no one is available to chat

No kidding.
It's 5:07 Central Standard Time and I am the only friend I have on facebook.
Now don't you be gnashing teeth or weeping over me, I'm just ducky. I have been struggling with a Super-Duper HD 16 Digital Home Studio W/ CD Burner since 2:45, when I woke up. I won't bore you with a bunch of technical details like I did in the previous sentence, but I will alert anyone who has this machine that you can only insert eight (8) characters for a song title.
Succinct, for instance, has eight (8) characters.
Why such dedication you ask? Because I would like to purchase the aforementioned Super-Duper etc so I can continue to make shabby recordings of my own songs, and a local Christian rock band is offering me hard to chew Canadian coinage to make them fifty copies of their new demo. This unexpected booty will go towards the aforementioned purchase of the aforementioned Super-Duper etc. So, as I mentioned afore, I am up and at 'em.
The wind outside is gusting to a good 60 kilometres an hour and I calculate that if I could hitch a ride with a decent gust I could be in Toronto in about a week, not that I have any desire to be in Toronto, but at 5:27 am the oddest thoughts amuse.
What's in Toronto that you don't desire to see, you might well ask?
Oh, lot's of things I don't even know exist. If I did know of their existence I would name a few, but I don't really see the point in speculating about such things.
By the way, the Cd's seem to be burning nicely, but with titles such as "Beautifu", "Second Ch", "The Creat" Forgive me Father, for I know not what I do. Sigh...
Jann has been writing for about a week now, preparing for another book, and I am now amused by the thought of comparing writings for the week. Mine as you can see just behind you, are just this side of gibberish and about as insightful as a herd of bison.
Janns' will be more like...
I was watching the dust particles in the air just now....tiny dancing formations, all ebb and flow, connecting and separating like half remembered dreams, not gone, but not here...just barely visible shadows in the mist we call life and time. Am I a shadow to you now? Is that you I see? Were you ever real, or just some wraith I have conjured from the countless desires and aches I shelter in the lonelier outposts of my mind? Why do I hunger? Where do the rivers of these tears empty? Into an ocean somewhere beyond our understanding, I suppose. An ocean we are all crossing, each in turn, like liquid particles in ebb and flow and gentle sway.
Oh, I feel a big ripper comin' on!
Love ya Jann!

The Marvels of Canadian Mediocrity

This is not exclusively about my beloved Toronto Maple Leafs, but how could this topic not include them? I will dispense with them right off the bat. They haven't made the finals in 43 years, much less won a Stanley Cup.If they have any consistency at all, it's that they meander through season after season invariably to finish in the lower half of the standings or miss the playoffs altogether. Yet they are the wealthiest franchise in the game and fans flock to see them play from coast to coast. Fans like me, who marvel at their mediocrity.

I would be remiss if I did not mention the public perception of our current Prime Minister, one Stephen Harper. He has all the charisma of an undusted Buddha, a stare as vacant as the Bates motel, and an embarrassing penchant for showing up late at photo ops with International Heads of State. He makes bland seem like a verb, dresses like his Mom picked out his suits, and is forever backtracking on cock-eyed plans such as his latest thoughts regarding making the national anthem lyric more gender friendly. He truly seems like the guy plastered to the gymnasium wall at a junior high dance, awkward, ungainly, without so much as a great personality to fall back on by way of positive comment. But he is one shrewd political cat who has teetered on the brink of being ousted from governing the country on a near daily basis for years. Exactly the kind of long term mediocrity I admire.

Tim Horton's. Ah yes, good 'Ole Timmy's. A true staple of the Canadian lifestyle, they stretch the length and breadth of our great nation, ubiquitous as gas stations and now somehow as necessary. You gotta get gas, you gotta have coffee. Finding one without a lineup at the drive-thru or at the counter causes me some consternation. I immediately wonder if we are at war. Or, is there a local epidemic I am not privy to. I never feel like I am allowed any time to make my decision, although the fact that I don't utilize my lineup time to do that puzzles me every time I am greeted by the brown shirts who brusquely ask what I want and then tell me it's over there, then tilting their little superior skulls either left or right with at least one eye rolling back into their foreheads. Add bland mediocre coffee laden with sugars and laced with cream of some indeterminate mixture (cocaine, some say), sandwiches the size of a small rodent, and donuts that would make Grandma rise out of the grave with her cleaver poised to strike, and you have the Tim Horton Experience. Not great, not awful, but somewhere down the middle of the long beige road to true mediocrity.

