A Hoe-Down with the Cardinals in Mo-Town

In Canada, we are celebrating what we call the “May two-four weekend”.

While the two-four does reflect the Bob and Doug McKenzie Canadian Philosophy of beer drinking here in the Great White North (beer is most commonly sold in boxes of 24 best known as two-fours), in fact this is the Victoria Day weekend to celebrate Queen Victoria’s birthday.

What is the best part of the May 2-4 weekend? Getting Monday off.

It’s also my cousin Ellyn’s birthday.

This year Darlene and I spent the Sunday at the Tigers game. They were playing the St. Louis Cardinals – in the third and final game of the 3 game inter-league series rematch of the 2006 World Series.

Last fall of course, the Cards beat our boys 4 games to 1. It didn’t make sense at the time, and it does not make sense today. Last year during inter-league play, the Tigers swept those Cardinals. They did it again this year.

Did I give away the ending? I don’t think so.

Going to a Tigers game for us means crossing the border by either the bridge over or tunnel under the Detroit River. No big deal, we do this all the time. Darlene does it every day.

The game starts at 1:05 PM. We drop the girls off at Grandma’s by 11:15AM. And we are in line at the tunnel at 11:30 AM.

Understand that if the border did not exist, we would be 5 minutes away from Comerica Park.

We chose the tunnel because the tunnel goes right down town and comes out underneath the Renaissance Center – the keystone of the Detroit City skyline from the Windsor side.

The Ambassador Bridge – even though we live at the Canadian end of it, forces you to use the Michigan expressways – which are mostly closed for repairs and various projects during the summer. Not a fun Sunday adventure.

But what we forgot was that the Red Wings were to play the Anaheim Mighty Ducks in the all important game 5 of the Western playoff finals. That game started at 3:00 PM at “The Joe” (Joe Louis Arena).

And in Hart Square, they were having a hoe-down.

No, really. A hoe down. In downtown Detroit. Mo-Town.

No, I don’t think it was a play on the word “Hoe” either. For the first time in my memory, the downtown plaza was packed with Stetsons and cowboy boots. Shucks.

Anyway – we got in line at the tunnel at 11:30. At 1:30 PM, we cleared customs in Detroit. It took us an hour and a half to make a 5 minute journey. Most of which we could not even listen to the radio while in the tunnel.

Luckily when we emerged, we found out our boys had taken a 1 – 0 lead.

Yee-haw.

We found great parking for a sold-out game – two blocks away for only 10 bucks.

Yee-haw.

We entered Comerica park through the center field gates. There you will find a row of bronze statues for all the Tiger greats: Ty Cobb, Hank Greenberg, Al Kaline, and Willie Horton. There are spaces for more. Spaces for guys named “Pudge”, “Kenny”, and perhaps if he decides to stay around – Gary.

Darlene had just met Willie Horton a couple of weeks before. She was really struck by the tremendous bronze tribute to this younger vision of him.

After acquiring two beers and four hotdogs – we headed to hunt down our seats.

Section 114, row 45, seats 22 and 23.

We found section 114. But it only had 43 rows? We found a park “usher?” who escorted us to the other side of section 114.

“We didn’t think you were coming” he said as he moved his newspaper and lunch for us.

Row 45 was the very back corner of section 114. Since this section wrapped around part of the pavilion, there were only two seats for Row 45. Seats 22 and 23.

“The good news is that we wont have to get up every time somebody on our row wants out” I said to Dar. But the bad news was you couldn’t see the field for the steady stream of people passing by.

Yee – haw? Nah.

Gary Sheffield, for the first time this year, played right field. Maglio Ordonez instead was the DH. Sheff was brilliant out there. He made three great sliding plays, and one basket catch. Mags had an RBI.

You know, I might could live with Mags DHing.

Justin Verlander was the starting pitcher and lasted 8 good innings.

Yee- Haw.

