Change Is Inevitable

I think Mother Nature must be going through menopause.

Hot flashes one day, cold flashes the next; and the gusty winds and thunderstorms.

But this morning the air is still and the sky is blue. And the sun light is bright with a slight tint of orangey yellow.

And it's chilly.

The dew that dropped out of the sky has coated everything on the ground with a thick coat of wet.

Even though I pulled out my heavy black woolen sweater from the closet that stores winter coats, I'm still chilled by the slight breeze as I sit on the back deck by the still waters of the swimming pool.

I guess it's time to consider that summer is over and fall is starting.

It's time to close this swimming pool down. It's time to give it one final vacuum, empty the water to the half-way point, poor in the winter doses of chemicals, and put the black tarp on.

But not yet, at least not today.

We still have ball practices to attend, and the Major Leagues still have two weeks of the regular season left. But then, ball always starts before the pool opens and ends long after the pool is closed.

Many have told me that they feel ripped off by the summer we had this year. Too cool, too wet they all say. But I disagree.

This has been a fantastic summer.

There's a humming bird hovering next to a bush of blue flowers in the garden, sipping the dewy nectar that lies on the tiny petals, oblivious to the fact that it's forty seven degrees outside. But he is in the sunshine while I sit here in the shade.

I wonder if he thinks the summer was too short.

Maybe.

The trees don't think so. For all the maples that I see in my surroundings, only one has leaves starting to turn orange and red. And he always starts early, as though in a rush to be first. The first with leaves in spring, and the first to change colors and fall in autumn.

The impatient one, while the rest still stand high and sturdy with lush green leaves in no hurry to see the season end.

It is still summer you know.

My eldest daughter Alannah has ball practice shortly at noon. Still a practice / tryout of sorts for a new team with another club called the Wildcats, having been cut from the next age group up at the Turtle Club. The experience left me questioning the concept of loyalty – and how do I convince her to hold the value true when the club she was so loyal too was not loyal back to her in return.

But you have to earn your spot to make the team. And this year the competition came from every nook and cranny of our peninsula of a county nested between the great lakes St. Claire and Erie. I watched most every moment of those practices, and I thought Alannah did terrific.

But I must have misjudged her competition.

Last year, my youngest Ashley-Rae missed the cut to play on the same team Alannah did. She spent the summer watching from the side with me, and together we went through house league and all stars. And together we had a ball. Now this year, she made the team that Alannah grew too old to play for anymore. She won her spot in convincing fashion. And so as a family we now get to remain with the other families who will still travel together next year from tournament to tournament, while we make new friends on the new team that Alannah seems certain to earn a spot on. Families from a different club who may not hold the Turtle Club in as high esteem as we do, out of loyalty.

Next year we will be both inside – and on the outside looking in. On both sides of the window.

Alannah's new team does look like it will be very strong though. I haven't seen a single weak player on the team. And two of her old team mates from Turtle Club will be there to, both Lilly and Rachael suffered the same breakdown in what they presumed to be a two-way commitment.

I'm very proud of my two girls – both equally – as they grow up with fast pitch softball as one of their anchor points in their development into young ladies. In fact I am very proud of all the girls I have had the pleasure to manage and coach this year – and those that I simply rooted for on Alannah's team.

There isn't a bad apple in the whole group.

And so, with Ashley's experience of being cut behind her, and now Alannah, the older sister, just learning the experience now – and moving on with a maturity that inspires me, I reconsider my position and understand that relationships, be them with people or with organizations, are more often than not fleeting. They are ever-changing, growing like the huge maples that grow around my yard.

And some change colors early, while others stay green as long as they can.

It's been a fantastic summer for me and my family. Travelling to play ball and watching them step up to each challenge and conquer their own self-doubts. Both Alannah and Ashley-Rae grew up a good bit this year in the most positive ways any father could ask for.

And now they are confident in their own abilities and in each other's as well. They know how to face obstacles, how to meet challenges, and how to succeed.

It's been a fantastic summer.

Now Yer Messin With A …

Amazing how music finds memories in the very back recesses of your brain.

It happened to me just today.

I left the office today and marched across the parking lot to my little Sebring. It was a beautiful afternoon of full sun, so I rolled down all the windows and opened the moon roof all the way for that convertible effect.

Detroit has a great radio station, 94.7 that plays classic rock just like the play list that my favorite station in Atlanta, 96 Rock, used to play when I was a teenager in Lawrenceville, Georgia.

