Mexico with her school chums tonight, a trip Audrey and I are incredibly glad they took. 

This is a group of friends who by and large have hung together and maintained their relationships since meeting randomly on their very first day of nursing classes at MacEwan. Now they are in their fourth year, having wrapped up their preceptorships earlier this month and readying for graduation in June.

Where they used to get together for some sort of outing at least monthly, it has been fiendishly difficult to coordinate get-togethers since most of them are working in different hospitals, clinics or even municipalities, many of them on shift work. 

Even day shifts left Glory little time for socializing, as she was typically heading to bed two hours after supper so she could get up at 4:45 for her 7:30 shift start!

Anyways, she and her friends have been tucked away at an all-inclusive resort on the Riviera Nayarit, north of Puerto Vallarta. She has been diligent about providing proof of life via Instagram and Snapchat every single day. I am hoping this event will cement relationships they will carry forward from their university days into their adult years, and for a long, long time to come.

Hearing about this sojourn or her upcomiong graduation, many people will say things like, "Amazing!" and "You must be so proud!" 

These are both indisputably true statements; I am proud of both my daughters, and with good reason, and can also confirm that they are both amazing!

But sometimes people will suggest things like, "you must be great parents!"

And I won't speak for my beloved wife, but in my case this is demonstrably untrue.

Let me give you an example.

It is no secret that of my two daughters, one of them was an easier-going child on the whole, and it was not Glory. This is not to say my youngest was a bad kid, but at times she was willful to the point of absurdity. How many three year olds have you witnessed put themselves on a time-out? Wild times.

On one such occasion, when Glory was no more than four years old, she stomped downstairs while I was at my desk and expressed to me in no uncertain terms that she was extremely dissatisfied with my authority and that of my wife, as well as her current living situation in general. Because she did not like it here anymore at our house, she had come down to inform me that she was, in fact, running away.

"Gosh," I said upon hearing this proclamation of intent. "Are you sure you don't want to live here anymore?"

She shook her head, resolutely.

"Well, if you've made your mind up, I am not going to try to stop you." I replied. "I don't want anyone staying here who doesn't want to be here. And it was good of you to stop by and tell me yourself instead of just leaving me a note or something." (Leaving aside for the moment that she did not at this point have command over many letters.)

She nodded, imperiously.

"Are you leaving right away?" I inquired.

"Yes!" she stated, emphatically.

I reached across the desk and picked up the phone. "I suppose I had better call the orphanage then..."

A perplexed look crossed her face. "The what?"

"Oh, the city orphanage," I said while I dialed eight audible but random digits on the cordless phone and then hit the hang up button for the ninth. "It is like a home for kids with no moms or dads, or runaways like you."

Confusion, perhaps a bit of panic on her face now. "But I don't -"

"Well, we can't have you living on the streets like a stray dog now sweetie, can we?" I explained as I put the inert phone to my ear.

"Daddy I -"

"Sssh, hang on honey, it's ringing." I paused momentarily, watching a cascading series of emotions run across her face. "Oh hello, City Orphanage? Hi, I have a four-year-old daughter who does not want to live at home with us anymore. Um hmm. Yes. Birth year? 2002. Blond hair, blue eyes. Hmm? No, no infirmities or disabilities..."

"Daddy, you -"

"Glory honey, I am on the phone right now. Sorry, yes, that was her, yeah. Mm hmm. So, I know it is kind of short notice, but how soon...oh, tonight? Yes, that would be great, thank you." I covered the mouthpiece of the phone and leaning over towards where she was sitting on the futon, I stage-whispered, "Go and pack your things."

Her eyes were now as big as pie plates.

I held up a finger. "Actually, hang on a second," I told her, despite the fact she hadn't shown the slightest indication of standing up. Taking my hand from the mouthpiece, I asked, I assume a single suitcase, right? Mm-hmm. And what about toys? Any one stuffy they can carry? Sounds good, just a moment please."

Covering the mouthpiece, I turned again to Glory, who was now looking fairly anxious. "Good news! They can come and pick you up in about an hour, so you should go figure out what clothes you want to bring, and one stuffy besi-"

"DADDY I DON'T WANT TO GO!"

