During the trip, I saw many things that inspired awe in a forty year old heart. I’ve had a bull elephant wander to within twenty feet of our truck in Africa, presumably checking us out as we were him. I’ve seen cheetahs take down a gazelle. I’ve had a wild boar pull a knapsack through the wall of a tent with me holding the other end… buck naked in the middle of Africa. I’ve climbed Mount Sinai in the pitch black of a moonless night only to see the most spectacular desert sunrise I have ever witnessed. I’ve been privy to the underground capitalist economy in Viet Nam. I’ve stood in the Parthenon and felt the history of the ancients embrace me. I’ve been diving at the Poor Knight islands with the same stingrays that that ultimately brought on the untimely death of Steve Irwin. I’ve body surfed thirty foot swells off Kuda Beach in Bali.

I’ve stood in the streets of Punta Cana in the Dominican Republic with a little girl in a pink dress tugging at my trousers knowing all too well that if I looked down at her I would scoop her up in my arms and bring her back to the safety and prosperity of my home. While all these events are etched in my mind, none are as vivid as my time in Germany.

We went to Dachau Concentration Camp.

When I walked onto the grounds at Dachau, I was struck by the grey bleakness. The black energy still permeated the property and sucked the light out of me. It was a sunny day, yet a palpable pall hung in the air. I could see where the barracks had been. Each barrack was designed to house 250 people. There were 1600 housed in each. 32,000 people were liberated from the camp on April 29, 1945. Over 200,000 political prisoners came through Dachau during the war. Except for those liberated, none left alive.

Further on, I saw the rail lines where prisoners were shuttled in like cattle. Near the end of the war, many didn’t make it to the camps at all. They were executed in the cars or beside a nearby ditch where the dead were rolled in a bloody heaping stench.

I saw the ovens designed to cook human beings while they were still alive. At Dachau, unlike Auschwitz, the ovens were never used. Still, that anything as insidious could be conceived is beyond the realm of a sane imagination. I stood in one spot in front of the ovens; my feet anchored to the concrete floor and wept.

Later, I found that I was unable to look anyone in the eye lest they see the reflection of what I had seen.

There is a plaque at Dachau which reads, “Never Again” in five languages. Yet it has happened time and again. It would seem we are not so far removed from our primordial ancestors after all.

While we are honouring those who have fought for our countries and the liberation of others, let us not forget those who needed our help. Those who have fallen simply because someone believed they were the wrong creed, colour, religion or sex need to be remembered as well. Those unidentifiable masses who were slaughtered at the whim of madmen.

When leaving Dachau, I recall being speechless. Nothing could have lessened the darkness I felt as I stumbled away from the Gates of Hell.

Lest We Forget.

Namaste

Two of those beach heads were American: Omaha and Utah beaches. Two were British: Sword and Gold beaches. The fifth beach was Juno beach and the Canadians.

Historians have stated that Omaha and Juno were two of the fiercest fought battles on that stormy morning in 1944. I’ve done reading on both and the Americans probably received the worst of it with the Canadians a very close second. At about 7:30 AM, fourteen thousand Canadians, complete with artillery and tanks, assaulted the German fortifications on Juno beach in Dieppe, France. Six thousand more followed shortly after. Ten thousand Canadian sailors manned the navy at sea while the Royal Canadian Air Force fought in the air and bombed key German positions.

On the beach, 914 young men were wounded or lost their lives, many before they were even out of the water. Many more would lose their lives in the coming days. One little known fact about the Canadians on D-day: despite the horrific toll on the beach, they were successful on their march inland to the point they had to stop pushing ahead because they were farther inland than either the Americans or the British who flanked them. The Canadians risked being surrounded because support had not come as quickly as anticipated from their flanks. On that day, the Canadians were the only ones to reach their objectives.

During the Second World War, there were just over 1 million Canadians active from a country with a population of 11 million. Nine percent of our country went into active service.

Germans interviewed after the war have stated that the Canadians were the fiercest of their adversaries.

From the main article: Juno Beach

The Canadian forces that landed on Juno Beach faced 14 heavy batteries of 155 mm guns and 9 medium batteries of 75 mm guns, as well as machine-gun nests, pillboxes, other concrete fortifications, and a seawall twice the height of the one at Omaha Beach. The first wave suffered 50% casualties, the second highest of the five D-Day beachheads. The use of armour was successful at Juno, in some instances actually landing ahead of the infantry as intended and helping clear a path inland.^[24]

Personnel of Royal Canadian Navy Beach Commando “W” landing on Mike Beach, Juno sector of the Normandy beachhead. 6 June 1944.

