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May 30, 2006

Wheel Love

Yes, I did experience love in one form or another before that day.

Many times.

But it was different kind of love.

I mean, I loved the little girl who chased me at nursery school. (Especially when she caught me and kissed me.)

I loved Kathy Campbell in grade one.

Rolleen in grade two.

Carin in grade three. (Actually I still love Carin.)

Geraldine in Grade four.

It goes on.

I loved my Afrikaans teacher Ms. Lombard in grade eight. I really loved her. I loved her to distraction. Until I failed a few tests and she told me I was a moron. Then I hated her. I really hated her. I hated her to distraction.

All of those loves were just the warm up for my first real love affair.

It all started at the basement window.

A group of us boys were playing cards in Mark's basement. We were all about fourteen or fifteen years old.

Glen was bored with the game and pulled himself up to the tiny window near the ceiling of the basement. The window was pretty high and he had jumped up to the window ledge and pulled himself up until his chin was resting on his knuckles so he could see out of the window.

"Oh my God," yelled Glen, dropping to the ground

"What?" we all yelled in unison.

"Up there," he pointed toward the window. "You've guys have got to take a look. She is gorgeous."

We all scrambled from the table knocking the cards to the floor as we jockeyed for position.

I managed to get under the window first and jumped up to grab the sill. I was too short and had to jump a few times before I could get a hold of the edge and pull myself up.

What I saw changed my life instantly.

She was the most beautiful thing I had ever seen.

Her shape was heavenly.

Her lines were smooth and silky.

Her body moved me.

She was a Lotus Élan. The most beautiful car I had ever seen.

My mind started clouding up and everything suddenly seemed to move in very slow motion. The voices of the other boys echoed around the room and sounded like voices from a dream

The car was gleaming in the sunlight.

I hung on to the ledge until my knuckles turned white and I couldn't hold on any longer.

I dropped back to the floor and swung my arms around like a windmill until the circulation returned, and jumped up again.

I did that five or six times.

Then we realized that it would be a lot easier and more fun to stop the voyeurism and go outside and see the car.

And so we did.

She was even better in person.

I had never experience love like this. It was blind, irrational, irresponsible, spontaneous, un-complicated love. And it was good.

For years women have tried to understand how men can love cars with such passion. I don't know the answer, but I'm still in love with the original Lotus Élan.

And I always will be.

Posted by trevor at 07:58 PM | Comments (5)

May 29, 2006

In Memorium

It is Memorial Day here in the United States today. In memoriam, I’d like to share a powerful story told to me by my grandfather Ted. I have told this story before, but decided now would be a good time to share it again.

I’m not sure who originally created the tale, but it took place during the war in South Africa between the Boers and the Zulus many years ago…

During the height of the war there was a skirmish in the veld and a Boer soldier, on his horse, saw a Zulu warrior in combat with one of his fellow Boers. The Zulu had a yapping yellow dog at his side as he fought.

The Boer saw the Zulu put his spear through his friend’s chest. As the Zulu stabbed the man, the Boer on the horse shot the Zulu dead. The Zulu warrior collapsed on top of the soldier he had just impaled with his spear.

Yelping loudly, the dog ran off into the bush as the watching Boer spurred his horse and narrowly escaped a number of spear wielding Zulu’s who were approaching him.

Many months later, after the war, the Boer soldier came back to collect the bones of his dead friend. When he and a number of fellow soldiers approached the spot where their friend’s bones lay, intertwined with those of the Zulu warrior, they noticed the same yellow dog sitting obediently next to the pile of bones. The dog took off into the bush as the men approached.

The soldiers had a hard time sorting the white soldier’s bones from the Zulu’s bones. The bones were literally mixed up because they had been stripped clean by wild animals. The Boers were hard pressed to figure out who the bones belonged to who. They did not want any black man’s bones to be buried with their white comrade, that was for sure.

After discarding the dirty bones (which they were convinced belonged to the Zulu) they took the Boer’s bones back to a graveyard a few miles away, where he was buried with full honors.

On a full-moon night six months later, the men were headed back to their farms after a bible-study class. They passed the graveyard where their friend, the Boer soldier, was buried. As they took off their hats in respect they noticed, in the distance, the same yellow dog sitting by the graveside.