I mustered my most surprised expression. "Really?" I said. "You seemed so sure a moment ago..."

"No, I decided I want to stay now," still in control, but upset in a different way than she had been, and maybe even on the verge of tears. A pang of guilt discoloured my enjoyment, and I decided to course correct a little.

"I would like it very much if you stayed with us until you are much older," I assured her, "and we can even talk about the things you don't like. Hang on a second - hello? Yes, I'm sorry about that...yes, it seems like she has had a change of heart. I will call you back if we need to - you are open until 8 pm, right? Okay, sorry for the bother, thanks very much. Ok, bye." I pressed the hang up button on an inert line, my offspring still none the wiser.

A few heavy breaths and some frank conversation later, we had a better understanding, and she returned upstairs a little more content than when she had come down, with no intentions of running away for the time being.

When I told other parents about this interaction, their reactions ranged from shocked to scandalized (with overtones of amusement, to be sure), with a covered mouth and statement along the lines of, "oh I could never do that!" being fairly commonplace.

As it happens though, I not only could, do it, I did do it, and not only that, I told other people about doing it and without even a trace of shame, as I recall it.

But none of that is what makes me a bad parent.

No, what makes me a bad parent is the absolute glee I derive from remembering it, even now, two decades later. This afternoon I realized that I had never written it down - and that is how I decided what to blog about today.

And I will be gladder still when Glory gets home tomorrow, and I am sure she made awesome memories with her friends. 

Amazing how both girls turned out, isn't it, given what their dad is like and all, eh?

I hope they splurged on getting one of these pics too

Sole Mates

Back in June, while running errands and shopping, I found myself in the parking lot of The Shoe Company on Mayfield Road and popped in to check out their clearance section, as I am known to do. I needed a new pair of everyday shows to replace my existing black sneakers and hate paying full retail for such things.

I found two potential pairs that were a bit more than I would normally pay but still significantly discounted, so I texted pictures of them to Audrey. I outlined the situation and told her I had the option of a sturdy, hiker-like shoe in a boring colour, or a pair of outrageously yellow Saucony sneakers with orange detailing.

When she didn't respond right away I put both pairs back and returned to my vehicle so I could drive to Costco. Audrey texted me enroute, encouraging me to get the more colourful ones, which I said I would do once I'd finished shopping.

But when I got to Costco, they had much less exciting running shoes, on coupon, for much, much less money. My practicality wrestled my whimsy into submission while I stood there whiteknuckling the cart handle before eventually relenting, sighing and grabbing a box of grey sneakers in my size.

Audrey seemed to share my disappointment when I got home, and commiserated with me when I lamented about how long it had been since I had "fun" footwear, signature of mine in college. On a whim in second year, I had purchased a pair of bright blue and yellow Nike high tops, perhaps similar to these.

As a Resident Assistant and member of Student Council, I was kind of in the public eye, and the shoes seemed to really amuse some people. Or maybe it was the fact that they were being worn by a straight-laced guy sometimes prone to shyness. When those shoes wore out I replaced them with a less bright but still unconventional pair of Airwalk-looking shoes, and at one point claimed an award at our RA recognition event as "the Shoe Guy" or something of that nature.

I told Audrey that I was grateful to have found a pair of decent sneakers in my size at such a good price, but was still sad because part of me had looked forward to having standout footwear again, and the understanding look on her face was truly gratifying.

So when I opened a large box from Audrey at Christmas and found those bright yellow Kinvara 13s, needless to say, I was pretty touched.

Audrey had not only gone out and purchased the shoes shortly after we discussed them, she realized they were the wrong size because she had bought the only remaining pair from the wrong location. She ended up having to return them, put the last pair in my size on hold at the other location and then drive out to the west end of the city to get them.

So now I have them and wear them pretty regularly as an alternative pair of indoor shoes. There is a slight chance I will actually wear them outside when the summer comes, but I want to keep that bright yellow pristine for as long as possible. 