Canadian Blogs. "Blah, blah, blah!" is how one educated friend described them to me a few days ago, and I tend to agree with her. Take this one for instance. Does anybody really give a rat's ass what I have to say about the Leafs, the PM, or Tims? Nah. It is slightly below a typing exercise in Grade Ten in terms of serious commentary, and if it reflects any truth at all, it is that I am a mediocre writer with mediocre opinions on all things mediocre.
But it reflects one perfect achievement. I am become that which I criticize...I am Mediocre, I am Canadian!!!!
Switch to the Leaf game, eh?
Pass me that double double and I'll sing you a real song!
"In all thy... your gender here... command..."

Of Empty Restaurants

Winnipeg reputedly has the largest number of restaurants per capita of any city in North America. As you can imagine, competition is extremely tough, and many do not survive the first year in business. Deep pockets help, but the bottom line is quickly developing a base clientele who willingly supply good old word of mouth to spread the news of your food, service and ambiance.
Now, I have been called cheap, and tend not to frequent restaurants as a rule. Being an amateur cook has alerted me to the actual cost of my favourite dishes, most of which I can make myself, and hardened me to prices. And did I mention I am cheap? I may toss this bit of insight off in a cavalier fashion, but it has actually taken me years to accept this perceived flaw in my character. But do not misunderstand, I love a good meal in a quiet restaurant. The quieter the better, especially if I am with someone I love. To paraphrase "a loaf of bread, a jug of wine, and thou..." I would say great food, an occasional visit from a server, and leave us alone suits me right down to the ground. The natural inclination might be to think that an empty dining spot is not a good dining spot, but if they weren't good at something, they would be belly up and gone in no time in this highly competitive market. For example, many Chinese outlets survive on pickup and delivery, not in-house dining, and I have discovered that if you love their food delivered, it can prove sensational served right there, a few feet from the kitchen. One also is rewarded with what the Chinese call "the sizzle of the wok", which means that most food is best served straight from the cooking utensil to your plate, and not placed into containers to cool, mush, and generally degenerate over the half hour or more it takes to reach you at home. There is no comparing pan fried shrimp served sizzling from the wok to the same gooey offering that comes with all the crunch factor steamed away from being enclosed and in transit.
For years with my wife, starting when we were dating and pure lust had opened my wallet wide to the eager outstretched hands of restaurateurs city wide, I had a knack for picking out interesting places to try that would invariably be empty when we arrived. This was not by design, as I was a relative stranger to the city at the time, but rather I thought a devine coincidence which allowed my love and I to dawdle over meals with no clatter and hubbub to distract us from gazing into each others eyes, still marvelling at the excitement racing through our minds, bodies, and hearts over this new found glory which we humans refer to as love. We were in the stage I heard referred to as the "Wonder of Me", which I believe aptly describes a burgeoning romance between two erudite souls, where each new revelation from a lover only confirms our good judgment and the righteous serendipity of it all. As we passed beyond this stage, where I would have eagerly offered every cent I possessed to be in her company for one minute, and as my wallet slowly closed up again to it's natural state, we found that even though our date night dinners were not as frequent, we had not lost this talent for finding excellent dining holes with no one in them. Besides the obvious lack of distractions to impede the cause of a loving and lustful evening together, we found that we started to get to know the proprietors of our favourite spots, and they us. This led to times of enjoying fresh made pasta dishes that weren't on the menu being served up "homestyle", while chatting happily with the owners, as we all sat together. It meant being serenaded with show tunes by Asian owners who loved the rhythm of my last name and would sing "Old Mcdonald had a farm" when we appeared. (never mind that the name is O'Donnell)
It meant stiff tumblers of scotch offered gratis by a Chinese grandmother as an appetizer when we appeared in tears just before closing, fresh from watching that damned "Sophie's Choice", the drinks accompanied by a lecture about the foolishness of watching sad movies when you are young and in love. "You should be happy!", she chastised us, and more sage advice was ever offered. It all added up to making an evening out all the more enjoyable, this common touch from common places. I have nothing against some pert young thing saying "My name is so and so", teeth beaming professionally, all scrubbed and willing to serve amidst the chaos of a packed house. But, give me Mama Kim Tuong at the deli, who would sometimes order the cook to make my favourite noodles even though they weren't on that day's menu, or the slender Vietnamese owner who would lazily drape himself into a nearby chair and chat with us about this and that while we waited for our dinner, or the bada-bing bada-boom conversations with the struggling Italian couple who would greet and treat us like family, or the hard working Newfie pair that always cooked my breakfast bacon just so, and offered their newspaper for me to read.
Okay, so I'm cheap, and maybe I haven't helped anyone through college with exorbitant tipping designed to show what a sport I am, but I spent my money on good food, prepared by good people in good places (most of which are still there), despite the comings and goings of the glittering trendy meet and greet establishments which flash onto the scene, make bushels of cash, then disappear overnight to reappear as yet another, even trendier spot for the card carrying masses. Elitist? Moi? You bet.
Give me "Old McDonald" everytime!