Posted by trevor at 10:04 AM | Comments (0)

May 25, 2006

Today I am going to spring clean my mind. I can't wait to see what I find in there.

Posted by trevor at 09:02 AM | Comments (3)

May 20, 2006

Mrs. Pless

When we were kids, my brother and I were haunted by a woman called Mrs. Pless.

She was an evil spirit and we were convinced that she was going to put us in a big pot and eat us like she ate all the other naughty kids who didn't go to bed when they were supposed to.

My dad was the only one who was not afraid Mrs. Pless. Perhaps it was because he was the only person in our neighborhood who had ever seen her.

My dad was so brave. He went out in search of her one night after we heard her at the bathroom window.

"Yup. I saw her," he said, smugly.

"You did?" said my younger brother, his eyes as big as saucers.

"Oh yes," said my dad, bravely puffing out his chest. "I told her we didn't want her in this neighborhood."

"But, what about her evil medallion," I stammered. "If anyone gets hypnotized by the medallion, that's it."

"I'm too smart for her," said my dad. "I just shielded my eyes with these sun glasses. The medallion won't work if you're wearing sunglasses."

"Then what happened?" said my brother.

"She ran away, or floated away more like," said my dad. "Don't worry. She won't be back."

My father was wrong. Mrs. Pless came back a week later when my brother threw a tantrum and almost turned the cat into a musical instrument.

My dad went outside to 'check on something' and a few seconds later I saw a figure at the window.

"Mrs. Pless," I yelled. "She's outside."

My brother's tantrum stopped instantly and we dived into the cupboard.

A minute later my dad walked back into the house, whistling.

We cracked the door and peered out.

"Why are you guys hiding in the cupboard?" he asked.

"Mrs. Pless," said my brother opening the door and pointing. "Didn't you see her when you were outside? She was looking in the window, I swear."

"My father harrumphed and headed back out of the door. "That woman irritates me," he said. "I'm going to take care of her for once and for all."

My dad was excellent at getting rid of things like monster, dragons, atomic spiders, haunted birds and Mrs. Pless.

My dad did a pretty good job of chasing Mrs. Pless off.

She came back a few times during our youth (especially when we were being bad) and made a final appearance when I was about nine.

My brother and I were giving my parents a headache one night. My father suddenly got up and went outside to "check on something."

I was with my mom waiting patiently for dad to fix the problem when I suddenly realized that my brother wasn't with us.

"Where's Steve?" I asked.

"I don't know. Check his room," she said

I edged my way into Steve room but he wasn't there. In fact he wasn't in the house at all.

"Mrs. Pless' got Steve," I yelled in a panic.

"Oh my goodness," said my mum. "I'd better tell dad." I followed her to the front door.

She opened it.

Suddenly there was a flurry outside followed buy a deep grunt and a shriek.

"It's Mrs. Pless," I screamed, pointing at a figure in the gloom.

My brother suddenly appeared, wearing sunglasses.

He was running after Mrs. Pless.

I saw him pick up a rock and throw it toward the disappearing figure.

"Ow," said a deep voice.

Mrs. Pless sounded like a man.

My mother's mouth was agape. She might have swallowed a June bug or two, because her throat was making strange noises.

My brother was so excited.

He picked up another rock and threw it, hitting Mrs. Pless. Square in the back before she tripped, fell, got up and disappeared into the night.

"Ow. Jeez, that hurt," complained Mrs. Pless as she fled. "That kid should play cricket. He's a natural."

I was amazed. Not only did Mrs. Pless have a man's voice, it sounded just like my dad's. To tell the truth, I still don't know how those evil spirits can change their voices like that.

My dad came inside clapping his hands together. "That's it." He said. "I scared her off for good this time."

As he limped toward the living room I saw him rubbing the small of his back.

Mrs. Pless never bothered us again.

Posted by trevor at 09:06 AM | Comments (5)

May 19, 2006

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste

While painting this picture, I was reminded of the Desiderata:

Go placidly amid the noise and the haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender,
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even to the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons;
they are vexatious to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain or bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs,
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals,
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love,
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment,
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace in your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

- Max Ehrmann

Now, this is the pledge we should all recite every morning.

Posted by trevor at 09:46 AM | Comments (2)

May 17, 2006

Tatum

I had a heartfelt phone call today.