Despite the obstacles, the Canadians were off the beach within hours and beginning their advance inland. A single troop of four tanks managed to reach the final objective phase line, but hastily retreated, having outrun its infantry support. In particular, two fortified positions at the Douvres Radar Station remained in German hands (and would for several days until captured by British commandos), and no link had been established with Sword Beach.

By the end of D-Day, 15,000 Canadians had been successfully landed, and the 3rd Canadian Infantry Division had penetrated further into France than any other Allied force, despite having faced strong resistance at the water’s edge and later counterattacks on the beachhead by elements of the German 21st and 12th SS Hitlerjugend (Hitler Youth) Panzer divisions on 7 June and 8 June.

Today, I will salute those who have gone before and given me the chance to live the life I have.

Namaste

April 9-12, 1917 World War One

In 1917, the four Canadian divisions attacked a single target for the first time in the country’s history; Vimy Ridge. It was indeed the veritable birth of a nation. It was the first time Canadian troops had worked on their own without being under the wing of the British Empire.

British and French troops had attempted to take the ridge, a stronghold for the Germans in Northern France and a key connection to German fronts. The long low ridge overlooked Both the British and French assaults failed without making much of a dent in the German strong-hold. It was critical that this 7 kilometre ridge be taken as the Germans had a commanding view over the front lines Allied troops. The Canadians were ordered to take the hill and began preparations. On April 9, 1917 at 5:30 AM, the assault on Vimy began. It took four days of struggle, hand to hand combat and slaughter on both sides before the Canadians reached the top of the ridge, finally attacking with bayoneted rifles against German machine gun nests.

Despite most of the commanding officers being dead or injured, the troops kept on with the assault until it was complete. 15,000 men began the campaign on April 9. 4,500 were left at the end on April 12. 3,598 men died and almost 7,000 men were wounded in the battle. The German casualties were equally as horrendous.

For one of the many moments in recent history, Canadians showed the world who we really were; loyal to each other, proud of our nation, proud of  who we are and loyal to a just cause to a fault. Vimy Ridge and the surrounding area, was ceded in perpetuity to Canada by the French government in 1922. There is now a monument that was completed in 1936 to honour our fallen soldiers. It stands overlooking the Northern France landscape, a haunting reminder of the 60,000 Canadian men who died in World War One.

Today, there will be parades. Men who fought in the Second World War will march by, their boots and medals shined, their uniforms pressed neatly, their chins held out and their pride justified. Those of the First World War are only memories now, yet they walk beside us all. If you happen to meet one of these men, look him square in the eye, shake his hand and say thank you.

Wear the poppy proudly.

Namaste

Why are there not cutsie poems about Fall? Something like we have for Spring, “Spring has sprung, The grass is riz, I wonder where the women is.” I think it’s a little difficult to write about a season that is the shoulder between summer and winter. I mean, it’s not called fall for nothing right? Anything I think of for verse seems to come out somewhat drab. “Fall is flung, A carpet of paint, Where you are is where I ain’t.”

Maybe it’s the visual of falling back rather than springing ahead that’s making it difficult.

And why is it called Fall anyway? Because leaves fall from the trees or the temperature falls. Perhaps it’s the time of year the stock market traditionally plunges to a fiery death. Maybe it’s supposed to be when we fall in love so we aren’t so wretchedly cold through the winter.

I pulled a couple of boats, a dock and a set of boat rails out of the water. During the surgically precise procedure, I bruised a heel, cut a finger, strained a shoulder and cursed more than a few times. Oh! And I lost a critical screw I’m going to need in the spring somewhere in the primordial muck at the bottom of the lake. Yup. Watched it fall right into the murky depths.

It all went according to Hoyle.

Which brings me to thinking about winterising in the first place. I have a deeply ingrained love-hate relationship with stuff. On the one hand I know the more things I have, the more responsibility I have for taking care of them and the more time I spend doing the caretaking. On the other, I like the idea of having what I need when I need or want it. The question is, do I really need all of this stuff? Have I become so ingrained in the “have” society that I am simply a collector of items of convenience; things I might someday need and that are simply magnets for dust?

I wonder sometimes if I didn’t have all this stuff, would I then have time saved by not having to care for it. Then I might actually go down the street to a neighbour’s and, heaven forbid, socialize?

