Not All Men

I always appreciated the older women in my life who gave me advice.

The specific kind that, back then, was only ever proffered by women.  And always whispered.

Were the men back then oblivious or indifferent?  Unsure.  Probably a little bit of both.

I had just turned 17 when an executive secretary at McDonald’s head office in Canada took me aside and whispered “Don’t get into an elevator with Ronald McDonald”.

I laughed but stopped when I saw the look on her face.  In or out of the clown suit, he would drink and get handsy.  Better to just stay clear.  It was so common then that avoidance was just the easiest option.

Ask your mother about Uncle Bobby and the shenanigans that went on with his “shaggin wagon” and school bus escapades.  Or ask your sister how she was warned by classmates about Jian Ghomeshi and his internships, long before any trial.

So, as the junior account executive, I was given the task of ‘handling’ a retired NHL Superstar for a full day and evening while he was shooting a commercial for us,  I was unable to use my customary devices of disappearing like smoke or driving my own car, and had to  physically be with him, the entire time.  And the unspoken, but clear message was, keep him happy.

That’s me in the photo in the middle, in the green dress.  I am 19 and have been working full time for 3 years.  The production guy is sitting down, and the woman in front of me was my secretary whom I forced, at the very last minute, to accompany me for this entire adventure.

The man standing behind me is Yvan Cournoyer.  At the time, he was famous not only for the 10 Stanley Cup wins with the Montreal Canadiens, but also his stellar performance with Team Canada.

I was not a hockey fan, and was only just aware of him by name.  After we finished the shoot, we went to the CN Tower.  Stunned at the amount of  people that recognized him, wanted to stop him,  talk to him, shake his hand (no selfies back then).  People were hugging him and he was incredibly patient and kind and gracious with every single one.

It took us forever to navigate any public space because of the attention and affection he received.   And his kindness and grace carried over to his treatment of my secretary and me – and everyone else on the shoot.  Absolutely a natural gentleman who went beyond to be kind and solicitous – asking if we were too cold, or if we wanted to sit down.

My secretary never knew that I brought her that day strictly for my protection.  She thought I was just sharing a great experience with her.  Turned out I was.

Big Night

I tried LSD for the first time when I was 15 years old.

I lost my virginity the same night.

Coincidence?

Actually it was.

My deflowerer was a male friend a couple of years older than me 

Sid was that guy in high school who learned an important secret really early on;

Shut the fuck up

When the guys would gather in the change room after the game sharing mostly invented information about sexual conquests with the girls in our school, Sid would remain quiet.  He never said a word.

Plus he had the added appeal of being heartbroken – the love of his high school life having left him for his best friend.  At 15 that was powerful stuff – and he actually showed that he cared.

Years later, I found out he had been sleeping with multiplegirls in my school.   At the same time.  Some of whom had steady boyfriends whom they were NOT sleeping with.  Sid had that kind of trust.  Nobody ever knew.

I was spending Saturday night at his house, his parents away.  The party had wound down and everyone else had left.  Another couple, a close girlfriend of mine and her boyfriend, were sleeping upstairs. It was an ideal romantic setup.  But unlike the majority of the girls I knew, I wasn’t attracted to Sid.  He was blonde. 

He was, however,  fit, relaxed and a great deal of fun.  He asked if I wanted to try LSD.  He had taken a sample of the batch before so knew the strengths and and effects.  I really wanted to try it.  And I had all night – my parents thinking I was sleeping at my friend’s house and vice versa.  I felt safe. I put the blotter under my tongue.

Sid said “it won’t work for 45 minutes”.  So we sat on the couch, listening to music and literally watched the clock move 45 minutes.

I then turned to him to tell him it didn’t work on me and the room began to melt, in the nicest way.  And we were off.  Other than making the classic rookie mistake of LOOKING IN THE MIRROR I had a lovely time.  We laughed our guts out.  Ended up waking up my friend’s boyfriend –  a future television star – for real – with our noise and he entertained us for a few minutes in Sid’s kitchen while we ate ice cream out of the carton.  So much fun.

After a night of drug fuelled antics, the sun began to rise.  We decided to lay down on his parents huge bed to try and sleep.  Impossible of course.  It was ridiculously bright in their room.  And we were still ridiculously high.

