Thursday 30 June 2011

Dirty Books

Having recently moved to a new town, and with the local library conveniently located near my house, and on the way home from work, I decided to get a borrower’s card.

Photo by Paul.
As a kid, I didn’t really like to read. It might have had to do with the fact that I was a slow reader, and it would take me forever to get through a book. Another factor at play was probably that fantasy books were really popular during my elementary school days; Lord of the Rings, Harry Potter, and that stupid series whose name escapes me that was about a medieval mouse warrior*. I tried some of the fantasy novels that all my friends were reading, and that were recommended to me by adults who assured me that I would like them, since I had such an active imagination. Sure, I knew how to use my imagination – don’t all kids? – but I like to think I had a pretty realistic view of the world. Those fantasy novels were just too far fetched and un-relatable for my liking.

So, I’ve recently kindled** an enjoyment of reading. I’ve realized it’s about reading good material. I think John Irving deserves some credit for writing extraordinary characters that exist in the most ordinary of circumstances. So last week I took out a book for the first time from the Flesherton Public Library. It’s a popular new-ish book and I’ve been waiting for it to become available for several weeks***.

When you check out a book from the library, you, of course shouldn’t expect it to be in the same condition as a book right off the shelf from Chapters. I don’t mind a few dog eared pages, a cracked spine, or a tear in the paper here or there, but what I do not like is other people’s dirt on the pages of the book that I’m reading. Yuck. Chapter twelve of my current read is smeared with evidence that one of the ten patrons of the Flesherton Public Library who had checked out the book before me was either enjoying a snack of chocolate pudding whilst reading, or trying to add some class to the bathroom by introducing some literature to the process of making a deposit, if you know what I mean. I really hope it was the former.

Beyond the hygiene issues, dirty book pages bother me because the dirt distracts my attention from the content I am trying to read. As I read, even after I’ve passed the part of the page that has been desecrated, I continue to see the brown spot out of the corner of my eye until I turn to the next page. I find myself rushing through the page, and often missing some of the subtle nuances of the text because I’m so anxious to be rid of the disgusting stain. I’ve even found myself cleverly using my bookmark to cover soiled sections of the page so I won’t be so distracted.

To my fellow library patrons, please do not eat or participate in other potentially messy activities while you enjoy a shared book. If I wanted to read a dirty book, I would have checked out Lady Chatterley’s Lover.


*Yes, a mouse warrior. I never read the books, but I had many friends in school who did. Every cover featured an illustration of the little mouse wearing a different battle outfit, and facing off against some giant enemy, like a dragon, or a giant Cyclops. I just googled it; it’s called the Redwall series. Here’s an example of the covers. 

**My instincts told me to write ‘rekindled’, but since I didn’t have a love of reading in the first place, it wouldn’t be an appropriate use of the word. You don’t see the word kindle used as a verb on its own very often. It’s always either rekindle, or kindling, as a noun; the stuff you use to start a fire. It’s also ironic that there’s an e-reader called the Kindle, considering this post is about books.

***I’ve added the Flesherton Public Library catalogue to my favourites on my web browser.

Tuesday 21 June 2011

Keep it in your mouth!

Do you remember the days when one of the most offensive gestures toward another person was to stick your tongue out at them?

In my early childhood, I remember sticking one’s tongue out at another child being equivalent to flipping someone the bird, or dropping an F bomb in grade six or seven. In my kindergarten class, kids would be severely scolded if caught in the act; they’d be subject to a time out, forced to apologize and publicly shamed in front of the entire class. The shaming in front of the class particularly stung if there happened to be a girl in the class on whom you had a crush – just crushing to a young boy’s confidence.

This kid means business. The blood on
his tongue indicates what comes next if
you continue to mess with him.
Photo by Arvind Balaraman
It would be especially defeating to be subject to one of these seemingly draconian punishments as a result of a tattletale. Some teachers were not tolerant of tattlers, and would stoically refuse to act on hearsay. Others were more inconsistent and would sometimes punish a child for sticking their tongue out based solely on the accusation of a four-year-old nipper* who still needs reminding to wipe his nose. It seems that a teacher would be more likely to act on hearsay in situations where the accused was a particularly snot-nosed little brat.

Once (I must have been four or five) I was tattled on for sticking my tongue out. I was out with my mom somewhere and we were waiting in line for something. I don’t know what we were waiting in line for, but it must have been taking a long time, because I decided to sit down on the floor at my mom’s feet. Evidently, I wasn’t the only one who was tired of standing in line; there was a red headed kid, about my age, who was also sitting at his mother’s feet.