In the end, The Tiger’s won, sweeping the Cards. What the heck happened last October?

repost - The First Lost Tooth

I have received a lot of requests to re-post one of my own favourite posts. The First Lost Tooth was originally posted November 3, 2007.

Since then, many more loose teeth have been lost - a couple while eating pizza.


My eldest daughter Alannah lost her first tooth yesterday.

"Daddy, look at what I got!" she said with a big gapped tooth grin. There was a space where a bottom front tooth had been, and my pretty little girl now resembled a jack-o-lantern.

Luckily school pictures were taken the previous Thursday, while she still had a full head of teeth.

She went to bed and like every other little kid, she put the tooth under her pillow. The next morning she was excited because she had found a note under her pillow – and all the writing was in gold.

And attached was a $5.00 bill.

C’mon, it was her first one.

The note read:

Dear Alannah,

Congratulations on losing your very first tooth. You certainly are growing up to be a big girl.

All my love,
The Tooth Fairy.

When I wrote the note before going to bed the night before, I had a couple of drafts that I had fun with:

Dear Alannah,

I have taken possession of the tooth I found beneath your pillow. I am assuming on good faith that the tooth is indeed your own.

I have attached $5.00 CDN. The going rate for lost tooth pick-up is 75¢. Please provide a colour photo of both before and after you lost said tooth. Also please leave my change of $4.25 under your pillow.

I look forward to doing future business with you.

The Tooth Fairy

And

To Whom it may concern,

I was unable to process your dental claim as you are currently an unidentified recipient. Please fill out recipient claim form 34872-1B, unless you are the eldest sibling, in which case you are required to fill out form 32987-B Long.

Please take special care in section 128-C as these calculations can be difficult but are essential to my successful processing of this and all subsequent claims.

Sincerely,

The Tooth Fairy
Dental Removal Service Request Adjudicator and Processor
Fabled Service Provider Division
Email: tooth.fairy@heritagefolktales.gov

But of course, I didn’t send those.

As she unfolded the note she could not read – she was amazed that it was written in gold ink. This added a level of authenticity. But later in the morning as we were getting ready for school, she asked me "Daddy, did you write this note and sneak it under my pillow when you came home?"

"uh .. no? Why?"

"Because it looks your printing."

"well, … it’s not. Ok?"

"Ok daddy".

Fridays are show-and-tell days in Alannah’s class. She was going to take the note from the Tooth Fairy. As we were walking up to the school yard, she realized she left it at home. I offered to go back and get it for her.

Alannah turned and smiled, "That’s ok, Daddy, I can show them this instead".

I think that gapped tooth smile was the prettiest one I ever saw.

Mothers Day Special - A Quick Comparison of Baseball and Golf

It’s Mothers Day again.

What an interesting time to compare golf and baseball.

“Why on Mothers Day?”

Baseball and golf are my Mom’s favorite pastimes.

Mom lives in Pensacola, Florida - on the twelfth green of a once proud course. Since we moved to Atlanta in 1975, she and my Dad became great Atlanta Braves fans. It is common for my Mom to spend a morning golfing, and an evening watching her beloved Braves on TV.

So Mom, here is my take on comparing golf and baseball, I hope you enjoy it.

Both baseball and golf involve hitting a ball with a stick

In golf, one person plays against himself, while in a field of other players trying to get the lowest score.

In baseball, one player tries to get the ball past nine other players, in an attempt to get the highest score for his team.

Baseball is the only game (aside from Cricket) where the defense has the ball.

Golf is the only game (aside from bowling) where there is no defense, nor any means to defend against the offense of the opposition.

In stroke-play golf, a player plays against only himself, Trying to better their score from their last. The only true opponent – besides the very course they are playing – is themselves. It truly is a game of inner struggles where a majority of the skill is indeed between their ears.