That way, when people comment on them, I can share what a lucky guy I am to have such a thoughtful wife.

The Paper Telly

A couple of weekends ago I finally decluttered and dusted the top of the hutch over the liquor cabinet. Most of the items on top of it needed cleaning, the space itself required rearranging and some items, well, it was just time for them to go.

I finally parted with the bottle that contained 40-year-old port that my dear friends gifted me back when I turned 40. I decanted the bottle caps that had been accumulating in the pewter mug Dad got as a member of the CFB Gimli "Corporal's Club." And I realized that a paper keepsake had become too dusty to clean or salvage, and needed to be recycled.

It was a tiny paper replica of a television Fenya had made when she was eight or nine years old. The 5" screen depicted a hockey game in a packed arena, with the words "Go Lemons Go!" displayed on one of the concourses, presumably referring to the team in yellow. Such was the attention to detail that the set even has a triangular antenna affixed to the top of it, something I don't think Fenya had ever seen in real life.

I don't remember the circumstances clearly, but she had made it for me out of scrap paper with tape and crayons when I worked at GE Money. It was not a job I relished going to, and I think she made it to cheer me up, which it did.

The paper tv had a prominent spot on my desk until I left the job about a year and a half after starting (to take a position where still I work today). I didn't have the heart to simply 86 it at the time, so atop the hutch it went. 

When I took it down, some of the structural integrity of the cube was lost due to the adhesive on the tape drying out over a decade and half. It was tragically dusty and unlikely to survive a cleaning, and I admitted it was time to say goodbye to this keepsake - but not before doing three things.

First I took a picture of it, no longer trusting my memory to maintain such things.

Next I called Fenya, and sent her the picture. I related the story as I remembered it, and she corroborated parts of it, not remembering many more details than I. I told her how happy the little tv had made me at work, the whimsy it would provoke when my glance fell upon it, the gratitude for having such a creative and thoughtful child (two of them, in fact). It got a little misty.

Lastly, I vowed to write about it here, to affix it a little more firmly in my memory, and give me a place to re-visit it periodically.

The Family That Stickers Together...?

On most weekday noon hours, I can typically be found walking Canéla around our neighbourhood. The layout of our streets gives me a few alternate routes I can use to keep things from getting stale. And even more if the backalleys come into play. 

Like most suburbs, there are not a lot of interesting sights at first blush, but if you know where to look you can find a toy figure of Sesame Street's The Count wedged onto a small tree branch, an empty house that appears to have had a kitchen fire, and a startling number of people whose RVs and trailers prevent them from accessing their garages with their vehicles.

Even without trailers and such, there is a lot of street parking. Heck, our next door neighbours don't even have a garage, and they seem much happier with their increased yard space anyways. But walking past the various parked cars and trucks, I always like to check out the ones with stickers.

Surprisingly, none of my routes have brought me into proximity with Alberta's ubiquitous "F*** Trudeau" decals, but I have seen at least one for country radio station CFCW, an "I Brake for Reptiles", a variety of non-home sports team affiliations and one that grimly states "Nature Bats Last". One of the most intriguing sets I have seen, however, combines the once-common stick figure family with local hockey fandom in a kind of unsettling way.

So, for those of you reading this in the distant future, first of all, thank you! Next, you need to be aware that in the early 21st century we saw the peak of people putting simple icons representing their families on the rear windows of their passenger vehicles. Even as a person who loves stickers, I never saw the appeal myself - why would you want strangers to know how many kids you have, or whether or not you are a single parent? Is it so bystanders can let you know if you have left a family member behind?

Before it began to drop in the mid-late twentyteens, we saw this trend evolve in two significant ways around the time of peaking: the first was backlash stickers, saying things like "My T-Rex ate your stick figure family and they were delicious" with an outline of the aforementioned Cretaceous dinosaur, usually with spindly arms and legs hanging from his slavering jaws. The other was a nearly unlimited variation of the families themselves, often representing some sort of fandom of another, e.g. zombies, Star Trek, Star Wars, etc.

This window appears to have originally depicted a zombie family of four, plus an undead cat and dog, presumably pets.