It was my friend Tatum. She is only sixteen years old.

Tatum has cancer and she is very ill.

She called me today to tell me that she feels terribly weak and in her words is "ready to move on."

Tatum's parents refuse to believe that Tatum might not survive.

A while back she told me they will not let her talk about death or dying because they say they are expecting a miracle to cure her.

They believe if she mentions or acknowledges death, she is - in effect - giving up her battle.

They say that a miracle will happen. They know it will.

I can only imagine what pain they are in and what they are going through, but I wish they could see that a miracle has already happened.

Tatum is that miracle.

She has spent most of her time at the hospital comforting little kids in treatment. Apparently she is the best cuddler in the business.

Tatum is that miracle.

She has never wallowed in her own self-pity. She has never used her situation to take advantage of others. (Except when she asked for Gavin DeGraw's autograph.)

Tatum is that miracle.

She makes the most of every day and then some.

And then some more.

Tatum is that miracle.

She stands up for what she believes in and God bless those who get in her way.

Tatum, you are amazing. You inspire me. I know someone will be reading this blog entry to you, so I just wanted to tell you that having you as a friend means so much to me. I love you, girl.

Tatum, as the sun sets today, I see you as a magnificent tree with your roots firmly planted in the ground and your embracing branches reaching ever skyward to the place you call the "second storey."

Keep the faith girl, because there are a pair of outstretched arms above you, simply waiting to lift you up.

And hold you.

And comfort you.

Posted by trevor at 06:20 PM | Comments (3)

May 16, 2006

Words

I was listening to the radio the other day and they talking about a World War Two submarine that was discovered on the ocean floor below a busy shipping lane.

The submarine sank near Bermuda and apparently one of the torpedoes was still armed after all these years.

I didn't catch the whole story, but the remnants of the broadcast floated around my head all day.

Later, I was talking on the phone and doodling. Instead of drawing little pictures that I often subconsciously do, I found that I'd jotted down words. The words were related to the radio broadcast I heard earlier about the submarine.

We all have a bunch of words at our disposal. It’s incredible how our imaginations can take these words, put them in order, fill in the missing phrases and make a story.

If all the words of a Pulitzer Prize winning novel slipped out of the book and tumbled into a bucket, you’d have a bunch of great words, but no story.

It’s really a miracle if you think about it. Words without connection are just words. But, as soon as you take those words and wrap them around the soul of a tale, something starts to happen. The words form sentences. Sentences connect and become conduits that move the story from the soul of the teller to the heart of the recipient.

It’s amazing how different people using the very same words, will create a completely different story.

Submarine. Torpodeo. Implosion. Shipping lane.

As an exercise, I took the words I had jotted down and dropped them into the "internal story-generator' housed toward the back left-hand corner of my imagination. This is what came out:

The German submarine was positioned between Florida and Bermuda waiting for an Allied convoy.

“We will teach the Americans a lesson,” said the second in charge of the submarine. “We will show them that their decision to enter the war was a grave mistake.”

The Commander in charge said nothing. Deep within his being he knew that the crew of the submarine were all going to die that morning.

His thoughts were interrupted by an urgent shout from the sonar operator. “Herr Captain,” he yelled. “Something is wrong. The equipment is malfunctioning.”

“What do you mean malfunctioning?” said the Commander.

“The compass is swinging around like it's possessed.”

The submarine suddenly lurched to one side then eased back to its original position.

“They must be dropping depth charges from the convoy,” said the Commander.

“But the convoy is nowhere near,” said the sonar operator, perplexed.

“It must be,” yelled the Commander. “They must have snuck up on us.”

“There is no convoy, I hear nothing” said one of the radio operators removing his earphones. “I think it’s a storm.”

“What?”

“I think there’s a storm on the surface. Maybe a hurricane.”

“But nothing was indicated…”

“I have heard strange things happen here in the Bermuda triangle when it comes to the weather.” Said the sonar operator. “Something magnetic.”

The submarine suddenly lurched violently to the other side throwing all the men to the floor.

“We’re loosing air pressure,” cried a voice from a loud- speaker. “Two of my men have burst ear drums. There is blood coming from their ears…”

“Surface, surface!” yelled the Commander.

“But the convoy…”

“Forget the convoy,” said the commander. “If we don’t surface now, this boat will implode.