He said “I want to ask you something but I don’t want you to feel at all uncomfortable”.   Oh my God what is the question? Does he want to have sex with me?  Is it something else? The irony is that, at 15, I was only terrified that he wouldn’t find me attractive enough to want to sleep with me.

Because you see – I had a plan.  For real.  I had already decided that I would not let my ‘first time’ be with someone I loved.  I didn’t want it to be awkward, embarrassing or painful.  I had heard far too many stories.  Let’s get the awkward, painful time out of the way with someone else.

So, it’s 5:15 on Sunday morning, and we are both lying fully dressed on top of his parent’s bedspread in broad daylight. Sid asked most respectfully if I wanted to have sex.  Terrified, but relieved I said indeed I did.  And then I told him that I was a virgin.  He was surprised – I put out a pretty bold persona – but asked if I was really sure that I wanted to proceed.  I assured him that I was 100% down.

I asked him then, what comes next?

And he said,

“Do you want to stand up or sit down to do it”?  

Now you gotta believe I was trying so very hard to be cool at this point.  But this was too much. 

“Sid,  for fuck’s sake it’s my first time – can’t we just do it lying down?”

And he said “I meant how we are going to take off your clothes”.   Oh.

I kinda tried to go with the flow at that point.  And closed my eyes.

When we had some difficulty with penetration so he left the room to apply some Vaseline and I made the mistake of looking up as he came back.  Massively, fully erect and gleaming in the bright sunlight.  Terrifying. 

He was incredibly gentle and patient.  But it was still a painful and awkward event.  Afterwards, he fell asleep – men! – and I slipped out of the house and walked home.  Still high.

At school on Monday, rather than avoid me as I had feared, Sid asked me to come to his house after school.  Oh no not again!  My mission was accomplished and I really didn’t want to do it again with him but it seemed rude to say no…

That was actually my female adolescent brain’s thought process.

Imagine my surprise when his reason for asking me over was to ensure that I was comfortable with him and what had transpired.  He also wanted to make sure I was okay physically.   We remained good friends.

Later, when the time came to become intimate with someone I loved, it was so much easier.  I looked Sid up a few years ago.  No surprise to anyone that he has been married forever to the same woman and looks supremely  happy.  She is a lucky woman.

March 27th, 1870

It was our third winter in Ontario. It had been harsh of course, but not unlike the others.

Perhaps we should have known better. Perhaps if our neighbours had been closer they might have warned us. Advised us to wait a little bit longer.

We had planned and stored and stocked for winter as best we knew. The root vegetables in the cellar were almost gone. The woodpile, stacked so high in October it seemed unimaginable that we could deplete it, yet for so many long nights the fire had burned and burned as we huddled close to stay warm.

The winter had been so long. And after so many months locked up together in the tiny cabin we quietly longed for both a change and rest. Those warm days that blew in with the Ides of March were so seductive. Windows open. Boots off. Small shoots of green starting to appear through stark earth.

Now, too, the days were longer and the darkness didn’t come so quickly. Late in March, it was decided that my husband would make the long trek into town for a few days to replenish our dwindling supplies. I would stay to tend to the animals. I admit to being jealous as we tightened the straps on the old wagon, but I knew he was better suited to the rough roads and harsh conditions of the trip.

He left at dawn and as I watched the wagon disappear down the lane, I felt the wind pick up and wrapped my shall tighter around my shoulders. By early afternoon the clouds had rolled in hard and the skies turned sullen and heavy with snow. By sunset, snow had covered the ground and was rising around me. I tended to the animals early and stoked up the fire. The sound of the shrieking wind kept me awake and listening throughout the night. The beams of the cabin creaked and moaned and drafts blew across the floor. And still it snowed.

By morning, I had to fight to get to the animals. I chopped the ice on top of the water for the cows and chipped away at the frozen feed for the chickens. It was harsh, unforgiving work but that had been our story since coming here. Warming my fingers with my breath, I gathered a few long ropes and tied them together to make one long strip. I fastened one end to the barn door and carried it with me as I fought my way back through the storm, almost missing the farmhouse entirely. Exhausted, I tied the other end of the rope to a post on the back porch.

