Oddly Roughing It in the Bush in 2013 (written on another even day - oh well!)

We went camping last week. Not in a clean, bright, colourful tent from Bass Pro Outdoor World. But in a shadowy one-room log cabin built deep in the northern back country of Algonquin Park back in 1922.

It's called Bissett Road Ranger Cabin if you want to look it up. If you know me, you won't believe we actually chose this place over a stay at Arowhon Pines, but we did. Eleven-year-old R has been begging us to go on a family camping trip for years and years. And as she's growing so quickly, it just seemed like we couldn't put it off any longer. Oh, the things we do for our children, huh?

The Ranger Cabins are a pretty interesting alternative to tent camping - especially if you don't own a lot of camping supplies already. And if your child is interested in living like a pioneer for a few days, all the better, because this really did remind me of Little House in the Big Woods from the Laura Ingalls Wilder series.

Constructed of logs almost a hundred years ago, it was originally built as a moose hunting camp out in the middle of nowhere. With moose, bear, deer and goodness-knows-what-else wandering freely through the surrounding forest, swamps and meadows ... it must have been a hunter's paradise. But for a middle-cass family from Toronto? Well, its appeal was questionable.

When we first arrived at our campsite after a loooooooong drive along a lonely dirt road upon which the only traffic were squirrels, voles and herons, there was some initial confusion over how to pick up the key to the cabin. Secretly I was pleased because - on seeing the cabin for the first time - I couldn't picture us actually staying there. Even the Bates Motel would provide a more relaxing sleep, I thought. At least we'd know there'd be hot showers! But this wooden hut was very tiny, and rustic, surrounded by trees and clouds of mosquitoes, and looked almost like the crooked little house of folklore.

There was a crooked man, and he walked a crooked mile.

He found a crooked sixpence against a crooked stile.

He bought a crooked cat, which caught a crooked mouse,

And they all lived together in a little crooked house.

But we did get the key, eventually, from the nearest Algonquin Park office about a 25-minute drive away. And we did end up sleeping there in that ancient cabin, snuggled against one another on the hard wooden bunk beds, warmed by the fire my daughter built in the black iron wood stove. And by the second morning awakening there, we were very sad to have to pack our things and leave.

Why? Because of the silence, for one thing. We live in a house in the city. The roar of traffic and construction and trash-mouthed people - and just the tiresome din of civilization - is what we hear on a regular basis. We sometimes find ourselves shouting over the ambient noise of our community, just to get ourselves heard by one another.

But at the cabin - aside from the brief rumble of a logging truck that passed once each day - our family was immersed in complete silence punctuated only by the songs and rhythms of the natural world. There were no humans around us for literally miles and miles. The trees were ridiculously tall and wide, with dense, rough, ancient bark embedded with markings that looked like symbols - like Mother Nature's hieroglyphics - telling the dark secrets of the woods and its inhabitants over the past few hundred years.

After their batteries died, our electronic devices were silenced, as well, by the complete absence of electrical power and the lack of signals. No Blackberry. No 4G. No phone service. Nothing.

Day or night, all we could hear were the squawks and calls of birds, the chirrups of chipmunks, and the weird scratching and popping noises of what we liked to imagine was a curious black bear lurking in the shadows. The symphony of blue jays and herons. The occasional hiss of the wind rushing like a river through the pines and birches. The mysterious - almost frightening - drumbeats of the unknown. The hungry crackle of the campfire. The rustle of J and R collecting sticks and branches to keep the blaze fed.

I never wanted to tune any of it out - but rather found myself listening attentively. Appreciatively. Relishingly (which is apparently not a real word, though it should be!).

I'd love to say - now that we're home - our family yearns for the tranquillity of Algonquin Park. That we wish we were still back there burning pancakes on the outdoor grill. That we're rugged nature-lovers of the true north, strong and free. But none of that is the case. A family of Catharine Parr Traills we're not!