The Commander grabbed the communication microphone and screamed at the top of his voice, “Battle stations, battle stations, prepare to surface.”

The engines began to whirr and the craft jerked forward. A loud explosion suddenly grabbed one of the engines and tore it apart like a vulture ripping at the belly of an injured animal.

The remaining engine screamed in pain as it tried to lift the wounded submarine.

The stress on the engine was too much for it to bear and it tore itself to shreds from the inside out.

“Release all torpedoes,” screamed the Commander.

The torpedo hatches slid open and the powerful self-propelled explosives edged themselves into the launch position.

Before the torpedoes could be released, the hull of the submarine ruptured, sucking millions of gallons of water into the vessel.

“Oh my God,” said the Commander. His last words hung in the air for a moment but were quickly drowned along with the entire crew of the submarine.

The exact location of the U-boat was top secret and the boat was never found. Except by a school of fish that fed on the crew and by a vast number of deep-sea creatures that made the vessel their home.

Over the years the submarine became a veritable corral reef, festooned with beautiful deep-sea fauna and an array of constantly swaying anemones.

Only one torpedo was launched from the fated submarine, some twenty years after the war, when an octopus tripped the release mechanism during a mating ritual, and the device drifted to the surface.

The torpedo was found six years later on the beach of an unpopulated small island where it was successfully detonated.

The other three torpedoes, armed and ready, waited patiently for orders, as they rested comfortably in their beautiful bed of coral.

They had been waiting for more than sixty years, but they didn’t have to wait much longer.

A massive storm in the area began to churn the sea like an exotic drink in a barman’s blender.

Swirls of frothing water spiraled in a dizzy downward vortex, sending fish scurrying in every direction.

The hammering of the massive swells on the surface sent pounding shockwaves to the bottom of the ocean.

Like looters in a riot, whirling jets of water rushed along the ocean floor overturning and flipping everything in sight.

The rusted U-boat groaned and writhed under the constant buffeting from the storm above.

Crazy eddies of roiling water carelessly ripped away the beautiful multicolored coral which covered the submarine like a patchwork quilt.

A section of the reef suddenly broke lose and tore away from the submarine. As it fell, it ripped off the rusted cover of the upper torpedo bay.

As the U-boat rocked back and forth beneath the swells, the torpedo slowly began to work its way out of the tube.

Meanwhile on the surface, an unsuspecting cruise ship sailed toward Bermuda with its passengers completely oblivious to what was happening deep beneath the Atlantic Ocean one hundred nautical miles away.

Posted by trevor at 10:19 AM | Comments (0)

May 15, 2006

The Beach

I’ll never forget the first time I saw the sea.

My dad covered my eyes as we walked down to the beach and onto the sand. At the water’s edge he took his hands away and I saw waves for the first time in my life.

I’ll never forget that day.

Not because the beach was so brilliant or the waves were so incredible but because of the joy in my father’s eyes at my reaction to the ocean.

We did not have much money and my father had to work two jobs and a lot of overtime to take us on that holiday.

I am so lucky that my father was there to hold my hand as I waded into the water for the first time.

I am so lucky that my father was there to pull his spluttering little boy out of the surf the first time a wave knocked me down.

I am so lucky my father was there to carry my sobbing little body up the beach where he wrapped me in a towel and held me close to his chest until I felt better.

I am so lucky my mum was there to wipe the tears from my face and send me back to the water with my dad.

I am so lucky I had my dad’s hand was there again for to hold when I went back into the waves.

Posted by trevor at 10:34 PM | Comments (0)

I’m a bit stunned.

My computer had a thrombosis yesterday. It was tragic. One moment it was proudly displaying its wares the next minute it was doubled over in pain with one of its internal organs failing.

I hope the person who developed the virus that crippled my internal drive feels great about achieving his goal.

I hope the person who developed the virus that almost killed my computer feels great about me losing a bunch of writing that I was about to back up.

I hope the person who developed the virus that will cost me a bunch of time and money to fix feels at peace when he sits around the dinner table with his family knowing that he has stuck it to the man.

It’s sad how some people have to hurt others to make themselves feel better.

Posted by trevor at 09:44 AM | Comments (1)

May 13, 2006

The Revolution

The revolution started a few years ago in San Benito, not far from the Mexican border. At the Lopez bar.