I couldn’t put my finger on it, but there was something I didn’t like about this kid. Looking back at it now, it probably had something to do with the fact that he looked like the red headed kid from A Christmas Story; not the bully, but the kid in the classroom who in this clip at 4:50 says, “Holy cow, it’s the fire department!”. That kid always bugged me**. Anyways, since I didn’t like the look of this kid, I naturally stuck my tongue out at him. Sure, it was probably unfair of me to pass judgment based solely on the fact that he looks like a character from a movie who I don’t like, but he proved my instincts were correct when he tugged on my mom’s pant leg, and tattled on me. No one likes a tattler.

I assume that tongue-sticking-out is still taken as seriously in the kindergarten classrooms of North America as it was when I was in school. In the adult world, however, the act is rarely used with the intention of seriously offending someone. Sticking your tongue out at someone is really a playful, tongue in cheek*** sort of gesture.

Once an expletive phrase becomes a regular part of your vocabulary, it tends to loose its oomph. Many modern insults are used with such regularity that they scarcely offend the intended target. I mean, I barely even flinch when someone calls me a motherf**ker. That’s why I’ve decided to change things up. I’m bringing back the tongue. The next time my tongue passes the threshold of my lips and is pointing at you, don’t think you can just laugh it off—I’m pissed.



*That almost sounds like a derogatory term, doesn’t it? I used a thesaurus to find it.

** I don’t have anything against redheads. I was just always bothered by that kid’s over acting. Isn't it also ironic that he appears in the scene about a kid getting his tongue stuck to a pole?

* **The pun was intended. I know, it’s a contradiction; how can you stick your tongue out at someone, all the while keeping your tongue in your cheek?

Tuesday 14 June 2011

Don't Smile at Children!

Earlier this week, while walking down the street, I passed a young mother out with her two young children. In the stroller pushed by the mother was a young baby, less than a year old, and at his mother’s side, holding her hand, was a toddler, about three or four years old.

There’s not too much to be said about the baby who appeared to be less than six months old; for the most part, babies of that age all look pretty similar. They’re small, have big eyes, round faces and arms and legs, hands and feet, fingers and toes that more closely resemble sausage links than part of the human anatomy. And since babies don’t begin to show emotional reactions to outside stimuli until about six months, there wasn’t a whole lot keeping me interested in the little tyke besides the “Look! It’s a baby!” instinct that most of us have.


Cute Kid Photo by Ashley Cox

I took a much greater interest in the toddler walking at his mother’s side. He wore a matching t-shirt and cotton short set, strap on sandals and a blue ball cap. He kind of hopped, skipped and jumped down the street, occasionally tripping over his own feet. I could tell that he was still getting used to his sandals; it is after all, the beginning of the summer footwear season. He seemed to be humming/ singing/ mumbling to himself, as he hopped/ skipped/ jumped down the sidewalk, all the while taking in the sights and sounds around him. His head appeared to be on a swivel. His mannerisms reminded me of what I must have looked like as a child.

Given my amusement with this little fellow, when his swiveling head turned to me, and he looked directly at me (young kids aren’t afraid to make eye contact), I gave him a friendly smile. I don’t know what he thought of my amicable gesture, for before I could try to gauge his reaction, his attention had already shifted, and his head swiveled to something more interesting on the streetscape.

This encounter got me thinking though: why do we smile at cute kids we see on the street? I can recall as a child always being a little bit puzzled as to why adults would smile at me for what seemed to me to be no reason at all. Sometimes, it was downright annoying.

I can recall a specific instance – I must have been four or five– when I was sitting in the back of the car, while my mom was driving through a Drive Thru window at Tim Hortons. While my mom was paying, or getting her coffee, the back driver side window of the car must have been open (or maybe it was before the days of tinted windows), and the Drive Thru attendant saw me sitting in the back (probably looking so adorable), and smiled at me. I remember thinking to myself, Jeez! I’m just a kid trying to live my life! Why do people always have to smile at me? It never occurred to me to smile back at any of these strangers, just as it probably never occurred to the little fellow on the street to return my friendly grin. Maybe I was just late in developing social skills as a child.

Today, I guess I still don’t really understand why we smile at cute kids. It’s probably more of an involuntary social impulse. If today’s kids feel the same way about the phenomenon of smiling adults as I did at that age, maybe I’ll start making a conscious effort to grimace at cute kids I see on the street, so as not to annoy them.