Despite being back to the grind of work, and emails, and subway delays and ready access to all the world's bad news again (hello again, Rob Ford, Egypt, and Sammy Yatim) ... we are very glad to be back home. And we are grateful that we can simply swipe a light-switch when it's dark, or boil our water on the kitchen stove, or go to the bathroom without a massive tarantula-like spider staring at us from the outhouse door. And the ability to flush? Pure heaven! Yup, convenience, on demand, is how this family rolls. Yikes, hold on a second while I see why my phone beeped ... Oh, I have to take this call. Bye for now blog.

Odd topic for today: Racism and why celebrities like Oprah do more harm than good.

Americans have succeeded in bringing about a "dialogue" on racism after the Trayvon Martin case. Everyone seems to be talking about racism, from Barack Obama to Oprah.

In the wake of the Zimmerman verdict, Obama told us that he was, at one time, treated with suspicion because of the colour of his skin. Until he became a Senator, he explained, women were afraid to be alone on the elevator with him. And, of course, Oprah was recently denied a chance to view a very expensive handbag while shopping in Switzerland. These, they claim, are incidents of racism that they've had to endure.

I have a few thoughts on the matter. First one being that I do believe "isms" exist. There are isms all around us and racism is unequivocally a very real and serious one. But at least it is frowned upon and generally outlawed. However, there are few sanctions against people who are classist, for example. And I think it can be argued that the situations described by Barack Obama and Oprah fall into that category. I've been uneasy being alone on an elevator with a man of any colour. If the man is dressed a certain way, the uneasiness can be intensified. Obama himself said he suffered that kind of discrimination until he became a Senator. We all know Senators wear spiffy suits. So, once he was dressed with dignity and class, his skin colour no longer posed any problems on elevators. Hmmm. Makes you wonder if skin colour had been a factor at all?

In terms of the Oprah incident, my mother loves to go into the most expensive shops on Bloor Street in Toronto. It's our annual "day in Yorkville". The truth is, my mother does have enough money to buy whatever she wants. Not from a lifetime of wealth and comfort but from years of careful planning, saving, budgeting, investing, and self-deprivation. Not to mention years of hard, intelligent, work as a secretary.

But my mother bears the appearance of someone with just enough money to buy a box of Kraft Dinner. She is about 5'2" and shrinking. And she's as plump as any grandma should be. Her hair is silver and fluffy. Her shoes are Birkenstocks. Her clothes are off the rack, from the mall, with horizontal stripes stretched across the girth of her mama-belly. And she is very kind, blue-eyed and beautiful.

Last summer on our day of sunshine and flowers and fancy shops in Yorkville, I recall pretty much all of the shop keepers raising an eyebrow of scepticism when my mother would ask to see an expensive Hermes bag or Gucci wallet. She was actually shopping - not just messing around - though the likelihood of buying a $5,000 wallet with her wise attitude toward money is very small. And we did have a similar experience to Oprah's. The clerk told my mom that she wouldn't be able to afford the ostrich wallets that came in 5 colours. But, the Asian clerk explained, the "ladies from China" could walk in and buy all the colours at once. "These wallets, over here, in regular leather, would be better for you", she said.

So it seems we didn't look Chinese enough to afford the wallets. Though we are clean and well-groomed people, perhaps to her we look more like Honey Boo Boo's family than descendants of the Ming Dynasty.

I took note of the designs and found a very similar wallet for under $100 at Town Shoes a few months later. Obnoxious mustard-yellow leather with card pockets in bold green, blue, red and orange. About five colours all in one design. So my mom got her fancy-looking wallet in every colour, and she got to keep all her money inside it as well!

And we were not crushed by the experience of being called out for the non-billionaires that we are. I thought it was snobby, and foolish, of the clerk to speak to us that way because you just never know who you are dealing with. But again, I bore no injury from the experience and nor did my mom. In fact, I hadn't recalled that incident until Oprah brought up her own, and said it was racism.

I actually believe that all of us in the human race are victims of some kind of "Ism" from one day to the next. I think it's part of the human condition. Very few people are immune to some sort of prejudice based on age, class, sex, weight, height, etc. Some of it is mild. Some of it laced with hatred. In high school my brother was called Pizza-Face because of his acne; I can tell you it hurt both of us as much as the N-word hurt anyone in contemporary North America. Most of us simply tolerate these ignorant slights and get on with our lives. If we focused on these insults too often, or for too long, we wouldn't want to get out of bed in the morning.