Isabel's Passing

Last night I heard that my Aunt Isabel Peterson passed on, a few weeks shy of her 88th birthday. I am happy for her.
She was the most Christian woman I have ever known, and no doubt woke up this morning in God's kingdom. She and my Uncle Harry are now reunited with their son Patrick, who at a tender age was taken from them in a tragic car accident crossing the road to go to school. They always spoke of him as if he were still among us, as if he was not gone. Little Patrick was frozen in time in their minds, a beautiful little boy who would never grow old, and would surely walk in the door any moment and announce he was home from school. So very sad and sweet, to feel that way.
I could pack this with stories of what a tireless worker she was for others, and list many a kindness she had shown to me, but I prefer to relate one story. My wife and I were returned from the prairies to place my sister Geraldine's affairs in order. She succumbed to the ravages of diabetes in her early forties. Isabel and Harry ferried us about and stood with us as we interned her ashes at the family graveyard in the Miramachi Valley village of Macnamee, also my birthplace.
Before we went up the river to do this, I went downtown shopping with Isabel. We could not move five feet without someone stopping her to say hello. I was introduced and re-introduced about twenty times in an hour. One stop I made was to attempt to rent a guitar so I could play some music when we went up the river to their tiny cabin. It had been a dicey negotiation on the phone, but they told me to drop in and they would see what could be done. As they took my particulars they asked if I had a local phone number. I mentioned Isabel, who was waiting outside in the car, and the atmosphere changed completely. I was given a fine instrument, not a rental, and told that deposits and credit card numbers were unnecessary if I was Isabel Peterson's nephew. I recall they charged me ten dollars for the week I wanted to use it. Coming from Winnipeg, where shopkeepers will bite your folding money to see if it's real, I was astounded. Such was the respect and good will towards my aunt in that community. Not something you can buy, but something you earn over a lifetime by being an exemplary citizen and human being, which she surely was.
RIP Aunt Isabel. Say hi to Harry and give Patrick a hug from his Uncle Byron.