All the humanoids, save one, have been obscured by large, Oilers Nation stickers, a popular sports blog (based on the number of stickers I've seen overall).

I am going to level with you - my first thought was that this was perhaps an act of bitterness, possibly p[receded by a messy breakup or relationship breakdown of some kind. But while obscuring an ex-partner is easily explained, what about the children?

On closer inspection, however, the sole unobscured figure is smaller in size than the two on the far left of the tableau, suggesting an offspring (supported by the placement on the far right, suggesting the younger sibling)... perhaps the child is now of driving age and has begun using this vehicle on the regular? And if so, perhaps they don't want strangers assuming they a) are partnered up and b) have a pair of children - certainly an awkward thing to explain in the high school parking lot.

Regardless, if I walk this route enough times, perhaps one day I will encounter the driver as they are coming or going and I can ask them.

If, like those zombie stick figures - I just have the guts...

The Trip Not Taken

Back in my third and fourth year of university at Augustana in Camrose, a lot of us were Twin Peaks fans.

David Lynch and Mark Frost's quirky, surreal and stylish murder mystery with supernatural overtones was decidedly not for everyone, so oftentimes a group of people would gather to watch episodes in my dorm room. The wait from May to September to resolve the cliffhanger after a major character was shot was one of the longest I had ever experienced, transcending even the season carry-over during the Borg War in Next Generation.

It was an offbeat show that attracted a lot of offbeat people, like me, my friends, and even a few people in the freshman dorms who similarly found themselves exiled from the communal tv in the lounge. (Kids, this was way before mobile phones, let alone a time when you could watch shows on them. Good video even on a computer screen was still eyars away!) They would pile into my room in Solheim, glued to the 14" tv that was once the mopnitor for my TRS-80 Colour Computer.

(Funny sidebar: when I visited the Edmonton Journal offices to get a copy of the Garneau Block signed by author (and then columnist Todd Babiak) as a gift for a friend, he immediately recognized me as 'Twin Peaks guy', which I found delightfully validating.)

Anyhow, sometime early in 1991, a number of us toyed with the idea of taking a road trip during spring break down to Snoqualmie, Washington, where they filmed Twin Peaks. The diner, the hotel, the waterfall, they were all there to be seen and it wasn't even that far of a drive...but it never happened.

I can't even tell you why this expedition didn't come together, whether it was concerns over possible cost, vehicle reliability, dealing with treacherous mountain roads in February as well as a border crossing or something else. Did any of us even have a credit card at that point? And to be clear, all of those are pretty good reasons not to undertake such an odyssey!

But when I recall that road trip, I never think of it in terms of a bullet dodged, but always as an opportunity lost. 

And not just because the show that inspired the journey has become a legit cult classic, and not just because I still keep in touch with one of the other people and would love to recollect that trip with him, and not just because one of the people who were interested has passed away and another is a person I haven't had contact with since they showed up at my father's funeral. Or maybe it is all those things. 

The main source of regret is that I have no idea what I did do during that spring break, and even if it had involved returning to school later than expected with a repair or tow truck bill in hand, I know those memories would have been, well, memorable, to say the least.

This is why I am so glad Glory took advantage of her own recent opportunity, albeit in a much different context.

She and Fenya had just returned from Churchill and were attending the Hozier concert together before Fenya returned to Toronto. A number of people had dropped in to say hi, including Audrey's sister Vera, who had recently left a terrible job situation, but was looking at another potential opportunity sooner than she'd expected. 

Since her Spanish had been getting rusty due to lack of use (she had lived in Guatemala with Peace Brigades International for a time and is also a translator for hire), she started looking at a trip to Guadalajara, Mexico and found a reasonable airfare. Overhearing her musings, Glory had jokingly asked, "hey, can I come with you?"

Vera said, "well, I leave Saturday and come back the following Saturday, doesn't that muck up your schooling?"

A quick check confirmed that Glory would indeed be back in time for her first class, and having enough money in tips alone (!) to cover airfare etc. and the unexpected willingness of her aunt to let her accompany her, she quickly agreed, and a week after returning home from up north, she departed again for a week down south!