As a woman, I see misogyny all around me. In children's movies, like Diary of a Wimpy Kid, the team coach will say to the boy's team "Okay ladies, you can do better than this". An angry commenter on a news article will attack another commenter with: "Are you having your period? Take a Midol". As an ultimate insult, men call one another "douche bags" (a device of feminine hygiene) and label each other "pussies" or "vaginas". It's also common to say "he screamed like a little girl". And singers like Justin Bieber are ridiculed because their "only fans are 12-year-old girls". All of which implies that anything female or feminine can and will be used as a pejorative. It seems that girls and women are considered the lowest of the low by half the population.

More importantly, there are also very serious examples of sexual discrimination - like the fact that even in Toronto, a woman can't go out to pick up milk at the corner store after dark without hoping she won't be raped. And female children have to be cautious in a Walmart that some predator won't try to carry them out as a sex slave. Or that boys at a party won't have sex with your daughter and post pornographic photos and humiliating remarks about her on social media.

So yes, there are many serious examples of women having to face dangers more severe than everyday ridicule and put-downs. But I wanted to highlight the mild, day-to-day sexist remarks and attitudes because they are so widely accepted we don't even notice them anymore. Parents aren't gasping when the coach in the movie says "Johnny, you run like a girl". Nobody is bringing up these instances in interviews, saying how crushed they were that their gender is held in such a low regard. Not because these everyday insults to girls and women are subtle, but because they are part of the fabric of our lives. There's no "dialogue" happening about it, and none is in the works, either.

Even having said all that, I still haven't made the point I want to make. And that point is this. Racism is a problem for black people and anyone who cares about them, which we all should. Absolutely, it is a problem. Black people are stopped while they are driving nice cars. Questioned by police more often. Black teenagers are asked to produce ID more often.

When I was younger I was reunited with an old friend from Ottawa. We had known each other as children, but ended up working together at a publishing company in Toronto. She is black - not Halle Berry black, but Oprah black - and tall, slim, elegant and pretty. She was a book editor, and always dressed like one. We were having lunch together, and talking about jogging, and she brought up the fact that there wasn't always a convenient way to carry ID when going out for a run. All the other young women at the lunch table asked "why would you need to carry ID when you are jogging?" And the black friend answered, "well, because I get stopped by the police. I once went running without ID and the police told me it was against the law not to carry ID. So my brothers and I, we all do. And when we get stopped we can show who we are".

When we get stopped?

This story always stuck with me because this girl and I had grown up in Canada, both of us starting out in grade 1 in Ottawa and ending up in a publishing company in Toronto. We were living parallel lives. And yet the colour of our skin really had made an important difference to how we were treated. Neither I, nor any of the white or middle-eastern girls at the table had ever been stopped by the police. None had ever bothered to carry ID when jogging or going to the park or going to buy a popsicle from the ice cream truck. The whole notion seemed crazy. Yet that was about 20 years ago and since I do follow the news I can see that the situation has gotten worse. Not better. I don't think it's gotten any easier to be black. Not at all.

Not because someone looks at you and decides you can't afford a purse. But because someone looks at you and messes with your freedom. Your daughter's freedom. Your son's freedom. And this is where I believe the narrative should stay focused. I admit, I admire Oprah and Barack Obama very much, because they are incredibly accomplished people who do very good things on this earth.

But I think that when Oprah allowed the purse incident to hog the microphone away from the issues that actually matter ... I think she does a disservice to the cause. Classism and clerk snobbism are nuisances, to be sure. But the undisputed racism that still goes on unchecked - the kind that ruins lives, not the kind that momentarily dampens a sunny day in Yorkville (or Switzerland) - that is the racism that should always be in the spotlight. This other stuff - like Obama thinking he can read the racist minds of white women on elevators - is just noise that distracts from what really matters.