Let the Truth be Known

There is no such thing as a bacon fish, although just yesterday I convinced a three year old that there is.
There is no such thing as Absorbine Senior, (only available in Canada), although my gal in the States was almost sold for a fleeting moment during a conversation about her aches and pains.
There is no such thing as Eider-Up, that being the downy soft underbelly feathers of waterfowl that fly upside down, and much sought after by those seeking the softest pillow in creation.
There are no barking spiders in the nation. The noise long attributed to them is the simple emission of methane from the rear region of the average Canadian male.
Although they may be known as tampons, they are actually tamped in, or so I am told. And pulling the string in curling has nothing to do with this product or the Scott's Tournament of Hearts, that near hysterical shriekathon which graces the television screens for a week every winter.
Biggar, Saskatchewan promotes itself as bigger than New York city, but trust me it isn't.
Canadians always agree on the time of day when they meet each other...eg.
Greeting: "Morning." Response: "Morning!"
Greeting: "Afternoon." Response:"Afternoon!"
Greeting "Evening." Response: "Evening!"
Yes, Canadians are a polite lot, even apologizing long before there is a need. I used to say "I'm sorry" to my last wife several times the moment she awoke, figuring to get a jump on the day's exchanges. I would sometimes toss in a few "Yes, dear's" and "You're right's" as well.
I would introduce my first wife as my "first wife", and the irony of it is not lost on me.
I used to slay my teen-aged son and his friends with my own tee shirt phrases. Their favourite?
"Grandma went to Hawaii and all I got was this lousy hickey!"
I heard of a local band named "The Sweater Kittens". Best name I've heard in years.
I have it on good authority that there are no drive-thru cereal chains in the States.
I think there should be a reality show where contestants present their ideas for yet another reality show, and I wouldn't watch that one either.
I boycotted the sleazy contest to compose Hockey Night in Canada's new theme despite my personal dream to write the great Canadian hockey song. Call me unpatriotic, but I abhor Stompin' Tom's tune. It should only be used the next time the Leafs win the Stanley Cup. That way I am assured of being free of it for my lifetime.
I wrote a screenplay entitled "The Pass."...and so far everyone has taken one.
If anyone ever accuses me of plagiarism my reply will be. "Oh yeah! Well I've heard that before too!"
Sorry...

My Baptism

This is lifted from the web site of St. Benedicts Table...my connection to the body of Christ. Editorial notes are by the Rev. Jamie Howison
Thinking about my baptism
a bit of a meditation by Byron O’Donnell, on his baptism on January 10, 2010

There I sat, enjoying Jamie’s lighthearted remark about the tiny infant who was to be baptized in the same ceremony as me. “She has never had an unkind thought or uttered an unkind word to anyone.” Chuckling along with the congregation, I suddenly felt our whole pew stiffen as Jamie said “Byron, on the other hand…” Our many conversations raced through my mind, somewhat akin to someone’s life flashing before their eyes. Why oh why did I ever open up to this man? I’m not sure what he actually said next, but it was fairly gentle, as is Jamie’s way.
Following his instructions, we all went to the back of the sanctuary to wait for my close friend Larry Campbell, who was “giving me away”* Friends gathered around and Jamie proceeded with the baptism. I find the text to be incredibly powerful and moving, a true endorsement of Christ and of the Christian life, and a corresponding total rejection of Satan and evil itself. I believe I would have wept if Larry hadn’t had that covered for us all. I reflected back to Larry weeping as he read my testament of love for my wife Cary during our wedding ceremony decades before. As I was responding incorrectly** to all of the questions I needed to answer, my eyes locked into the gaze of Maddie, the baby being baptized alongside of me. She seemed to understand that we were sharing something, and her curiosity was completely evident to me. The sixty years between us seemed to be a statement. We are never too young and never too old to make this pact with the heavenly Father. This child’s eyes shone with love and innocence, like the humble infant beginnings of our Saviour himself. Three times our gazes connected this same way, a trinity of communications which will stay at the forefront of my thoughts until my dying day.
This evening, back in my sprawling quarters at the Hotel Unusual in Dryden (whose motto is “Where friends don’t let good friends stay!”), I feel renewed in faith, filled with hope, and ready to love the whole world despite the charges that may entail. I am thankful to Jamie for his constant earnest encouragement to me…to Steve and Larry for their undying and unshakable friendship. I am especially thankful to my dear friend Andrew for standing up with me. Andy, you were an angel to me at a very bad time in my life and I say this… attend to this artful spiritual place and you will find peace. Lastly I am so thankful to have my son William and his wonderful Breanna attend and watch me publicly commit myself to a Christian life.
Byron O’Donnell
*a note from the editor: Larry, of course, was not “giving Byron away,” in the manner of an old-school father “giving away” his daughter at a wedding, but was standing in the role of sponsor to bear witness to this sacramental event. If there was any “giving away” happening in this context, it happened long ago between noon and three one bleak Friday afternoon just outside of Jerusalem…
**a second note from the editior: Your heart, though, was in the right place…