It was one of the best things about moving to Windsor from London. A 94.7 made me feel like a kid back in Atlanta again. To me, it's a great radio station.

As I pulled on to the expressway, an old song came on that brought back memories like only music can do.

Even songs you don't like, but still remember, will bring back great memories.

This was an old song by a band called Nazareth. In all it's crudity. The song is called "Sum ub ah Bich" (or something that might sound like that anyway…).

So at the now graying age of forty six, I turned it up real loud, put on my sunglasses and reclined the seat of the car back a bit.

"Now yer messin' with a … son of a …"

And my mind went back to when my family first moved to Georgia in 1975.

At that time we were living in Apple Valley Minnesota. South of Saint Paul – Minneapolis – just outside another small town called Rosemount.

Minnesota was – at least to me as a boy of twelve or thirteen – a very sterile and clean environment. Everyplace was well groomed. Gardens and the greenest of grass. And the people in Minnesota were very … well .. I guess "proper" is the best term that comes to mind. Boring – but sterile and proper.

My Dad received notice in the summer of 1974 that he could choose the transfer of his choice to become a regional manager for 3M company's business products division. The choices were San Diego California, and Atlanta Georgia.

Dad chose Atlanta.

Mom and Dad took a trip together to go look for our new house. And they found one in a little town I have written here about before, Lawrenceville. It was a nice subdivision, with a community co-op style club around the corner called Plantation Swim and Racket Club – or PSRC for short.

When we arrived, the culture shock was immense.

We were Canadians living in the United States as green-card-carrying landed immigrants. And in Michigan, where we lived when I was a little boy in elementary school, and then Minnesota, where we lived when I was in middle school (grades seven and eight), we fit right in. Minnesotans could easily be confused for Canadians – at least I think so.

But Georgia – well that's a whole different bowl of peach cobbler. A completely new slice of pecan pie.

The food was different. The attitudes were different. The rules were a lot more relaxed. And well, the pattern of speech was different.

I remember sitting in my very first class in the eighth grade – a trailer – a busted down trailer – with graffiti on the desks and walls – dirty and smelly – waiting amongst this strange trailer full of southern kids – all talking like a completely different language. It was English – but damned if I knew what they were saying.

"That thar's the new kid, I dun wonder where he come from?" said a pretty little girl a couple of seats ahead of me.

"Don't know, but he's kind-a funny lookin."

I guess I was pretty funny looking to them. I had a short haircut my Mom would approve of, I was short, and pudgy. I was also very pale in comparison to southerners. I was just new from Minnesota – and Minnesota wasn't really a sun tanning paradise.

"Hey kid, where y'all from?"

"I'm sorry, what did you say?" I replied.

I thought I had landed in Mayberry. I thought "all these kids couldn't really talk this way, could they?"

In came the teacher. Mrs Blylock.

"Thank God", I thought. "She'll tell these kids to stop faking their Gomer Pyle accents."

"Mornin' y'all", said Mrs. Blylock. "How was y'alls summer?"

"Oh my God", I thought, "This is real. Holy cow these people really are serious".

Every single syllable word was spread out to become two or three syllables. The pitch of their voices went up and down in a sing song manner as they practically sang their words. I wish I could write music to express it to you more effectively.

But as time went on, I adapted.

I learned that y'all meant you. And all y'all meant everyone present. I learned that yonder meant someplace over there – or thar . And dun (done) didn't mean something you completed, but just simply added action to the sentence. You didn't just do something. You dun did it.

Then I was assimilated.

And that year of eighth grade at Lilburn Middle School went along quite nice. There were big kids in my class that I looked up to, like Kirk Ewing and Damon Huston. On our street it was Bill Huseby and Mike Lefevbre. The cool guys. The big guys. The guys who weren't scared to fight. Not bully's. They were all pretty damned good guys.

After eighth grade was over, and summer was kicking in, I started playing baseball in Lawrenceville's little league and swimming for the local club PSRC. I was pretty good at both. And I also hit a growth spurt. I grew somewhere between six inches and a foot in a single month.

And now I was as big as the guys I looked up to.

And I learned what confidence felt like.

But now to get back to the point about a song bringing back memories … It was the first day of high school at Berkmar High. Waiting for the bus with my now neighborhood buddies. And the bus pulled up to let us on.

