My son, who usually avoids Halloween, decided to participate this year.  When asked a week before the big day if he was going out and what he want to dress up as, he as usual, surprised us. This year he would join the fun and he wanted to dress up as Tiger Woods.  We asked what he needed and he replied, “I need a Stanford red Tiger Woods golf shirt, the same baseball cap and black pants.” Simple enough. The question was would anyone know he was Tiger, as my 10-yr-old is a pasty white kid from north of the 49th parallel.

We, his parents, assumed he picked Tiger because of the symbol he represents to many of us as  someone who broke boundaries and pushed the limits of racism by unbelievable skill and determination. I was proud my son wanted to dress up as such an inspiring person. What was more impressive, is that our son didn’t actually know any of the above, rather he just saw Tiger the most amazing golfer, not a black man in a playing an old white guy’s game. He made no differentiation other than to acknowledge Tiger is an awesome golfer. Our son is example of what we as a society have been trying to achieve for the last forty years, one where people are accepted as they are and celebrated for their strengths, contributions and dedication to excellence.  Way to go my little Tiger.

I had a picture of a very sad character, isolated from others, with children who were quite likely emotionally stunted. Was I wrong. The church was packed with people who had been touched in some way by this lovely lady.  She was described as loving and kind, fun and creative.  Her 17 yr-old son gave an eloquent eulogy in which he described a woman who struggled at times, but who was a wonderful mother in so many ways.  One of her best friends also spoke, and the sorrow she felt while she read her notes was palatable.  She described a lively force of person, who fought her darkness as best she could, but eventually succumbed to the void that is depression.

While she lived this beautiful person was part of a community that celebrated her being, even when she could not. They carried her when she fell, nursed her when she was weak and mourned for her when she was lost. They are to be commended but so is the woman herself, who for over forty years persevered  through her own bleakness to give others love, kindness and warmth.

The soul takes flight to the world that is eternal… invisible. But there arriving she is sure of bliss, and forever dwells in paradise.

May you find the bliss in your new paradise.

I have lived in 17 different homes during the course of my life thus far, 12 of them before the age of 20. I didn’t mind moving around. Most of the time; it meant new schools and new friends. It drove my sister bonkers, which is ironic since she made friends easier than anyone else I knew. But I liked the fresh start moving afforded me.

As an adult there were a few more moves related to university, first job, husband’s job and a new baby. All those short-term residences were owned by other people and suited us perfectly at the time, besides I could not see myself staying in one place all that long anyway. However, eventually we tired of paying someone else’s mortgage and therefore made our own leap to home ownership.

After looking at a lot of disappointing houses, we finally found the one. We knew it as soon as we walked in the door.

The house has a long history, and as it turned out, one that overlapped the lives of my husband and I in various ways. The first person we met turned out to be a childhood friend of my father-in-laws. The wife, turned out to have been a bridesmaid in my parents wedding. The house itself was previously owned by my father’s boss. The school a couple of blocks away was attended by my grandmother in the 1920s and by my step-brother in the 1970s.  These were only a few of the connections to the house and the neighbourhood.

The house looked very barn like on the outside. I have since learned the style is a variation of Dutch Colonial design.  While the exterior detailing really emphasized the barn similarities, we could see an English cottage in there somewhere. Four years later we found it or rather created it by renovating the exterior. It looks beautiful.

This past year, we have been renovating the inside. The design internally does not mirror the theme of the facade at all, very open and contemporary, but it works. This may be the longest reno in history, but so far it has been worth it (kitchen supplier aside).

We have put a lot of money, time and energy into the house knowing, as we did on the first day we saw it, that it was not just going to be our house but our long-term home.  Amazingly, I have no desire to move on like I used to. We have been in the house for eight years now. My son does not remember living anywhere else. The fact we live in a great neighbourhood only enhances our feelings for our home. We are well and truly rooted here and loving every minute of it.

More fortunate though, may be his parents. In addition to his friendships, we have developed ones of our own with the parents of all these kids. The moms, in particular, get together on a regular basis for glass of wine, coffee, bad movie, whatever…  We count on each other when someone is running late and needs a hand picking up their kids, car pooling to baseball or soccer, on those extreme occasions when we need a quiet moment to get something done, we ship our kids to each others houses. We meet for walks, talks, and generally good companionship.