The Great Canadian Beaver Migration

A few weeks ago I was fortunate enough to witness one of nature's more inexplicable phenomena. As the sun wrestled with the horizon, I saw the a beaver migration along the edge of the highway. And what a sight it was! One long single file of our nations symbols stretching back for almost a mile, which I believe is about a kilogram and a half, or as I've heard it called, a kilowattever. They were earnestly galumphing along the asphalt, their portly bodies swaying back and forth in perfect rhythm. As you can imagine this is not a spectacle one sees everyday, in fact most Canadians are lucky to witness it even once in their lifetimes, so I was fascinated. They seemed to be in individual family groups according to size, so I assumed that the leader of each unit, also the biggest, was the patriarch or possibly the matriarch, I'll have to look that up.
It is not understood why they form these migratory groups, and all documented studies simply gloss over the motivation of the creatures. What is known is that they never migrate north or south, it's always east to west or vice versa. This may be a recent development in their pattern, as few roads tend to go very far north, and are usually not in the best condition, generally with gravel edges which the beavers find most uncomfortable, especially the younger males, as it is said to stunt tail growth, which makes them disinclined to even make the mysterious trek. The beavers encourage each other with frequent slaps of their tails on the pavement, and this also may explain their preference to modern highways over the gravel roads which service the North.
They can sometimes be seen formed into sleeping circles where they all rest together with their heads stuck in towards the center and their tails fanning out to form a perimeter, sometimes piled three or four deep. This is when they are the most dangerous and are better left alone. The larger males guard the resting rodents and are very aggressive in their defence. I lost an Uncle this way as he was taken down by several circle defenders and succumbed to the numerous bites. The sad thing about this situation is that the beavers who attack humans must be singled out and put down. Once they acquire a taste for human flesh they will not return to gnawing on trees for their living, and have known to terrorize outpost communities for months at a time before they are stopped.
Why do they make this trek? No one who lives among them seems to know. Science has no idea, and you sure can't ask a beaver, can you?

Can the Amish save the institution of marriage?

As I understand it, when Amish teens are maturing they are allowed to leave the community and explore the outside world for an extended period of time. I think as long as a year. They are then allowed to choose whether to return to the gentle life, or abandon it for whatever lifestyle they choose.
Now here's what I'm thinking. The institution of marriage, a very apt word, as anyone considering marriage ought to be committed... is in jeopardy. With the success rate offering odds akin to a Legion Hall meat draw, I have pondered many an hour as to what could help this dismaying situation. Cue the Amish...
Imagine for a moment that couples have a prenuptial agreement or understanding that after a mutually agreeable number of years, perhaps twenty or twenty-five, they have the option of spending a year apart to reconsider their lot in life. This would find both sexes smack dab in the middle of either the mythical male midlife crisis (mid-wife?), or the female peri-menopausal madness (very menopausal?), a pair of explosive deal-breaking emotional upheavals, if there ever was one. It's a time when couples are often filled with doubt about their choice of mate, career, car, lifestyle etc, and find themselves singing Peggy Lee's infamous, "Is that all there is?" as they wander aimlessly about the home.
Enter the sober second thought clause...
If a husband and wife had the option of living apart for a time and pursuing other interests, it could well offer a time of reflection on their marriage at a safe distance from the intrusions of their partners. It would upset the pattern of daily living, provide time to examine other lifestyles uninhibited by a mate, perhaps blow off some sexual steam, and venture into worlds unknown without anwering to anyone but yourself. Get that sports car, take a younger lover, read books instead of watch TV, travel, make paper airplanes, whatever...
I fully realize an option already exists, known as the separation agreement, but that's a guilty plea waiting for the final sentence of divorce. Exceptions to every rule of course, but in the main... it's over. It's now down to the question of who gets what. A legal feeding frenzy where everyone gets hurt but the lawyers, bless their teflon hearts.
Given the marriage dissolution statistics, I think this may provide an opportunity for couples to come to terms with their emotional misgivings, their fear over lost dreams, their boredom with the status quo, and to reconsider from a safe distance the value of their partnership with their spouse, and whether it is still a viable committment.
So there you have it.
Byron's Brave Solution to one of the most distressing social ailments of the world.
You're welcome.