In modern society, I have need of certain things and we all aspire to better. It’s not as if I can live in tents and at the same time, I know I own things because I wanted them, not necessarily because they are an absolute necessity. I need to be careful in the choices I make as to what I have. Careful that I am not buying them because I think they will make me happy.

No thing will ever make me happy. That’s my job alone.

That same thought process applies to people. While I do need intimate connection (I believe it’s universal among all of us) I also recognise that no person is truly responsible for making me happy or sad. Only my reaction to what they may say or do is responsible for my emotional response and I am ultimately responsible for my reaction.

In the end, taking care of the things I have ensures they remain in good working order. Taking care with the relationships I have ensures they remain in good working order as well.

Namaste

Our story begins at M.B.A. (Male Bathers Anonymous)

Me: My name is Ed and I’m a bather.

Crowd: Hi, Ed.

Me: I last bathed last night with candles, lemongrass tea and bubbles.

Guy at the back: Awww, Dude!

Where to start? Okay… I was born in a manger in Beth… no, no… that’s too far back.

A couple of nights ago I was asked, “What’s with the baths, Pal?” Honestly, it’s a relatively new thing I seem to have fallen into (not that washing in general is new). After all, guys aren’t supposed to take baths unless they are in the presence of company. At least, that seems to be the common misconception.

A couple of years ago I began riding the cycle in April. Every year it becomes a bit tougher to shake off the previous winter’s propensity to be slug-like and that year, much to my chagrin, I seemed to have developed a little inner tube. A bicycle spare tire, if you will. It was just a little extra heft around Ed’s mid section and a bit freaky, honestly. It’s a little like discovering haemorrhoids for the first time and thinking, “Okay! Who’s the arse that did this?”

Anyway, I’d been riding for a while when May rolled around and I started with the idea I would like to ride a given distance by the end of the summer. That year I chose 2500 km because it seemed to be a bit of a challenge and still reachable. For the record, the most I have ridden in a summer is 7200 km (about 4500 miles). I was thirty-five then. I ain’t thirty-five no more, Babba-Louie.

I guess we’re only as young as we feel. Mentally, I’m twelve.

So, back to the baths. When I had a particularly tough ride (aka… “ow, ow, ow”), I remember someone suggesting a bath with Epsom salts. While in the hot bath, I thought, “Whoa! This is goooood!” Now, I hadn’t had a bath alone since I was about ten. That is, at ten I finally learned how to remain upright in a greasy tub without inadvertently kung-fu kicking the shower head.

Because I was pushing hard to get back to where I believed I belonged as a rider (and get rid of the inner tube), I was groaning my may out of bed each morning and crawling toward the bathroom lest I just lay there in muscle damage induced stasis and urinate on the low pile carpeting.

Trust me when I say I would prefer to crawl in unabated agony than remain where I was.

When I lived in the city, we had a hot-tub. After a particularly hard workout (that sounds too much like a job) I would soak in the hot-tub. Soooo… extrapolating a bit and attempting to think inside the water bucket, I’m now using baths as a hot-tub. Now I don’t groan so much in the morning. I just complain that I have to get out of bed in the first place (not a morning person).

I don’t even need a bike ride as an excuse anymore. Hmm… if only I could meet another bather like the woman in the photo. ~grin~

So, to the person who asked the question, I hope that answers your query.

As for me, I have a date with a rubber ducky.

Namaste

The cell phone dinged.

I was in a meeting the other day when a cell phone went off; it was some incomprehensible intonation of Beethoven’s fifth, Jingle Bells or a variant of a mystical, burbling, computer generated cat in heat; it was hard to tell. A following announcement was made to please turn off or silence all cell phones and the same phone went off a couple of minutes later. People confound and fascinate me.

However, that’s not what I want to talk about.

Remember 1984? Not the year… the book. Well I suppose if you’re inclined to remember the year that’s your prerogative. I’d tell you it was a good year for me if I could remember enough of it; university, Man.

Every time we sign into something online or take our cell phones with us, we can be found. In fact, there is now a program called “Four Square” for smart phones where people are willing tracking themselves. Unlike George Orwell’s rendition of Big Brother, we are not being watched over by force. Nay! We are doing it willingly and paying amply for the privilege.

We have become our own Big Brother.

The real concern in all of this is not whether we are being watched. I live in a small town where word travels fast and news of indiscretions travel faster. Cell phones have nothing on folks in a small town at the local coffee emporium.

But I digress… again.