In baseball, one man is competing against nine others. The defense hold the ball and throws it with great force at the offending player or batter. The batter is trying to hit the ball into play to reach base. Once on base the runner is trying to steal the next base. The manager focuses on putting runners in motion and managing the batters – signaling their every move. The opposing manager is trying to place his fielders in the optimum position to field the ball, and make the maximum number of outs for their efforts in the process. Baseball is truly a game played with living chess peices.

Gentlemenly and not-so-gentlemanly

Golf is and always has been a gentleman’s game. Honor, truthfulness, integrity are some of the characteristics that golf aspires to instill in its participants.

Baseball started off as a game played by the uncultured, a waste of time that resulted in betting and game fixing by organized crime, with team owners ruling their teams like dictator tyrants.

In both golf, and baseball, the legend of the birth of both games are questionable

The Royal and Ancient Golf Club of St. Andrews in Scotland is regarded to be the birthplace of golf – led by the first known golfer, “old Tom”. St. Andrews still exists in much the same condition as when the game was first played. But this may be a myth as truly golf was invented by a person trying to hit a stone into a gopher hole in as few tries as possible.

Legend is that Abner Doubleday invented baseball. He wisely determined the ultimate distance between each base was to be 90 feet (or 30 yards). The field closed into a single point at home plate – and extended into infinity as the baselines down 1st and 3rd stretch to the horizon. However Abner Doubleday was actually a Civil War hero of that time period, and while his popularity was at its highest – was accredited with inventing a game he likely never even saw played before being killed in that same war.

The immediate perception of players of both baseball and golf are misleading

In golf, honor and integrity are imperative. Every swing must be counted, every rule must be followed, and every penalty incurred must be paid. The player assumes full responsibility for his actions while affording his opponents every coutesy. Ball marks must be fixed, sand traps raked when finished, and respect on the greens is mandatory. A player learns to “play the ball where it lies”, and to move on quickly from past mistakes or misfortunes – Great Life Lessons!

In baseball, every advantage one can gain on their opponent is taken – every blob of spit or dirt or scratch into the ball a pitcher can use to make the ball fly past the batter is used. Every sign an opponent can read from second base as the catcher sends them to the pitcher is relayed to the batter. Sliding into second with spikes high in the air to keep the fielder from also throwing the batter out at first. You are encouraged to yell at your opponent to distract him to misplay. A player learns to take every opportunity to create an advantage over your opponent – stretching the rules until you get caught.

It seems pretty obvious

Golf is synomonous with character and integrity, while baseball is synomonous with lying, cheating, bullying and stealing, right?

But let’s look closer.

For the last 100 years professional baseball players have worn similar uniforms, caught with leather stitched gloves, hit with wooden bats, and used balls covered in leather, stitched over tightly wound twine over a hard Indian rubber core. This equipment has improved over the years but not in any truly significant manner.

Golf was originally played with clubs made of forged steel, attached to hickory shafts. The woods were called woods because they were made of wood. The ball was originally made of a leather stitching as well. But the equipment has evolved as much as the aerospace industry has been inventive. Graphite and Titanium and surylyn. Woods made out of metals, and irons made out of graphite. The “Mashie Niblick is no more”.

Not including safety equipment, baseball equipment has stayed pretty true to its history (steroid use and corked bats excluded! – remember baseball is played by thugs!)

Golf on the other hand has not. Golf is played by people who want to better their game. When their skills are optimized, and their game is still poor, then the equipment must make up the difference. The woods and balls of today add far greater accuracy / distance than those of the 1920s. The irons are more forgiving. (Remember, golf is played by lawyers!)

Tennis is the same way. The heads of tennis rackets became bigger to be more forgiving in accuracy and strung to create more ball speed. Compare the aluminum racket that Jimmy Conners used to that of the racket used today by Roger Federer and the difference is as clear as the clubs used by Bobby Jones compared to those used by Tiger Woods.

My conclusion

Baseball is a game played by men confused with thugs – for a true ball player will work on their skills rather than buy equipment that makes the game easier.