Still the snow came down.

It was almost two weeks later when I heard from neighbours what had happened. They found him on the road less than 4 miles from town, where the horse had gone down. Nobody had seen a storm like that in 50 years. Nearly 16 inches fell in that single day, March 27th, 1870.

Northern Quebec, Summer 1970

I found a single photograph last week. It is from a not very happy time in my life. It was the summer of 1970 and we had just moved to Montreal. A long, hot summer with no friends. We were living in a very nice condominium and looking for a house.

The photo instantly brought back one of those rare moments – especially rare when you are a teenager – when elements align in your favour in ways that you never expected.

I’ll remind you first of the opposite, far more common teenage occurrence. My husband at 14 was psyched when he found out he was getting his cast off Friday afternoon before the big pool party, and getting his braces put on the next day. Turns out he had the days reversed, ended up going to the pool party with an old cast and brand new braces! Have fun, just don’t swim, eat, drink or talk.

This was not a thing like that. This was the good kind of thing. The fun kind. The kind that is exquisite in the remembering.

My Mom, Dad and I had been invited for the weekend to a cottage on a small, pristine lake. My parents always loved a car trip. It was a beautiful drive out of the city on a hot weekend. The man who invited us worked for my Dad. They had four kids; boys 16 and 14 and girls 10 and 8. I had just turned 12 so fit right in the middle.

They welcomed us and the Mother showed me to my room – set up specially with the two little girls.  They all thought it was absolutely adorable that their 10 year old daughter was taller than me. And mentioned it more than once. 

She had activities lined up for me and the girls – fun stuff but, sadly, things I had long outgrown. Even though I was very small,  I was a pretty mature, sarcastic and confident 12 year old. Rather than being the fun distraction for her little girls that all had anticipated, I immediately aligned with the teenage boys. They were great guys and we were laughing and kidding around within minutes.  Soon I was swimming across the small lake with just the two  boys – my Dad following in canoe – the little girls deemed too young to participate.

After dinner on the Saturday night,  the boys had plans to join some friends at a cottage down the road.  It was decided that I would join the eldest son, his girlfriend, and the younger son and drive to this gathering.  

As I was getting dressed, the father took the two boys outside the cabin and had a little talk with them.  I could hear every word.

He explained to them that my Dad was his boss.  His employer.  At his job which paid for this cottage, and their house, and their dogs, and everything else that mattered to them.   He told them that they were completely responsible not only for my safety, but for my happiness, comfort and enjoyment.  They were to ensure that I had a good time – but not too good a time you follow?

I mean he really spelled it out for them with specifics like –   Make sure she has fun.  Doesn’t get touched. Don’t come home drunk. Pay attention to her all night – do what she wants – come home when she is tired or bored.

Fuck.  Okay.  Could we maybe have that printed up on little cards or something to use again?

Thinking about it now, it seems bizarre that my parents let me go.  I got in the car with teenagers who were basically strangers, yet I had the same confident expectation I have getting into a cab in NYC – nothing can go wrong.  (Of course, that is an absolutely false confidence which luckily I have never had to see shattered, either that night in Quebec or any time NYC.)

Honestly, I remember very little of the actual night. Perhaps it was horribly awkward for them and they were just humouring me throughout.  I don’t think so.  But it doesn’t matter.  I got to experience a night that was quite magical, not just due to the circumstances but to my power to control them.  It was nice to learn early how good that felt.

The Grandmother I Never Knew.

My father’s mother died young, long before I was born.

I have very few photos of her.

Ella had been on the outs with her family for decades. A slightly wild and brazen girl, she bolted for New York State.  At a tender age, she sang in jazz clubs in Albany, Buffalo and Rochester.  She married an American, and soon after, he ran off and left her.  My father was just 4.  

Her family never forgave her.  For any of it.

Divorce was quite a different matter in 1931.  She took my father, moved back in with her strict Scot parents and worked every day in their grocery store.  The shame that surrounded her and my father was thick and never quite dissipated.

Much later on, she remarried and her parents would never accept her new husband as he was a drinker and alcohol was completely abhorrent to them.