We all make mistakes and, even if those mistakes are talked about, they are still mistakes and can usually be laughed off without too much effort. So what is the real issue with being watched all of the time? It can be a bit disconcerting knowing I am being observed often yet getting past that feeling is quite simple; don’t do anything you wouldn’t want to tell your mother about. ~laugh~

If I live my life knowing I might have to explain myself to my mother at some point (or anyone else for that matter), I can rest assured I am going to make choices I needn’t stumble over. I’m not suggesting I shouldn’t take risks or try new things. Living is about trying those new things and taking a bit of risk. Risk, however, should not include those things I might feel wary of sharing later.

Living my life cognizant of who I am and what I value will guide me through most difficulty. Perhaps that cell phone ring was the theme song to 1984… and that reminder might not be such a bad thing.

Namaste

Sometimes I’ll even go so far as to ask for it.

My name is Ed and I’m a hugger. I hug as much as humanly possible. That is, as much as my friends and family will endure without rolling their eyes and muttering something akin to, “Holy crap, Dude”. I have always been the touchy-feely type and any large gap between human contact leaves me feeling disconnected and affects other areas of my life.

I was watching an online video from the TED (Technology, Entertainment, Design) website. It was a conversation centred on healing by touch. More specifically, it was about medical personnel touching patients rather than simply viewing electronic images in another room and delivering some impartial diagnoses. The precept is that the doctor-patient connection is critical to the patient not only feeling more comfortable, but accepting the diagnosis and treatments as real and tangible.

It has long been shown that human contact has aided in healing.

I would like to submit further that touch is much more than that. It’s a form of communication where you’re telling the other person you like them and enjoy their presence. Sometimes it’s a greeting or agreement in the form of shaking hands. Sometimes it’s a full on embrace saying I love you. Other times it may be a husband touching a wife’s shoulder as he passes saying “I appreciate you”.

And touching can solve other issues.

In relationships there can be periods where touching diminishes or disappears. I would like to submit that touching and embracing begins the resolution to a lot of struggle. If you’re having a “discussion” with your significant other, give them a hug. Quick before they get a grip on the cast iron frying pan. Have you ever been able to stay angry at someone when they hug you? I can’t.

This is often why one partner will say to the other, “Don’t touch me”! They have every intention of staying angry knowing in their psyche that contact means connection and connection means understanding.

What is fascinating is a person not receiving human contact can also become angry and withdrawn. The disconnected feeling leads to a primal sense of loss and anger is a tool to draw the other person back. Negative as it may be, anger is often used to reconnect.

It’s not healthy.

It seems to me that touch is a form of miraculous communication. It can heal wounds, create empathy and heal relationships.

Sometimes a hug is all I need.

Namaste

It was an epic battle between truculent man and virulent beastie.

Armed with a shop vac, two big honkin’ cans of industrial strength insect assassinator and one can of expanding foam, I attacked. Clad in work boots, heavy duty chainsaw resistant pants, long sleeve shirt, pro hockey body armour, a funky hat with mosquito mesh and triple layered leather welding gloves, I was ready for battle on a warm sunny day.

The war raged for two days. The nozzle of the vacuum stuffed close to one entrance under the siding and a liberal consistent spraying of insect executioner at the other entrances, I soldiered on. Buzzing beasties swarmed around me with bodies of their comrades strewn across the sun faded, pressure-treated battlefield. Their numbers sufficiently depleted, the way was finally clear for the final assault on the second day. With vacuum motor echoes and an acidic insect spray tang permeating the palpably calm mid-afternoon air, I closed in with the expanding foam ever watchful for a last ditch enemy blind side attack. I struck with the foam sealing the entrances for good.

Later I would recount the legend to… well… no-one. After stripping off the sweat laden gear and raising my arms in victory, I noticed I was scented in a similar manner to Lawrence of Arabia’s wilderness inflamed armpit.

I wonder if hornets go to insect heaven.

The whole purpose of this exercise was to rid a cottage of the nasty insects for a friend’s upcoming girl’s weekend. The buzzing yellow-jackets were a bit too close to the common places for their liking. Sometimes I think I love my friends a little too much, ya know?

It made me wonder what makes a good friend. I think it means showing up when they aren’t feeling their best. I think it means sometimes doing things you might not entirely enjoy because you care. I think it sometimes means agreeing to disagree. I think it means listening even when you’re heavy-eyed. I think it means delivering a hug when its least expected and most needed. I think it means not taking their problems as your own and at the same time empathising. It means genuinely enjoying their company and laughing uncontrollably.

If I want to have good friends, I have to be a good friend. There isn’t much more too it.

I’m guessing I’ll have a tough time explaining this to the hornets.

Namaste