As I got on the bus, an old dilapidated version of a bus with those big green seats with the springs shot out and rips bandaged up with silver duct tape, there was something weird. The driver was a hippy looking girl probably in her early twenties. And she had … an eight track tape player … in the bus? And it was playing Rock music. Pretty heavy music.

And as I sat down in my seat, the music blared …

"Now yer messin with a … son of a …."

"So this is high school.." I thought as I sat with my buddies. "This is pretty cool".

And when I got to school, my new found height, my athletic build, and the muscles in my arms – not to mention my deep tan, was noticed. The guys I used to look up to came up to me to say "hey" – southern for hi.

And I said "hey, how y'all doin?"

And I was converted.

And on the way home from school, the hippy chick bus driver was playing her eight track tape again. And I remember thinking to myself as I sat next to a pretty neighborhood girl …

"Now yer messin with a son of a …"

Be All You Can Be, But What All Would That Be?

There are times in my professional life where I truly wonder if I chose the right career path.

When I was a kid playing little league baseball, I thought I would grow up to be a professional baseball player. A shortstop for the Detroit Tigers. I was scouted when I was fifteen. But at that same time, I fell in love with soccer. I picked the game up quick and found that I could easily dribble the ball in circles around my opposition.

When I went to try out for the baseball team the next spring, our soccer coach put the word out I would not be allowed to play baseball. So I was cut before I even tried out.

That sent my Dad through the roof. I think he wanted my brother Paul and I to grow up and be baseball players too. I'm not sure my Dad ever really forgave me for that decision. I regret it still today. No, I don't think I would have been a pro baseball player.

Our soccer team was pretty elite – and we did have a shot to win the state (of Georgia) championship next fall. We came close but it didn't pan out. But I did get scouted to play college soccer. Remember that in the U.S. the term College is almost synonymous with the term University in Canada. I played soccer in college and was hurt shortly after our first season, destroying my knee. At the same time, I was also journalism major and a political science minor. But the professor there said I should quit journalism as the written word is going to vanish and be replaced by television. And in his opinion I had no chance of being a television journalist. So I switched to Computer Science.

Shortly afterwards I withdrew.

I was there to play soccer – I thought. If I can't play, then I shouldn't be here. I still regret that decision too.

After that I did some wandering around trying to 'find myself'. I did take a crack at playing a higher level of Soccer – but the knee was just not ready yet. And I did try to go back to school, both in New Orleans and in Baton Rouge. But I kept running out of funding.

I enlisted into the United States Coast Guard after watching a documentary on TV about the rescue divers. "I'm a great swimmer", I thought to myself. "I could really be a great rescue diver too!"

So down to New Orleans I went to enlist.

One of the questions the recruitment officer asked me was my nationality. "Canadian", I replied. "That shouldn't be a problem", he stated as he signed my papers and set me up to ship out to Cape May, New Jersey for boot camp. And while the military style of life was both intimidating and difficult, I liked the Coast Guard and found there was nothing they could throw at me I couldn't do.

I aced the swimming tests. I aced the written tests. But when the running portions of the physical exam were held, I finished with a limp on my right leg. My knee was not quite ready for that kind of running.

Shortly after that I found myself in the office of the Admiral of the base. I wish I remember his name. I do have his signature – on my honorable discharge papers.

It seems they don't let Canadian's in the Coast guard reach a rank any higher than a Seaman Recruit. That translates to the lowest rank of Private in the Army. My Coast Guard career would have consisted of mopping floors at the hospital on base until I achieved U.S. citizenship. That would take about five years. I had enlisted for four.

"I don't know why you're here son?" Said the Admiral as I stood at attention.

"Sir, I want to be a rescue diver, sir!" I snapped back as my minimal training had taught me to always start a sentence with Sir, and you ended that sentence with Sir.

"At ease, boy", he replied.

"Sir, Permission to speak freely , Sir?" I requested, not quite so snappish this time.

"I think that would be in order, seaman."

"Sir, I am an excellent athlete, and an accomplished swimmer. I had a scholarship to play soccer. I know I could be an outstanding diver, Sir."

"Some think you came here to get free surgery on your knee, boy."

"Sir, I've had the surgery, and the knee gets stronger every day", I said – now in a normal speaking voice, with all the sincerity I could muster.

"You're a Canadian, son?" he asked.

"I am Sir."

"Why did you not apply for American Citizenship? Don't you want to be an American, boy?" he asked.

"Sir, it had never been an issue before, I guess I never really thought I wasn't one, Sir."