After the progress made - and discussions opened up - after the Trayvon Martin case, today people will be talking about the purse Oprah wasn't readily-invited to buy. Many, like me, will be able to say they've had the same thing happen to them. And yet tonight a black family driving home from the movies will have their BMW pulled over and they'll be detained for no good reason. And a group of black teens walking to the community centre will be stopped, interrogated, and intimidated. And if one of them fails to show his ID or expresses his indignation at being singled out for his skin colour there could be serious trouble.

That's the stuff the dialogue should be about. So let's keep our focus, people. What happened to Oprah is an interesting story many of us can relate to - but let's not be distracted by it. I really thought we were heading in the right direction on race relations in the United States and Canada ... but somehow we ended up in Switzerland.

Odd Secrets to a Long and Happy Marriage

Sixteen years ago on this day, at this time, I was at Isaiah Tubbs resort, passionately making out with my husband-of-several-hours. No, wait, I think at this point we were still in the car on our way there. I can still hear the THWACK of night-bugs hitting our Honda's windshield. So, yeah, that hottub-makeout-session was actually a few hours later than this. Right now it's 6:49 pm and not really looking like it ever wants to be night time. The leaves are still aglow with sunlight, swaying in a gentle breeze. A perfect evening for a sixteenth anniversary date, or stroll, or a getaway to Prince Edward County.

But that's not what we are doing tonight. It's a fairly ordinary family day, as I kind of knew it would be. J and R are enamoured with the iPad I ordered from AIR MILES. And I'm taking this time to write this blog post.

It's not original, but I thought I'd write one of those "secrets to a long and happy marriage" posts. And I think I will do that - but sixteen years isn't really long enough to call oneself an expert. My parents were married for that length of time before they split up, after all. But I do think 16 years is a pretty long time to be with one person. And when you add in the 3 years we were a couple prior to tying the knot, then ... well, I'm sure you are capable of doing the math.

So, off the top of my sleepy head, here are a few secrets to a pretty-long, pretty-darned-happy marriage:

1. Stay married.

2. Don't get divorced.

3. Don't talk about not staying married. Don't discuss getting divorced.

4. Those were really important pieces of advice, so I'll just re-iterate that the best way to stay married is to eliminate thoughts of separation, divorce, or not staying married. The rest of this is just some bla-bla-bla you don't really need to worry about if you accomplish #1-#3. But you can read on if you really want to!

5. Be nice. Try not to criticize your mate, but do pay them all the compliments they've earned, and even some they haven't, every hour of every day. Compliment their work aptitude, their looks, their sense of humour, their boudoir badassedness, their cooking, their taste in mountain bikes, their weedwacking, their having remembered to change the snowtires, etc. 

6. Don't bicker. Whenever I'm out, I hear a lot of families that bicker back and forth. Like ... We're late because YOU had to change your outfit at the last minute. Well if YOU hadn't told me that dress was too tight I would have left it on!

I think the banter starts out as kind of cute and funny repartee when people are young and the relationship is still fresh. But by the time your neck starts to fall, and your husband has a more intense relationship with his blackberry than he has with you? Bickering shouldn't be your main mode of communication. It shouldn't be part of your communication repertoire at all. If you have something that desperately needs to be said -- something that can't wait until after the picnic, day at the zoo, afternoon at the Smithsonian, or traffic jam on the 401 -- sandwich that criticism in a giant loaf of kindness. Like ... I know I'm a nervous passenger, honey, but maybe just drive a tad slower, considering every car ahead of us for miles has its brake lights on, including that guy you're tailgating. I know, silly me, what a backseat driver I am, sheesh!

7. Acceptance. Your mate will not always be exactly the mate you want. Not as romantic, perhaps. Not as interested in the same things you are, and vice versa. My advice? Be accepting, because people are really hard to change. As long as he or she is a good person, try not to let it get you down that they aren't as rich, gorgeous, fun or romantic as ________ (fill in the blank) as some other person's mate seems to be. 