This summer four of us are sharing a nanny off and on. Rather than send our boys to camp the entire summer, which as working parents we inevitably have to do, the nanny share allowed us to let boys enjoy being in their own neighbourhood, meeting friends at the park, etc. Because most weeks one to three families (never more than five kids on a given day) are using the nanny together, they always have a pal to hang around with, yet can find some solitude if they want. I am pretty pleased with how it has worked out, my son even more so.

Most of the boys either play soccer or baseball in the summer. My kid chose to play both. The baseball team is especially funny, as the kids team isn’t determined so much by ability but more so by the compatibility of all the parents. When the teams were formed, the parents called one another to make sure their boys were on the same team, not so much for the kid’s interests, but for mom and dad, who actually could spend two hours watching baseball while talking with other adults.

It may sound like a clique, but the group does ebb and flow. New families join in all the time, some families lay low for a while with other commitments.

I recently noticed a group of moms about a decade younger than I, also getting together on a regular basis.

Ironically, I was not a joiner most of my life, and even now I feel out of my element sometimes, but I enjoy the candour, sincerity and humour of the moms, and dads for that matter. Most of all I am thrilled that there are others nearby looking out for my son just as I do for theirs.

Today I was moved to tears upon reading the blog of one. She was writing about, what really is, a terribly painful issue that never really goes away- because even when you achieve the end goal, you still don’t think its good enough.  I appreciated how she laid her emotions bare for all to see. In addition, I applaud the decision and determination with which she is pursuing her goal. I only hope she knows regardless of how she see herself, her friends see her as beautiful. She radiates.

The other friend, it terribly witty and often has me in stitches with her wry commentary on just about anything from her DH,  crazy in-laws, furry baby to her knitting fetish.  She too radiates. Her self-confidence is powerful.

I am gratefull for the brief reprieves they offer during the day both in person and virtually. Thanks gentlewomen.

The transparency of this case, illustrates why school officials, parents and students need to talk openly about these issues and find a solution together. Hiding behind the privacy legislation does not encourage positive community agreement.

All Basketball Ontario sanctioned tournaments are fair play – cheering only basically.  Sounds good in theory, but a great many parents took it to the extreme.  The noise was deafening. They brought clappers and noise makers. They had someone lead them in “cheers”. What they made was not positive but intimidating. Before them were a bunch of nine year-olds playing competitive basketball, many for the first time, and all the kids can hear is noise – not cheering, not anything positive – just loud unrepentant noise.

At the novice and atom level the program is supposed to be about learning the game of basketball. The kids need to hear their coaches when they are on the floor. There was no way any of the children could hear their coach with the craziness  in that gym. You would have thought it was the NCAA championship – oh wait I suspect those spectators might be more respectful of the players.

The parents behaviour was atrocious. It was mean spirited in its attempt to unnerve the opposing team. One parent/coach whose child was not playing in the last game, had the nerve to stand up and make the choke sign to the team that had been in the lead. What is that all about?

Admittedly I err on the side of the golf clap and say things like, “make good decisions.” I clap for either team when they make a good play, why shouldn’t I, they deserve it. I don’t expect parents to cheer like I do, but I do expect them to respect their child and the other children playing on the floor, who love the game and the opportunity to play with new friends.

Nothing interesting there Paulo, move along.

I enjoyed the allegorical story of a young shepherd searching for his personal legend. The remebrance of youth’s idealism rippled through the pages. However the second book was painful. There is only so many times you can be beat over the head with a concept. Repetition is useful to help people remember facts, but constant repetition is an annoying broken record.

I have subsequently read two more of Paul Coelho’s books, courtesty of my local library. What amazes me is that even though I think the books are poorly written and simplistic, I am fascinated by their concepts. Again, I found I liked one (Veronika Decides to Die) but the other was forgetable (Brida).

So now the question is … do I borrow a few more and continue down the path of Paul Coehlo or move on … I’m going for moving on.