Golf is a game played by gentlemen who may replace practice with more sophisticated equipment to increase their skill level.

But by and by, both are arguably the most beautiful games that god has ever inspired man to create.

and every man has ... a Mom.

Happy Mothers Day!

A True Tigers Autograph

When I was a boy, the Detroit Tigers were a very important part of my childhood.

Wherever we drove, Tiger baseball was on the radio, Ernie Harwell calling the play by play. There was no need for color commentators back then, because the announcers were talented enough to keep you interested in the game.

As you would drive out of Detroit on I-94 heading for Jackson, there was a Mobile Oil refinery that had one of its containers painted to be a baseball with the “Go Tigers” cheer painted on it.

When we would come home to Windsor to visit my Grandfather – Papa – we would often find him sitting in front of the radio – listening to the game – with every finger and toe crossed as the Tigers tried to comeback to win or close out a game.

It was magic to hear the game through the tiny speakers of the day – with the buzzes and whistles of AM radio. You could paint the whole game in your brain.

I still remember vividly sitting in old Tiger stadium with my Dad and Papa – eating hot dogs and watching my heros – Al Kaline and Willie Horton, Norm Cash, Bill Freehan and Mickey Lolich.

They won the World Series in 1968. I was 6 years old.
The next year, Neal Armstrong walked on the moon.

It has been amazing since I have been back in Windsor these last 6 years, how some of those memories come flooding back. It has been amazing also how Darlene and I have made new memories at Comerica Park – the successor to Tiger Stadium.

We still listen to the games on AM Radio. Dan Dickerson and Jim Price are almost as special to me now as Ernie was way back then.

“Maglio Ordonez – touch them all!” as the Tigers finished off the A’s with a walk-off home run to advance to the 2006 World Series.

But the other day, the most miraculous Tigers event occurred. Willie Horton signed my daughters T-ball baseball card.

While talking with my wife, she said as any proud mother would do: “Let me show you my little baseball player” and retrieved Alannah’s baseball card from her desk. He admired the card, and her stats on the back. He liked that her favorite team was the Tigers and chuckled that Brandon Inge (it really says “Brian” by mistake on the card) is her favorite player.

And then he signed it.

When Darlene showed me the card that night, I literally held it up to the sky to show my Dad, and Papa. “Look guys! Look who signed Alannah’s baseball card!”

A little bird should be by soon to get a peek for them.

A Calm Day On A Stormy Sea

As I 've recently mentioned, my wife and I have stopped smoking. Yes, we both feel much better for doing so.

Well, sort of.

My mind feels clearer, and things taste better. I don’t stink of tobacco.

But I still find myself out of breath when running around with my daughters. And I still cough.

And my nerves are shot. Shot right to hell.

It's a stressful time right now. With our house closing approaching and a 13 year project closing down, my nerves would be frazzled anyway.

As the air traffic controller from the "Airplane" movie would say: "I picked a lousy time to quit smoking!"

Today though, is much different. Today, my nerves are not frazzled. Today I find life quite … mellow.

"How could this be, Fred? You have been so high strung lately?" you might ask.

Well, I made a mistake this morning.

This morning I woke up with a typical spring allergies sinus headache. And I thought since my allergens were not helping, instead I would take a Sudafed capsule.

So at 5:30am I got up from a not so well rested sleep, went into the kitchen, and poured a cup of coffee. I reached up in the medicine cupboard and found what I thought was a Sudafed, put it in my mouth, and took a sip of coffee. Then I and my coffee sauntered back into the bedroom where I sat up and watched the morning sport scores station.

A muffled voice arose from the pile of pillows next to me. "What were you doing in the kitchen?" asked my still sleeping registered nurse of a wife.

"Getting a coffee. Want one?"

"Nah … what were you doing in the medicine cupboard?"

"Getting a Sudafed"

"Huh .. I thought we were out of those", the clinical side starting to wake up in her.

"Well, I found one" I replied.