Maybe it's just me, but there has never been anyone else I'd rather be married to. For me, it's romance that I notice in movies or in other people's relationships. When I see that recurring scene of the guy chasing his lover to the airport ... I get choked up every time. I think part of the emotion is the knowledge that J would never do that. If I ran off to the airport I think he would be very logical about the fact that there are so many gates and terminals, plus security, parking woes, traffic on the highway, etc. etc. etc. that it wouldn't be worth the effort to follow me. Best to surf the mountain bike sites a while and maybe I'll change my mind. At least he'd be home when I returned, rather than tapping the shoulder of every 40-something brunette in what's probably the wrong terminal anyway. 

Speaking of romance, my husband's idea of a romantic outing is a trip to Costco in which I'm allowed to get anything I want -- paper towels AND toilet tissue -- and he'll pay for it with his cash and put it all in the trunk for me. Or he'll trim the hedges in the back yard before I even get out of my pyjamas. Or he'll fold all the laundry and put it away - even my undies. All of this without fanfare. Just quiet displays of love. So when I hear about one of my friends being taken up into a hot air balloon, in Paris, and given a dozen roses, and asked to re-affirm her wedding vows? I just remind myself that I wouldn't want to be married to her husband anyway. He's awesome, and he's hers, but to get those roses -- and romance -- I'd have to accept the whole package. I'd have to trade J for someone else. And there isn't one man on earth whom I'd trade J for, even if that other man bore armloads of roses and Peanut Buster Parfaits for me.

8. This is out of order, now that I think about it, but I don't want to have to re-structure this post. So you can read the most important piece of advice (almost) last. The most important secret of a long and happy marriage is to marry the right person. Marry someone who makes you belly-laugh. If you can't think of the last time the person made you laugh? Maybe not a good sign.

Other bad signs are: 

Drinking. If alcohol or drugs play a significant role in your dating life? They'll be unwelcome fixtures in your marriage. Unless you ever want to have to say "sorry, kids, Daddy's drunk again". Unless you want to find yourself googling "What is a functioning alcoholic". Or worse.

Being critical of other people. Just remember, later on the person on the receiving end of that criticism will be you, and maybe your kids, too. The guy who says "look how fat she is!" may think you're a major porker while you're pregnant. Imagine if you never lose the baby weight! And the guy who says "what a bleepin' wimp" may just say that to your nerdy son who can't catch a ball to save his life in ten years. The guy who lets the waitress "have it"? Whether she deserves it or not, this guy's lack of patience won't be fun for you some day when you burn the dinner, or forget to turn on the oven, yourself.

Being dishonest. Is he dishonest to other people? Does he make up a lie to get out of going into work on a Monday? Hmmm. I wonder if he'll ever lie to you?

Being on "best behaviour" all the time (who knows what he's hiding?). If he treats you like a princess? Make sure that's the real deal and not a sales pitch. Nine times out of ten it's a sales pitch. Too good to be true often is. He should be authentic and authentic people are awesome whether they're in Prince Charming mode or not.

Idiotic friends. If his friends don't impress you, I wonder what that says about him?

My mom always told me that people tell you who they are - it's just up to you to listen. If he says he's got a bad temper and trying to change? That's nice, but he may be a better candidate for some other girl. Not you and your future kids.

9. Back to the secrets of a happy marriage. The ninth one? Loving words and touches. Every day. To varying degrees, of course!

10. Be grateful. Remember that you are lucky to have someone like your mate. That all the bars and nightclubs on earth are filled with people who'd kill to be married to someone they love, who loves you back, like you are. You have found the holy grail - so quit envying the people who're still digging. If you were to start a new life with someone else, there'd just be a pile of new challenges and problems you'd face with that person anyway. 

I've written the requisite "10" items, but I am sure this list isn't long enough. However, it's a good start. And if you've read this far you're obviously determined to stay married anyway. To not get divorced. So really you could have stopped reading at #1 or #2 and you'd have been just fine. Good for you! All that's left to say is that I wish you and your mate a wonderful life together. Now I'll log out and get back to mine. Still a few hours left of this anniversary. It's almost time the 11-year-old went to bed so this anniversary party can really get started. Hmmm... I wonder what bubble bath flavours we have?

Odd: Failure, Guilt and Blame

Okay, I know it's odd that I'm writing on an even day.

Yesterday I just couldn't. But I can't let Moldova down for too long, now can I?