I am glad I was a part of it.

It was late in the day. The rich afternoon light reached through the dirty windows and ran its rays along the badly warped floorboards throwing grotesque shadows against the far wall.

The bar was falling apart, but that did not stop the old toothless men from playing dominoes there every afternoon.

That day was no exception. The men, in worn-out clothes, played dominoes and drank beer from shot glasses while drunkenly mumbling about missed opportunities and lost loves.

Raul Salinas started the revolution earlier that day. I'm not sure if he meant to. He just said, "People we need to go to Lopez Bar this afternoon and start a revolution."

Trinidad Sanchez (above), an incredible poet, nodded in agreement. "We must do this before it's too late."

David Rice, who I call the Mexican Hemingway, nodded seriously. A dark lock of curly hair falling across his forehead as he did so.

There were about ten of us in the group. We were in San Benito on behalf of the school district. (Every year the district brings in authors from across the United States to visit the area schools to talk about writing. To enlighten and inspire the kids in this poor, economically strapped town. To motivate the children to write about their fears and dreams and hopes and desires. To learn about life outside their economically depressed small town.)

So we all went to the Lopez bar that afternoon to start the revolution.

The bar was straight out of a movie. The twisted floorboards and broken windows made the place look like an abandoned memory of its former self. There were rusted old fans stirring the hot, humid air that seeped in through glassless windowpanes.

Old neon signs for beer brands that no longer exist, dangled from wires that once pulsed with electricity.

Raul Salinas spoke the first words. (Raul is an awe-inspiring poet. As someone once wrote about Raul, "His locutions alternately affirm, puncture, caress, regret, profess and prophesy. Salinas, the oracle, has soaked the sweat and history from the porticos of prisons to the alleys of the barrios. His poetry exposes the collective wounds of the oppressed as a way of salving them.")

"People," said Raul, standing on the bar as we all looked on. "We need to start a revolution."

Everyone stopped talking and lowered their drinks. His voice was so powerful and full of conviction that even the drunks stoppd playing dominoes and looked up.

"A revolution of writing," said Raul. "We must gather every child in America and help them to feel the power of the written word. Then we must share with them the absolute pleasure and rapture of hearing those written words spoken out loud. It is imperative. We must expose more children to the importance and power of writing and reading."

We all cheered. I saw one of the drunken domino players raise his glass in agreement. "Si maestro." He said, downing his drink and refilling his glass.

Trinidad Sanchez agreed. "More people must write," he said. "Poetry and prose is a great way to explore ones heritage and it's a magnificent way to share passion and pain with others."

Trinidad got onto the bar and read his poem called On Being Chicano:

I recall the monjas telling me
"Tomorrow you must wear green,
remember, it's St. Patrick's Day!"

I refused.

My first revolutionary act.

My body flushed,
the pinch of fear that she would flunk me,
or would get even because I refused to turn IRISH!

On television,
I was bombarded to bathe with IRISH SPRING—A MAN'S SOAP.

The swimming pool—as soon as I entered the water,
the vato in charge of the pool appeared pouring in a gallon of bleach,
because I refused to use IRISH SPRING.

Being Chicano is not easy!"

Trinidad's poem was just the beginning.

Writer after writer got up and shared some of the most powerful and stirring words I have ever heard. We all learned how words can become bandages that help to heal wounds opened by hatred, war and natural disasters.

The Lopez Bar was condemned and has since closed.

But the work of inspiring writers like my friends Trinidad Sanchez, Raul Salinas, David Rice, and thousands of others continues.

The cause remains important.

Please join the revolution.

Posted by trevor at 03:49 PM | Comments (0)

May 11, 2006

The Session

I had a long conversation with Storm the Studio cat today.

He was extremely helpful to me without even uttering a single syllable. He just sat right on top of the picture I was sketching and watched the words pour out of my mouth as he smiled his cat smile while I spewed forth.

By lending me an unconditional ear, Storm helped me confront a niggling problem that's been sitting in the back of my mind for days.

Thanks to his cat-like patience and total non-judgmental approach to problem solving, I heard my problem spoken instead of just feeling it bubbling in a cauldron in my mind.

Storm is a good friend and a great therapist.