"What did it look like?"

Now I am starting to get agitated with the questioning. "2 part capsule, red on one side, pink on the other part."

"Uh … H E LL OOO" – said my wife in that tone that means she is about to prove to me that I am an idiot and I should not even try to deny it.

"That was not a Sudafed!"

"No? What was it."

"It was a Resteril."

"A what-er-il?"

"Resteril" she repeated. "You just took 15 mg of a potent sleeping pill. I guess you better call in sick today!"

Crap.

"We’ll see how I feel after a shower". The alarm clock went off several minutes later, and I shut it off, and got up to feed the girls. ‘Funny, but my knees feel like rubber – and man are my legs heavy?’ I thought to myself.

In the shower, I caught myself meditating – focused on a single spot of tile – several times. 35 minutes later I turned off the faucet.

"I feel ok" I said convincing myself.

Another 45 minutes later and we are scrambling out the door to drop the girls off at school and then head on the expressway to work.

As I pulled in the parking spot at the office I realized I did not remember driving there. But I am here, safe and sound. I checked the front seat to see if there were any traffic tickets I didn’t remember getting.

The rest of the day so far has gone very well. I have felt no nicotine related angst. Quite calm and serene! Quite nice for a change! In fact I have received a couple of nice compliments.

Now that I know what a Resteril looks like, I will skip those and resume my allergen prescription.

But it was nice calm for awhile amid the stormy sea.

Waiting ...

Waiting.

There is nothing more difficult than waiting.

What am I waiting for?

A lot of stuff. Stuff that I cannot just go and get and be done with.

Stuff I have to wait for.

At the end of June, we close the deal and take possession of our dream house.

Since house closing can stir up some pretty significant financial cost surprises, we are in a strict savings pattern. Circling the closing date with the pilot instructing us to please remain seated and to keep our seat belts fastened.

Actually we feel more like we are sitting on the tarmac in a long line of planes to take off because weather has fogged in a far away city and backed airport traffic to a stand still.

At work, we are winding down a 13 year project, ending in November, during which time we have to hold knowledge transfer sessions with the team coming in to take our spots.

This is not a pleasant experience to say the least, and finding initiative and motivation to do your best is difficult as you watch your friends, peers, colleagues, teammates say goodbye as they leave for distant shores – resulting in your workload expanding to encompass theirs as well.

But the good news is that yesterday was my birthday. And every year, for my birthday, we all get a present here in the north east of North America.

We get the start of what becomes summer. The waiting for summer is almost over.

Baseball is almost a full month into swing, and my beloved English-D Tigers are right there fighting for first in the American League Central Division.

The Masters has been played – although it was the weirdest Masters I ever saw. And the clearest – as it was my first experience watching HDTV. Augusta National was my first sight to see in HDTV 1080p. And it was pretty magic.

My golf clubs are in the car trunk. Persimmon red woods and 25 year old Lynx Master irons.

Waiting.

Waiting for our saving pattern to clear so that I can land on the Tee.

Bunnies and Eggs?

It’s Easter again.

It’s a great holiday, but I don’t think it was really thought out very well.

I don’t mean the true meaning of Easter, the death and resurrection of Christ. The significance is the truest basis of Christianity.

I mean from the children’s perspective, the Easter Bunny concept seems to be pretty quickly tossed together.

A bunny with a whicker basket passes out decorated eggs to small children, often hiding them to be found.

Yes, bunnies are cute. And yes, the decorated eggs can be very pretty. But where do the bunnies get the eggs? As a parent of a six and four year old, you got to know the answers to this kind of stuff. You got to be “prepared”.

The modern day Santa Clause stems from a poem written in the 19^th century about an elf in sled that flies carrying both the elf and a bottomless bag of Christmas presents. The sled is pulled by 8 tiny reindeer – each carefully named. They land on the roof of housetops and the elf slides down the chimney and deposit the presents under the tree and stuffs stockings hung by the fireplace. He lives on the North Pole, with his wife and a team of elves who labor all year to make the toys. The story is narrated by the author who witnessed the event, quite surprised it could happen at all.