Aside from a few photos, the only tangible thing I have to know her by is a pile of letters that she wrote to my parents when they were newly married.  Not a single one contains a date, other than Monday or Thursday.  I can put them in chronological order only by the failing of her handwriting as she was being overtaken by the cancer that would soon kill her.

My father was just starting out in his career, and stayed in Toronto, but my mother gave up her good job at the Toronto Dominion Bank and moved to Gananoque to care, in her final days, for a mother in law that she barely knew.

This act meant a great deal to my father who adored his mother and was very protective of her.  My mother told me she appreciated having the brief but intense time with this woman and all that they were able to share.  As a hospice volunteer, I know how close, and real, these end times can be when all the small stuff fades away.

Neither of my parents talked much about the undercurrents of strife or resentments in the family.  Only in re-reading these letters do I finally see hints of the drama that I know my grandmother  unleashed.  “Is your mother still mad at me?” she asks my mom saucily in one.  I am curious but of course will never know what might have occurred between my two grandmothers to cause such discord.

People always said my sister was very much like my Grandma Ella.  Strident, dramatic, perhaps overly self-interested.  Is she like her still?  I’m not sure.  I don’t see her anymore. 

These are the days of our lives…

I have had this strange feeling for months and while I couldn’t identify it,  it felt very familiar. I just couldn’t place where I had experienced it before. Now I remember.

Many years ago, my youngest was too young to be Scuba certified and desperately wanted to dive.  We took an introductory course from an excellent dive school in the Bahamas that would allow her the chance. I happily took the course with her.  Not surprisingly, we both did very well on the instruction part and mastered the equipment section easily.

Then it was time for the dive.  Simple.  20 minutes, 20 feet, perfect conditions. Now because Kat was by far the youngest in the group,  the Dive Master took her under his wing.  That turned out to be a very good thing.  Because the moment we were in the water,  I was completely overwhelmed.

There was absolutely nothing untoward going on and it was a complete shock.  I am a very strong swimmer, and super comfortable in the water.  My training was satisfactory, and my equipment was functioning perfectly.  However, I was beyond terrified.  I felt like the buoyancy compensator was crushing my chest and I couldn’t breathe.

I knew I would be fine.  I wasn’t going to make a fuss and alert anyone.  As long as a I concentrated very hard on breathing,  with a shallow pant that I tried constantly to slow, and as long as I didn’t let the nausea that was swirling around me take hold, I could last out the entire time.  This was an act of will.

Fighting panic for the next 20 minutes, I didn’t move more than 2 feet from the anchor line of the dive boat.  When Kat or the another diver would approach,  I would cheerfully make the “OK” sign and then pretend to be very interested in the the barnacles on the anchor, or the way the anchor line refracted the light.  I am a good actor.

All I did was hang on to the line and watch Kat.  She, of course, was killing it.  Able to move in every direction gracefully and completely confident I watched her and prayed that she wouldn’t develop any issue that  required my assistance.  I was freaked out knowing that, for the first time, I had real  doubts about my ability to properly take care of one of my kids.

That is how I am feeling now – today.  Most days.  There is nothing wrong.  My family is safe. I am warm and well fed.  When I  turn on the tap, clean water comes out.  When I call the fire department, they not only come fast, they come for free.  I am unbelievably lucky – starting with being born here in Canada. I just can’t help anyone in the ways that I always have.

My husband said a while ago that he was surprised to discover that one could feel both gratitude and anxiety at the same time.  Now we are the poster children for it. As we approach the one year anniversary of this pandemic and the resulting lock-downs, I send a blanket apology to all of those people that I love and care about.  I see you.  I wish you well.  I hurts my heart that I cannot do more to be there for you. Please keep breathing.

Timing is Everything in Music

Last Sunday, after a lovely ladies weekend, I met my friend Tricia at an Open Mike event to sing together. Now, we have performed together before, but only once this year, and of course had not rehearsed anything. We got very lucky.

It reminded me a time in the late 1970’s when I came home one evening and my sister introduced me to her new friend Fred Mandel. He said “Your sister tells me you play the piano – why don’t you play something?” Now my sister was totally setting me up (as usual). My piano skills at the time were BOTH parts of Heart & Soul. “No” I said to the very young looking guest “You first.”