The topic for today: Failure, Guilt and Blame.

“Anyone who has never made a mistake has never tried anything new.” ― Albert Einstein

Some high profile cases have captured the world's attention lately. Cases in which something horrific happens and then the players involved - the ones who are still alive, at least - rush to point fingers in order to absolve themselves of all blame and assert the guilt of others.

Our systems are designed that way, I guess. At first glance, it appears that there are no grey areas. You're guilty or you're innocent. You're sainted or condemned. Epic win or epic fail.

We've all heard that there are "two sides to a story". But when a case becomes high profile, we actually get to see scientific proof that there can be two completely different ways of looking at the same set of facts. A continental divide in perceptions. In the Trayvon Martin / George Zimmerman case it was about 49/51% for those who agreed or disagreed with the verdict. Among white-skinned people, that is. And among non-whites, who would understandably see the verdict through a different, more personal lens, it was more like 70/30, with the vast majority seeing the verdict as unjust. But still, there wasn't 100% agreement on the matter. And you won't find a group of people on earth with 100% agreement on anything, let alone the Zimmerman verdict.

“Isn't it nice to think that tomorrow is a new day with no mistakes in it yet?” ― L.M. Montgomery

To me, situations such as the Trayvon Martin case capture so much attention because they are like a concentrated snapshot of what goes on in everyday life. Smaller, less important matters, yes. But matters that affect you, and me, and our kids, and everyone around us. The Martin/Zimmerman situation shows that even when all the facts are laid out, and a fair trial is held, and a verdict is pronounced, there can still be a complete lack of certainty over who is wrong and who is right. Who is guilty, who is not. Who is at fault, and who is not.

In Toronto's controversial Sammy Yatim case, we are already seeing buckets of blame tossed back and forth, and we'll see that continue as the case is discussed and analyzed from now on.

You have in one corner the folks who say the police officer pumped 9 bullets into a teen carrying nothing more than a 3-inch blade - a completely unjustified action, a failure on the part of police. That police are trigger-happy lunatics who live for the opportunity to kill.

On the other side, you have the argument "If you bring a knife to a gunfight, prepare to die" from the people who believe that the teenager is to blame for his death. That the failure to avoid this outcome was Sammy's. And that his parents failed to bring him up right - so they are to blame as well. And we mustn't forget that Syria, Sammy's birthplace, is also to blame for being a violent country. And so on.

In everyday life, when a failure happens - and let's face it, they happen all the time - the facts are never laid out the way they would be in a high profile news story or court trial. All you have is a smattering of thoughts, words and perceptions from two sides of an argument, two opposing sides with equally full-blown determination to prove the other side is at fault.

 "You rear-ended me!"

"No, YOU hit the brakes without warning!"

And again, our systems - and our world - are not set up for people to casually raise their hands and say "you know what? I could have done better. I'm sorry." Nor is our world a place where one's opponent would counter that admission with, "Oh my gosh, no, it was my fault. I can see why you screwed up there. Your mistake was honest. I'm just as much to blame as you are. I get it."

“We learn from failure, not from success!” ― Bram Stoker, Dracula

In everyday life, blame is an endless dance. Back and forth it goes, as each partner does his best to deflect guilt and cast blame. Neither party admitting to even a 1% contribution to the failure.

And you don't have to shoot someone to feel caught up in the tango.

If we live in a society in which we're not free to accept, admit, and be forgiven for our failings ... a society in which we'll only be rewarded if we succeed in making blame stick to someone else ... then we must accept the fact that we'll spend our entire lives walking a dangerous tightrope. A fine line, from which any of us - you, me, or someone you love - could easily take a massive fall.

With the swirling dance of guilt and blame in our minds and all around us, we'll never learn to accept and forgive ourselves for our failings, let alone others. And that, I believe, is one of mankind's most epic fails of all.

“Freedom is not worth having if it does not include the freedom to make mistakes.” ― Mahatma Gandhi

Odds & sods.

Just coming off a bit of a writing marathon and still out of breath, figuratively speaking. It's my day to write the blog but I don't think I would even come within 10 feet of the laptop if I didn't have deadline-miss-o-phobia.  I suppose I could wait until later … but I don't think my urge to prepare a post will increase over the course of the day. Not this time.