That man looked me up and down. And he told me the rules. And rules in the Military are most definitely rules. And he asked me for the name of my recruiting officer, which at the time I still remembered, and told him.

"You should never have gotten this far, Fred." He said. I was stunned to hear my name. No one had called me Fred for four whole weeks. But he called me Fred.

"Your recruiting officer will be disciplined. And I am sorry that I have to give you two options, and the decision must be made right now." He said. "You can either apply right now for American citizenship and spend the remainder of your time on base as a Seaman recruit, or I will sign this Honorable Discharge for you and you can leave in the morning." The Admiral was still sitting in his chair behind his beautiful cherry red wood desk, he sat back and looked at me. It was not a mean look. It was the look of a man who was being sincere with me.

"I can't be a rescue diver, can I sir."

"Not in this tour son."

"I can't serve on a ship either?"

"Sorry".

"I guess I am of little use here, Sir. I want to be useful."

"Then you should go home and be useful to your family."

"Aye-aye, Sir."

And he signed my papers.

I am still a Canadian citizen still to this day. I am also loosely considered an American veteran, although I would never claim to be, nor expect any of the benefits of one.

When I returned to Baton Rouge, I found work. Hard work. Managing the night crew at a huge grocery store for a couple of years, and driving delivery trucks and warehouse work for an electrical supply company after that. And I learned that hard work means hard and work. And I knew that I had to get an education and figure out soon what it was I was supposed to do with my life.

When I came back to Canada to go to back to school, the Canadian Immigration officer at the Sarnia, Ontario port of entry said to me "Welcome home". I took that to heart. "They want me here!"

And since being back in Canada, I have always felt at home. Southern drawl or not, I am Canadian.

Since returning to Canada, I achieved my diploma, and for the past twenty-something years have been working in IT or IS - whichever you prefer – the last fifteen years at various levels of project management. And I have a pretty lengthy list of professional accomplishments, not to mention a wonderful family of a wife, two little girls, and now a cat and a dog, all living in what is still our dream home.

But I still sit and wonder about the decisions I made earlier in life. And I still regret I was never a rescue diver for the United States Coast Guard.

And tomorrow I'm getting this bloody knee fixed again.

Ashley, Alannah, and Hannah Montana

When my daughters were babies, and then wee little girls, their rooms were adorned with bright colors, and cartoon characters. As they grew older, they identified to us who their favorites were.

For most of that time, their rooms were adorned with characters from the Dora the Explorer cartoon. Spanish and English words mixed together as Dora proved to be a very positive impression on them, showing that little girls can be seen as the person others go to for help.

But now, adios to Dora and Boots the Monkey.

Hola Hannah Montana.

My goodness.

The cute cartoon who wears orange shorts and pink t-shirts – and carries all her super tools in her back pack – who gets all her directions from an amazing map – who challenges such villains as Swiper the fox and hordes of crocodiles and spiders – has been replaced by a southern drawled 14 year old tight ripped blue jeans wearing teeny-bopper who disguises super-stardom with a blond wig and sun glasses.

Dora’s catch phrases such as “I need your help” and “Swiper no swiping” have now been replaced by Billy-Ray Cyrus daughter Miley’s teeny bopper catch phrases such as “Do ya think?” and “Sweet Niblets”.

Don’t get me totally wrong – Hannah’s songs – written I guess by her Billy-Ray dad – have very positive messages for the most part. Very empowering for teenage girls. There are much worse role-models out there like your Brittany’s and Paris’s, your Madonna’s and your Christine’s.

“Who said I can’t be Superman?”

That is exactly what I want my girls to believe.

Well done Billy-Ray – it beats the hell out of “Achey Breaky Heart”. I can't really speak though, because I too really want my mullet back!!

Maybe everybody's growing up?

Deep sigh.

But now my daughters – seven and five are covering up their Dora blankets with Hannah throws. Their Dora t-shirts are worn with Hannah blue jeans. And the Dora posters covered up by the Hannah posters.

Dora's best friends are a monkey, an armadillo, and a wily fox she can’t trust.

Hannah has boy friends, lives a rock-stars life, and gets into more adult situations.

My little girls don’t need boy friends yet – not until they are in their thirties and well entrenched in their careers.

But you can't dictate these things. You can try to nudge - nudge them down the path you want for them - but you cannot drag them down it kicking and screaming.

Thanks a lot Disney.

My girls didn’t even have a chance to meet Mickey yet.