Well I didn’t know it, but at that time, Fred Mandel was playing with Domenic Troiano and was about to tour for four years with Alice Cooper. Oh yeah, he also went on to play live and record with Queen, Supertramp, Pink Floyd and little gigs like LIVE AID with Sir Elton John. No biggie.

Fred sat at my parent’s little apartment size piano and played the absolute crap out of it. Amazeballs. After about an hour of stunning rock and roll, my Mom came out to say goodnight and thank him for playing. He made as if to stop, and she beseeched him to continue, (“I didn’t even know that piano could SOUND like that “) He instantly switched to Cole Porter and gentle swing for the rest of the evening. I’m glad he went first.

It was a less dramatic event on Sunday. Tricia and I got up and sang a song. They liked us and asked us to sing another which we did. They wanted more and we said no and that is always the best way. Then the next group got up. Four black guys – they sounded like 3-1/2 guys from Santana. You know when a band kicks in full throttle, completely in sync, from the very first note? It was like that. I bet they rehearsed.

My first fan letter.

In November, 1978 my sister called and invited me to go to a concert with her. This was quite remarkable as she didn’t like me very much. She said it was someone I “had to see”. As an older sister, she felt responsible for my musical education. I had never heard of him. It was Bruce Springsteen.

Well this was in the Concert Bowl at Maple Leaf Gardens – Bruce left the stage, came through the floor crowd and sang several times right beside our seats in the stands. It was a stunning,  4+ hour show and I left sweaty and completely satisfied. That was more than 37 years ago and I have since seen Bruce many times. Maybe 17? I stopped counting. Rochester in 1978. Chicago in 1999.

 

Everyone knows that on a scale of 1 – 10 a Springsteen show is a clear 17. Every one a remarkable experience.  And each is different. When I took my husband to see Bruce at the CNE in the late 80’s, the sky was threatening rain. Bruce opened up with “Who’ll Stop The Rain”. It worked.

When my sons were about 7 and 9 I took them to see Bruce. This was the 90’s and I really wanted them to see what it was like when a human being wrote every word, and every note, and then had other humans all play it together. It’s magic and at that time it was very rare.  It still is.

It was different then, when you couldn’t share things with the ease that you can today.  I remember driving down Avenue Road quite late one evening in 1980, and Q107 had a sneak pre-release preview of one song from Bruce’s new album “The River”.  There were no cell phones – I couldn’t share the moment with anyone.  They played “Drive All Night” and I was so overcome I pulled over to the side of the road.  Bruce is playing the entire album on Tuesday.  I’m not sure I’ll be able to take it when he sings that song.

I love  Bruce Springsteen.  He has never asked me for anything in all these years except to pay attention politically and to bring food for my local food bank to every show.  Like thousands of others, I submitted a response to the “3 Words about Bruce Springsteen” for the remarkable documentary SPRINGSTEEN AND I. ( https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HVQUeCi9V0s )  I don’t remember what my three words were – I am guessing one was “Authentic”.  Whatever.  I end up saying the same three words that most of the fans say, and that I still say today:

THANK YOU BRUCE!

 

 

 

The Wake Up Call

The 100 Word Challenge this week is “The alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. as usual”

The Wake Up Call

I didn’t start to worry until well after midnight. No calls – “I didn’t want to wake you”- would be the excuse. Tomorrow the kids would start school and everything would be back to normal. Surely many couples have a hard time through the summer – far too much time spent together.

Later, tired of pacing, of looking out the window with every car light that passed, I fell asleep.

The alarm went off at 6:00 a.m. as usual. I felt the empty side of the bed and realized that, for me, the alarm should have gone off long ago.

100 Word Challenge Week #166: “checking in proved to be”

  The prompt this week”  “checking in proved to be”.  Here goes:

The WELCOME

When their son graduated from high school, he was allowed to choose any destination worldwide for a family vacation.  Jared chose Dubai and his mother made extensive travel plans for their adventure.

After a long and exhausting flight, they arrived at their hotel and Janice approached the front desk.  “Good morning,  we’re the Lee family, checking in.”

The desk clerk, looked Janice up and down, turned to her husband and asked; “Do you allow your woman speak for you?”.  Hmmm.  Checking in proved to be only the first indicator of what would certainly be an enlightening experience for them all.