Brilliant.

Had it not been for the ad firm that held the Coca Cola account in the early 20^th century, this quaint poem would likely have remained a small part of Christmas. Instead, after completely re-designing Santa’s suit, face, beard, magic sack, and plastering the images at every Coca-Cola retailer, the entire western free market knew and loved Santa Clause and his whole mystique.

Christmas carols were replaced by more modern songs about Santa, and a new reindeer called Rudolph.

The whole mystique now had a life of its own and grew to inspire shopping frenzies that in many years saved retailers from failure. The western economies grew exponentially.

But the Easter Bunny, well, that seems like a poor imitation of the same theme. The elf is replaced by a bunny, the bottomless bag by a wicker basket. And toys by …. eggs?

I think the Easter Bunny was conceived during an international candy convention held in the thirties in Atlantic City.

One night, a group of candy executives from Nestle, Hershey, Cadbury, and some of the other notable corporations of the day were sitting in a bar, having drinks, and sharing their woes.

“We can’t move any product during the spring.” One confessed.

“I know!” agreed another, “there’s no interest!”

“We need another Halloween, in the spring” piped up a third. “Everyone loves Halloween”.

“Nah – the spring ain’t spooky. Everything’s green. What we need’s another Christmas!”

Everyone agreed around the table as the barmaid brought the next round.

The Cadbury exec piped up. “St. Paddy’s is in March. We could play on the leprechaun and pot of gold idea!”

“Hmmm”, thought the table, “Interesting.”

“It won’t fly”, said the Hershey exec. “Too Irish. Chocolate potatoes wouldn’t sell, and the parents too drunk to participate.”

Right … right, hmmmm”, said the table.

“Well, there’s Easter”, said another Hershey exec. “I always wondered why Easter was so overshadowed by Christmas?”

Yet another round arrived at the table, and the glasses were raised in the air “To Easter”, and the mugs sloshed together spilling beer all over the table. The barmaid shrieked from the pinch to her bum as she wiped up the mess.

“Easter … hmmmm…”, thought the table.

The thinner Nestles exec passed out in his chair.

“Easter is spring.” Said one.

“Spring is green like St. Paddy’s!” said the Cadbury fellow.

“Oh drop the leprechaun thinking, geesh!”

“Spring makes me think of bunnies” said the pasty thin Nestles exec who woke up seconds earlier, and his head slammed back down to the table.

“Bunnies? Hmmm …” thought the table.

“I learned that eggs represent life.” said another.

“Where’d ya learn that, Sid?”

“uhhh .. I guess it was Sunday school”.

"So we got bunnies and eggs. Sounds great!” said the head Hershey exec.

“Bernie, you and Larry start working on how this fits together! We need spring Candy sales!”, he continued. “Screw this up like you did those Fourth-of-July fire-cracker-candy-canes and it’ll be your ass!”

“This’ll make Christmas and Halloween sales look chincey!” chimed a third, raising his near empty mug in salute, and still sloshing beer on the fellow beside him”

“Bunnies and Eggs!” they all cheered.

“Now let’s go find some girls!” and the brainstorming session was over.

So now we have a bunny that delivers eggs to children. There is no explanation as to how he gets in the house, or why the bunny leaves chocolate bunnies to be eaten. The eggs are usually never eaten, who wants eggs when you get a basket full of candy?

And I don’t even want to get started on the purple green and pink colored strands that line the Easter basket. That stuff is usually found in the crevices of the house the next New Year ’s Day!

As for Bernie and Larry, their success in getting people to buy into the bunny and egg thing was so impressive that they next introduced florists to St. Valentines day.

And the rest, so they say, is history.

What do you mean you can't beam me up yet?