         

Tuesday 7 June 2011

Yogic Mowing

With summer just around the corner, and following the wet spring we experienced this year (I read that in Southern Ontario it rained 17 out of the last 20 days in May!), one is naturally drawn to take notice of the lush greenery which surrounds us.
Early in the morning though it may be, I’ve been especially enjoying my commute to work since June arrived. As I drive the rolling hills and gentle bends of the highway softly lit by the morning sun, I’m struck by the artful appearance of the green pastures, and forests. From a hilltop, the patchwork of still lush hayfields and newly sprouting green crop fields blanketed with a thin layer of morning fog have the appearance of a monotone mosaic, of varying shades of green.
Photo by Simon Howden
Perhaps what I am most excited by at this time of year are the lawns*. In June, everyone’s lawn looks beautiful; the spring rain has been kind to its roots, and homeowners are eager and determined that this year, they will have a yard that is the envy of the neighbourhood. For most people, the enjoyment of mowing the lawn has worn off by Canada Day. Not for me.
“Well Dean, you’re just saying that because of the brand new orange lawn tractor that’s sitting in your garage. It’s not so much fun when you have to push the mower,” you say. Although I do enjoy mowing with the new machine, it’s not the driving of the tractor that makes me love mowing. In fact, for the past 3 to 4 years in which my interest in lawn mowing has been elevated, I’ve been a pusher (a pusher of lawn mowers, that is, not of drugs).  As far as I’m concerned, lawn maintenance is a somewhat yogic experience.
As I traverse the lawn from one end to the other, mowing long narrow strips, the whirring of the blades lulls me into a reflective state. I’m often lost in my thoughts. Once I arrive at the opposite end of the lawn and turn around to tackle the next strip of untamed grass, I am rewarded with the sense of satisfaction that comes with seeing the strip of uniform height, freshly cut grass, alongside the wild untamed blades, which I will conquer next. Reaching the end of the row also gives me an opportunity to observe how I can improve my mowing from row to row. Just as in Yoga, it’s about being aware of your machine (your body), and making the necessary adjustments, in order to achieve a perfectly straight cut (a perfectly balanced body), all the while understanding that perfection will not likely be achieved, but that in consciously striving for perfection, you are well on your way to achieving yogic balance.
You might think I’m crazy. I recounted my theory of yogic mowing to a friend who detests mowing the lawn. He was skeptical. I have since heard it through the grapevine that he is has come to enjoy the chore of lawn maintenance a little more since approaching the task in a yogic frame of mind. Hey, if I can help just one person unlock even a little bit of the joy of lawn mowing, I can sleep well at night. Okay, I’ll admit I wasn’t losing any sleep over it, but I’m glad my friend is enjoying his chores a little more.
Happy mowing!
*I’ve even considered that it would be cool to start a blog that consists solely of photos of nice lawns that I’ve driven or walked past, but alas, I do not own a camera.

Friday 3 June 2011

Have a good...

Have a good….

As a stickler for grammar, I must admit to frequently using a phrase that I guess is not altogether grammatically incorrect, but leaves something to be objectively desired.

When I was in high school, working as a box office attendant at a live theatre, I would work irregular shifts. I would work some afternoons after school into the evening during the week. I would work Saturday morning, into the early afternoon, then return for the Saturday evening show, and I would work Sunday afternoons for the matinee performance. This irregularity of shift work, in an office with only one window receiving little sunlight meant that I would often forget what time of day, and what day of the week it was.

I would end a phone call on a Wednesday evening by telling the person on the other end of the line to have a good morning. On a Monday afternoon, after having worked on Saturday and Sunday, I would cheerfully wish patrons a restful weekend, and during the week before Christmas, I would wish customers a happy Easter. Okay, that last one never happened, but you see what I’m driving at, right?

It wasn’t a big deal at first. Most of the time, people don’t even pay attention to the valediction* at the end of a conversation, and my errors were scarcely noticed by myself or others. However, as I became increasingly aware of my misspeaking, things went downhill. I began to catch myself midway through saying, “have a good morning”, and look outside the window and realize that it was pitch black. Then I’d panic, and try to correct myself, and it would come out sounding something like, “have a good mor-after-evening”. It looks more acceptable written down. In reality, what the person on the receiving end of my well wishes would hear was more like a low mumble, while my brain tried to work out what time of day it actually was.

And then one day, I found the answer to my problem on the lips of a greasy redneck. After having eavesdropped on a conversation between two hicks at a gas station (one was telling the other about how he lost his two front teeth), I heard the one, say to the other, as they parted, “have a good one, eh!” It was the valediction I had been searching for. How perfect; using this phrase would allow me to continue to wish well anyone who I came in contact with, without stumbling over my words, trying to figure out the time of day the day of the week.

I’ve even followed the redneck’s lead, adding “eh” at the end. I find it makes me sound more friendly. I feel that it adds a nice dose of sincerity; like I really do want you to have a good one…or two. Hell, take three good ones for all I care.

Have a good one. Even though it’s a sentence that’s missing a proper object (I don’t really consider “one” to be an object; one what?), I’ll continue to use it.

Have a good one, eh!

*Valediction: An act of bidding farewell; a leave-taking . 2. A speech or statement made as a farewell.
I had to look that one up on dictionary.com . Cool, eh? A new word to add to my vocabulary.