He doesn't care whether my drawings are good or bad. Whether my writing is great or pathetic. (Actually I think he prefers it when someone does not like my work because he gets more cuddles on those days.)

He never tells me what to do.

He never influences my thought process.

He never gossips.

He never borrows money.

He always returns love promptly.

He does occasionally walk on my art with muddy paws though, but his therapy sessions are free and he doesn't require an appointment.

Posted by trevor at 03:53 PM | Comments (3)

May 10, 2006

Do What?

For the many people who have e-mailed me asking me what I do when I'm not blogging, or painting, or exercising, or philosophizing, or making movies or drinking tea or writing music or avoiding trouble, please see my latest Comical Sense strip below.

As an author and illustrator of children's books, I am constantly trying to find different and entertaining ways to help kids understand this crazy world we live in. This is one of them.

Posted by trevor at 02:43 PM | Comments (1)

May 08, 2006

Sharing

My friend Kim and I traveled across the United States when I first came to this country.

We wanted to get to know the real America.

During our travels we avoided freeways as much as possible and stuck to back roads and small towns as we traveled.

One morning we stopped in a small town and had breakfast at the local eatery.

I noticed an old man sitting by the window.

For some reason I found myself staring at him.

He ate without saying much.

I wondered what he was thinking about? What his life was like? What amazing things he had done?

So I went over and asked him.

"I bet you have a great story to tell," I said after introducing myself. "I just know it."

"You're not a police officer?" he said, squinting his eyes.

"Not me," I said. "I avoid those guys like the plague. They give me indigestion pretty much."

The old man suddenly came to life.

"I do have a good story," he said, grinning. "I think it's a good'n."

"Tell me," I said.

"Well, they call me Ringer," he said, nodding his head toward the people in the diner.

"Ringer?"

"Yeah. And there's a story that goes with the name," he said. " It's a good'n."

The man sitting at the table with him laughed. "It sure is a good'n," he echoed.

"Well I'm an author," I said. "And I love good stories."

"Yeah," said the old man, adjusting the toothpick in his mouth. "Maybe you can write about me, cause one o these days I'll be gone and the story will be forgotten."

Both men nodded, thoughtfully.

Nobody said anything for a few moments.

Then the old man chuckled and began his story.

"See," He said. "I was sweet on a young girl when I came back from the service. I loved her…"

"He sure did," said the other man.

"Well," said the old man. "I took my savings and bought me a good engagement ring. I had some money left over and I went Billy's place. Billy was the crop duster in this area."

"He sure was," said the other man.

"So I paid Billy to fly me over Dot's house. Her name was Dorothy. I called her Dot. Well, she come runnin' out to see what all the commotion was with the plane. I took the ring in its pretty box and put it in one of them martini shakers. Then I taped it up real good. After that I taped a bunch of roses to the shaker and I dropped it out of the plane for her. That was supposed to be my proposal"

"It sure was," said the other man.

"Well, it was a dumb idea. The roses got stripped of their leaves and everything else came apart and we never found the diamond ring."

"They sure didn't," said the other man.

"That's why they call me Ringer," he said. "I'm surprised they didn't call me dumb ass instead."

"That's a great story," I said, smiling.

"For some strange reason she still married me though," he chuckled.

"She sure did," said the other man.

"Yeah," said the old man, "We were married fifty two years. She died three years ago August."

"I'm sorry," I said.

"Ah, that's okay," he said. "She's waitin' for me. She tole me she would. And she wasn't one to lie."

"She sure wasn't," said the other man.

There are so many elderly people sitting in retirement homes across this country. I feel so terribly sad when I think of all the stories and wonderful hopes, dreams and memories that will quickly fade when these folks pass away.

We don't share enough time with elderly people and get to know their stories. We really don't.

Posted by trevor at 03:39 PM | Comments (4)

May 05, 2006

Grateful

I met the twins at Logan airport in Boston.

I was waiting for a flight to London and sketching in my journal.

They were playing nearby.

One of the kids had a wind-up toy car, which got away from him and I stopped it with my foot.

He thanked me.

We got talking. The boy looked at my journal and called his twin and his mum over. They had not seen what they called 'real' drawings before.

My journal was just a cheap blank book. And even though there were only a handful of drawings in it, the kids fawned all over the pages.

"How did you do these?" asked one of the kids in a thick African accent. "They are so nice. I could not do this."