Perhaps there are no flying cars or floating cities on clouds like they promised us when I was a boy. But we do have a lot of the gadgets from Star Trek.

• Cell phones with Bluetooth earpieces work better than the Star Trek communicators.

• PDA’s that do more than Spock’s Tricorder

• GPS navigation systems for exploring earthbound routes

• Tazer guns that stun like their phasers set on “Stun” mode

• Big screen liquid plasma displays look like the display screen on the bridge

We have the Internet with Google searching gives us more information faster than the Enterprise’s sexy super computer.

And as broadband wireless technologies advance, we have access wherever we are.

But we can’t beam ourselves around with Transporters yet though. If we had such a device, imagine how many people would be crowded onto the Caribbean beaches on February Fridays at 5:01pm?

My wife Darlene had surgery last month. She has a degenerative spine, and there is no way to surgically repair it. So in February she had a device implanted into her rear end that attached to lead wires that extend up into her spine.

When the device is turned on, it sends pulses at various rates into her spine that block the nerves from feeling the pain that usually extends down through her hips and legs. She has a little remote control that allows her to switch the programs to changes the beat and intensity of the pulses.

• She has a program for standing and walking.

• She has a program for sitting.

• She has a program for lying down and sleeping.

It doesn’t have an MP3 player … yet. But I expect the next model will, playing the music inside her brain. Downloadable plug-ins will make her butt-cheeks bounce to the beat.

The device implanted in her bum has a lithium battery. She has a recharging belt, that when your place the charger over the device, will somehow recharge the device battery through the skin without any harm or odd sensation. It even has cell phone like icons to show how good the connection is and when the battery is full.

She is still recovering from the surgery, feeling better day by day. That is why it has been so long since my last posting here. But she is slowly coming to the realization that this device only turns down the pain. It doesn’t cure the pain.

Our hope was that this device will allow her to be the happy person she was a few short years ago. The jury is still out on its success. But one thing is for sure…

I am married to a Cyborg.

I may well find myself assimilated.

The Messy Messenger

Last Thursday was a normal day, as normal a day as we Brills have.

Darlene to work at the hospital, the girls to kindergarten in the morning and then to daycare by bus for the afternoon, and I to the office to deal with a production problem haunting us for a couple of days now.

Thursday night is bowling night, and for the first time this year, we were going to go together and enjoy the night. Darlene had picked her brother up to baby-sit for us. I picked the girls up at daycare, like the end to every normal workday, and home we came. The girls in the house first to put their snow clothes away, and I downstairs to unload my own coat, and pockets from the tools of the day.

A scream came from upstairs. It was Ashley-Rea, my youngest. “Daddy, come quick, there’s a hummingbird in the house!”

“A hummingbird?” I pondered, “It must be a really big moth.”

A couple more shrieks from the girls, so I accelerated my pace. The girls were standing in the hallway looking into the living room, pointing at the picture window.

There was a bird, probably 8 to 10 inches in size, with a very large pointy beak. And this bird was panicked. I was stunned for a few seconds, and tried to figure a plan, while wondering how he got in, and “look at all this bird crap!”

So much for bowling.

I propped open the front door, which placed me between he and the door. The trick (as if I need to explain this) is to get behind the bird so flying away from me would move him nearer the open door.

I told the girls to go down stairs in the family room. The bird won’t fly down.

But now I was between the bird and the door and I chased him (her?) instead back to where the bedrooms were. And stupid me, I did not close the bedroom or bathroom doors. Only the guest room is closed to keep the girls from getting those things that have been taken away for past behavior issues.

Down the hall and into the girl’s room he flew. Perched on Alannah’s bed stand, then to Ashley’s, flapping and pooping. I used a towel to try to encourage him back out the door. Finally he flew out – but across the hall into my room. “Geeze”, I thought “Why did I leave that open?” and closed the girls room and the bathroom door behind me as I entered our bedroom.