Spontaneity has never been my gift, and I know, I know, that I have missed many an opportunity due to my reluctance to take a leap of faith. I am often grateful for my cautious nature - it has also saved me a number of times! But there are other times where I recognize the detriment that goes with it.

Glory, in the meantime, enjoyed a week with a beloved relative, experienced traveller, skilled translator and appreciator of Mexican and Latinx culture, far from the all-inclusive resorts and tourist zones that many of her classmates have frequented in the past. The photos and stories she has shared paint a picture of a culturally enriching trip that was also a ton of fun. I am a little jealous, but mostly I am proud of her being able to seize that opportunity.

And who knows? If Audrey and I ever end up making our long-talked-about trip to Seattle, Snoqualmie isn't even that far away...

Telephony Protocols

When I was a kid living in New Brunswick, we lived in a farmhouse in the country and had a party line. This meant a number of households shared a single telephone line, and each household had its own designated ring so you knew when a call was for you. 

If you picked up the phone to make a call, you had no way of knowing whether or not someone else was already using the line, or how long they might be using it for. There was always the risk of picking up the handset and accidentally hearing a personal conversation that was absolutely none of your business, or the possibility of someone listening in to yours.

The phone also had a rotary dial, something fairly common well into my teenage years, as I recall, although most homes had at least one newfangled "push-button" phone.

When we moved to Leduc, we initially had a single phone on the wall in the kitchen, and then extension lines with the same number pulled to my parent's bedroom and to Dad's desk in the basement. When I was a teen, and Tara and I were both using the telephone more, he got us our own phone line with a different number, which felt tremendously important.

When I got a little bit older this separate line meant I could use my TRS-80 Colour Computer and 300 baud modem to explore the earliest online communities - bulletin board systems (BBS) and message boards and the like.

In college I got a retro candlestick phone (I have no idea where from) which looked marvelous, but made two-handed phone conversations kind of mandatory, and doing anything else while talking almost impossible. College was also where a colleague showed me the first cordless phone in the hands of a peer, an incredibly stylish little folding handset that flipped open like the communicators on Star Trek.

I was late to getting a mobile phone, and it would have been longer had I not required one for work, I think in 2005 or so. When I left that job in 2007, I was already so acclimatized to having one I got a basic pay-as-you-go device, and one later for Audrey.

Later on there came smart phones, but I didn't bother with a mobile date plan until, again, it became a work requirement in 2016 (and a perk, as they paid for it too). When my job changed in 2020, I found the data too hard to give up, so again I got a basic plan. With so many places having data, I don't usually go over the 1GB per month I pay for, but when travelling, it does happen.

Now everyone has a phone, almost everywhere we go, and it feels unnerving to be out of touch even for a little while. Audrey and I drove to Toronto from Edmonton in 1995, calling our folks from motel phones along the way on most days. This year in driving to Flin Flon on our way to Churchill, being out of service on Hansen Lakes Road felt unfamiliar and disturbing.

Many younger people don't like phone calls out of the blue, preferring a text asking for permission. I rarely talk for long periods on the phone, preferring a video chat on any number of platforms on my phone, tablet or PC. Unfamiliar numbers go straight to voicemail.

It occurred to me the other day that kids answering a household phone has probably been a thing of the past for a while now, at least in the majority of homes. What child growing up today will ever have cause to place their hand over the receiver of a shared communications device and bellow, "MOM! DAD! PHONE FOR YOU!"? This would probably seem completely peculiar to the young folks watching Winona Ryder pick up her kitchen handset with the extra-long cord so many of us had and asking "why does her phone have a tail?"

I mentioned this in passing to a coworker who confessed that if a boy called for his older sister while she was indisposed (and presumably a few times when she wasn't) he would inform them, "she can't come to the phone right now, she's taking a dump."

Busy signals, answering machine messages, all things of the past, largely, replaced by interactive voice menus and automated callbacks - but I don't imagine any of us miss being tethered by that curly cord, even the extra-long ones.