To come up with a topic, let's dredge the shallow depths of my exhausted, barely-functioning mind.

I did think briefly about motherhood. I really do agree with the saying that when you give birth to your child you also give birth to your new self. Anyone who knows me would agree that I've come a long way over the past 11 years. The seeds of goodness were there covered in the dirt all along, but having a child really helped me grow into the best, most patient and compassionate person I can be. I still say the wrong things and I still have a ton of awkward and stressy moments in my life, but I like my new self far more than I ever liked the self I used to be.

As I ponder "what to write", another topic that comes to mind is that of the boy, Sammy Yatim, who was shot by police over the weekend on a Toronto streetcar. His face is imprinted on my memory. Sure, he was 18, but he looks like a boy to me. I guess there are parallels between this case and the Trayvon Martin case. Not the facts, no, just the feelings. Nobody likes to see a young person shot to death, whether armed with powerful punches or armed with a small knife. Not only does a young person represent a ton of potential for good in our society, but a young person is nearly always on the receiving end of massive quantities of mother's love. So when a young person's life is taken, you know that somewhere unseen a mother's heart has been broken.  

As I read about it in a Toronto paper, I noted that a relative was quoted as saying the teen was a good kid, but had started wearing his jeans slung low. According to the story, the boy's dad didn't like that look. Not having a teenage son myself, I have to ask if this is a chicken/egg thing. What comes first – is it the baggy-pant 'n bloomer costume or is it the trouble?

None of us wants to think so, and I certainly don't like the threat to freedom this question poses to both males and females of all ages. But I have to ask. Can certain clothing bring about unwanted consequences?

If we allow our children, our lambs, to dress in wolf's clothing … right or wrong, racism or not … it seems we are putting them in harm's way. Counting on the gun-toting shepherd down the road to recognize them for who they really are when they stray from safe pastures.

Hopefully it isn't a trend, but just like my dog can spot a mailman or UPS guy from a mile away – not by the face but by the uniform – I don't think it's a stretch to believe that wearing certain clothing can attract the wrong kind of attention.

Sure, brandishing a knife when there are a dozen police officers around is never a good idea. But when a barely-armed or unarmed teen is dressed from head to toe in a way that says "I'm a dangerous thug", the cops or Zimmermans of the world may react accordingly. When they perceive a threat – whether a punch in the face or a gesture with a small blade - they may take more rigorous steps to defend themselves. May end up taking the teen's life. So instead of growing up, that teenage boy ends up stretched out in a coffin wearing perfectly-creased dress pants for all of eternity. Never getting a chance to become the man he was meant to be.

I know after the Trayvon Martin shooting people of all ages and colours marched in the US for their right to wear hoodies without being shot. And they were right. Shooting someone for wearing dangerous-looking clothes is, obviously, wrong. But that doesn't mean it never happens. Once was too often. Twice? Well … it sure makes this mother think. And if I had a son… we'd sure be having a discussion about this tonight … as we take a stroll over to the local Gap store.

Some odd thoughts.

Sometimes I wonder what the world would be like if there were no dishonesty. I'm not saying I want my husband to tell the truth when I ask him whether my exercise program is working, or to speak freely about my singing to the car radio.

I'm just pondering the possibilities of a world in which nobody would ever lie in the interest of cheating. Where nobody would ever casually swipe something that doesn't belong to them, let alone hold up a bank at gunpoint. I remember the realization, as a child, just how large a role dishonesty plays in our daily comings and goings.

If you look at your life, you don't see all the accoutrements that accompany living in a dishonest world. You don't add up all the minutes of time lost to finding car keys, to clicking "I forgot my password" and waiting for the new one to arrive in your inbox.

In a society where nobody would steal your car, or your identity, or enter your home in search of your grandmother's wedding ring ... there would be no locks, keys or passwords. No calls from the bank that your card was compromised - again. No shout from your mate to say "wait, is that REALLY the bank calling? Don't give out any information!"