He was in the back corner. How do I get behind him? Our room is more oddly shaped and from that corner the exit was not apparent. So I approached down the far wall, and he ran under the bed, I chased him from there to the other corner, but then we just went back and forth, and I was getting frustrated!

“GET OUT OF MY HOUSE YOU $%*^&@ BIRD!” I screamed.

Finally he flew out the bedroom door, through the living room, out the propped open front door, and onto a perch on the porch.

He sat their looking right at me and the girls through the storm door glass. As if to apologize for the intrusion, but still displeased with the poor welcome he received. He sat and looked at us. He was disappointed in us.

Very odd. But perhaps not as odd as I thought.

When Alannah was born, there was a bird that perched by clinging on to the brick above the window, and peeked into see Alannah in the hospital room, in her newborn bassinet.

When Ashley-Rae was born, there was a bird that routinely came by to peek in through the hospital window to view in the intensive care basinet while she spent 3 months in the neo-natal care unit.

We had always since thought that birds must somehow be the eyes that let those we love who have passed see our lives in their afterlife.

Silly? I don’t know. Perhaps. But now it makes sense to me. I’m a believer.

That night, as we were washing and scrubbing and working to restore our house back to an inhabitable state, cleaning the bird poop and trying to avoid the Avian flue, Darlene’s Mum called.

After she heard the story, she said “Someone in the family is going to die. That is what a bird in your house means.”

Great, I have no time for old-wives-tales. And we went about our business.

Today is Saturday morning. Piles of laundry yet to wash, and we have not even come close to cleaning our own bedroom after my “battle with the bird”. Darlene was asleep in the guest room. I was asleep on the futon downstairs. At around 8:00 am, the phone rang. It had that long distance ring – and I knew that something was wrong.

Then I heard it answered upstairs, and shortly after Alannah came to tell me that “Auntie Ellyn wants to talk to you right now”. I rolled over with the phone, sat up and wiped the sleep out of my eyes.

“Hello Ellyn?”

“Hi Fred”, the voice lacked Ellyn’s normal enthusiasm.

“What’s up?” I started, “oh, wait, I know what’s up. When did it happen?”

My Aunt Sheila had passed away. I had written about my Aunt Sheila in a recent blog “An Autograph from Christmas Past”. She is very important to me. Honestly I am happy for Aunt Sheila. Now she is free.

But that bird? That bird was there to warn us. To tell us. To deliver a message.

I am a rational man, known to be practical, and honestly I am not one given to superstition or old wives tales. But now, after the birds watching my two girls, and popping by the odd time, I think birds really are somehow, in a way we can’t comprehend, the messengers between this life and the next.

We were not home when the bird came to call. So he let himself in, and he waited for us. I was not too kind to our messenger guest, and now I regret that tremendously. I promise he was not hurt, but he was well aware he was not welcome.

If he did come on such a mission, I only wish he wouldn’t have pooped all over my house.

When Does Christmas Become Unorthodox?

It is January 21, and all of our Christmas decorations are still up.

Where is the line drawn that distinguishes faux pas from unacceptable? If we have already crossed that line, I will keep them up outside until the weather is a bit more conducive to getting on a ladder and untying and unclipping the decorations. But there is still this bloody Santa hung prominently on our front face of the house.

Santa has to go.

Red ribbons are still flapping in the breeze.

We had our first real snowfall last Friday. If not for that snow, they would have been down yesterday. We almost turned the lights back on Friday night so we could take pictures.

I am a believer that come January 2nd, Christmas is over and the decorations must come down. But this year, the day after new years we were back to work. And the day after that I got very sick with a bronchial infection. Then the next week, Darlene had a trial procedure done for her back that left her in a state where she was not supposed to bend over or lift her arms above her head.

And then it snowed on Friday.

Faux pas or not, we just have not had the chance.

Laziness? Yes, there is probably an argument there as well. But we try to dismiss it by falling back on our excuses.

So Christmas continues at the Brill house.

Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.