"Oh yes you could," I said, smiling. "It just takes practice."

I showed them how to draw a cartoon face.

They were delighted.

I could see it in their dancing eyes.

The kids lived in Florida but had come to America eighteen months before as refugees from Eritrea.

"What do you like most about America? I asked them.

"You turn on the tap and water comes out," said one, giggling.

"You open the fridge and there is food in it," said the other, hiding behind his hand.

"You go to the petrol station and they have petrol."

"You ask a policman for help and he doesn't hit you."

"You don't have to walk down to the river to wash your clothes."

"You don't have to sleep on the floor."

They kept on coming up with things that I take for granted on a daily basis.

As they left to board their flight, I gave them my journal and asked them to promise me they'd write and draw the things they are grateful for in it.

They were thrilled. "Ok," they both said, together.

I waved goodbye as they left to board their plane. The kids kept on turning and waving at me until they disappeared through the door.

Meeting them was a great gift.

It made me realize how little I have suffered in my life.

Sometimes I forget how fortunate and blessed I really am.

Posted by trevor at 10:28 AM | Comments (2)

May 03, 2006

Jam Jar

I was only six years old. It was a summer afternoon in Johannesburg, South Africa.

I was playing in my room when I heard Esther, my African nanny, speaking to her mother in the backyard.

They were sitting under my window, on wooden crates, drinking tea and chatting.

The talking stopped a few minutes later.

Then I heard Esther sobbing.

I climbed onto my bed and peered throuth the lace curtains.

I saw Esther's mother comforting her and stroking her arm.

I rushed outside and asked Esther what was wrong. It upset me to see her crying.

Esther was my black mommy, a second mother to me and I loved her.

I ran over to her and leapt into her lap like I always did, almost spilling her tea.

"Esther, what the matter?" I asked.

"It's nothing my boy," she replied, ruffling my hair. "It's time for your bath. You must go inside now otherwise your daddy and mommy will be cross."

"But what's wrong?" I asked again.

"I told you it's nothing," said Esther, smiling.

"But you're crying," I said.

"It's not so bad," she replied. "I am just a little worried about money. Now hurry up and bath."

I went inside, and headed straight for my secret hiding place behind the French dresser in the living room.

I put my hand into the tiny cubby hole in the back and retrieved my jam jar piggy bank.

I was quite rich for a six year old. I had three rand and twenty eight cents in the jar. (For some reason I remember the exact amount even though it was all those years ago.)

I unscrewed the lid quietly and emptied the jar.

I went back outside and rushed up to Esther again.

"I know, I know, I have to bath," I said. "But I wanted to give you one last hug."

I hugged Esther and slipped the money into the the pocket of her work dress.

I went to bed that night feeling very pleased with myself.

There was a huge thunderstorm the next afternoon and I hid behind the dresser for safety like I always did.

I sat there until my mum peeked her head over the top and said, "It's okay Trev, you can come out. The storm is over."

As I climbed out from behind the dresser, I glanced into the cubby hole that housed my jam jar piggy bank.

I stopped.

There was something in the jar.

I opened the lid and found three rand and twenty eights cents inside.

Plus a single English Toffee. My favorite candy of all time.

Posted by trevor at 09:38 PM | Comments (2)

May 02, 2006

Home

People often ask me how I can face working with terminally ill kids.

"Don't you get totally depressed?" They say.

"How do you cope with the sadness? I couldn't do it."

Yes, I do get sad sometimes.

And when I'm sad, I close my eyes and travel inward, down a gravel road, throught the fall foliage and across a small stream until I see the house.

My inner house.

With smoke trailing from the chimney.

With the smell of my favorite choclate cake wafting through the open window.

With the door always open.

It's a special place deep inside me where my late gradfather and granmother live.

Where I always find my late dad, sipping tea, in an over stuffed chair, ready to have a good chat.

Where the kids I know - who have passed away - play under the big oak trees, pain free and blissful.

My inner house is not far. Just a few deep breaths away.

This is the place I visit when I need comfort.

When I need nurturing.

When I need peace.

How long do I stay?

Not long.

I leave when I hear 'self pity' creeping around in the basement looking for an opportune time to come up drag me down there for a visit.

Posted by trevor at 10:03 AM | Comments (4)