Years ago, I was sitting in a Starbucks on Bloor Street one Friday evening, surrounded by girlfriends. We were all telling happy woman-under-thirty stories and I was excited because I'd soon be going to New York for the first time. I remember feeling a cool shadow bathe me from the warmth of my smiling, beautiful friends, but it didn't register as anything important. Until I went to grab my purse and go ... and it was gone.

Someone decided to use my cards to buy themselves running shoes and electronics. They liked my purse and wallet and phone and kept them. But they did bundle my other ID and stuff into a bag and toss it into someone's backyard.

When the backyard family found my items they called me, frantic, desperate to reunite the driver's licence and OHIP card and birth certificate with their owner. Thank goodness you're okay, the woman said to me. When we saw your ID pictures we felt like we knew you and we were so worried we'd find out you were ... dead.

They thought the thief had stolen my life too.

And again, I just wonder what it would be like to live in a world where that could never happen.

Odd!

Last night we went swimming at Antibes pool at Bathurst & Finch. It was the only indoor facility with an evening swim that I could find - aside from an all-male swim at Lawrence Park from 7:30-9.

A year ago we would never need to search for a place to swim because our next door neighbours, Rebecca and Michael, had a pool that we were welcome to use any time we wanted to. Their daughter taught R to dive in that pool last summer.

But this spring, those neighbours moved away after 11 years, and the new neighbours, Yeng-ki and Nancy, are almost never around. And the water in the pool is kind of tinged with some impurity of the wrong colour. Kind of blackish, like when you dip your paintbrush into a glass to clean it off. So at least we're not gazing longingly at it through the fence anyway.

This summer we've started going to public swimming pools at Toronto community centres.

And since the new Prince George - who got his name yesterday - may never know what it's like to swim in a small, overcrowded public swimming pool, I'm going to try to describe it for him. Later on, when George, Prince of Cambridge, finds himself splashing among the waves in the sunny Seychelles, or performing a medal-worthy swan-dive in the royal deep-end, he needs to know exactly what he is missing.

At a public pool you get to shimmy out of your clothes and put on your swimsuit in front of naked strangers, and then you get to take your flipflops off and walk across a gelatinously-dirty tile floor toward the pool deck. You get to politely ask the lifeguard if diving is allowed, and you get to see him silently point at the sign that says "no diving". You get to stake out an area for yourself in the pool where you can swim without getting some other swimmer's foot up your nostril. You get to see someone make a bee-line for your area and begin enjoying it. You get to repeat that process again a few times until you just tread water in one spot. You get to look at the clock and realize you've only been there 30 minutes when the whistle blows and the lifeguard screams "everybody out!" and a lady sitting leisurely on the ladder with a calm expression and no intention of moving out of your way asks you - what is it? - and you get to eventually emerge from the now-empty pool so you can stand on the crowded-confused deck to see the small patty of vomit floating on the water's clear surface, down in the shallow end. You get to laugh in the shower, as the cold water shocks you, and the lovely (swimsuit-wearing) mom next to you jokes in her slightly Jamaican accent about the coldness of the water and you make your own joke that it was only baby-vomit and who hasn't been exposed to that anyway?

Once R and I were dried and dressed, we also got to walk around the community centre and check things out. There was a classroom filled with large canvasses and colours and women and men visibly over the age of 60 seated with their oval palettes, painting with oils. It reminded me of a symphony.

But this was a symphony of soloists. No two subjects were alike. There were muscular, stampeding horses, quiet autumn lake shores, a large, blurred portrait of someone's grown daughter. The painting that held my attention longest depicted a crisply-vivid beach scene. Amid shades of aqua-blue and green and champagne tans, a large, spotted conch shell took centre stage in the foreground while soft white sand and palms receded immediately behind it. The sky and water were clear, the shell appeared shiny and heavy and golden-brown, nestled in the sand. A pair of palm trees grew, just-so, on either side, of it, like the open curtains on a stage. As real as it all appeared, it was, without a doubt, a scene from a gentleman-of-few-hairs' imagination. And, like Rousseau before him, his scene of paradise was beautiful but unconvincing. And I wondered, briefly, if he's ever been there.