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Front and Back cover art.

To read the history behind this short story launch and to read the story, visit my other blog at http://www.abeautifulnightforfootball.com/blog/?p=360 or http://www.abnff.com/blog/?p=360.

Cheers,

It’s mid march, and I am back on the road again. I guess I can’t say that I am on the road with Julia (Cameron), as it is only Jack Kerouac that fills my pack on this trip. I always have one book or the other in my backpack for the daily commute back and forth to work, and today was Jack’s turn.

I am writing to you from not so sunny (well dark now as it’s 10:34pm), Windsor, just checking back into my hotel room after a few hour detour to Detroit to see a hockey game.

In all actuality, I guess you could truly say that I am on the road every day, as I would consider my 1.5 hour daily commute back and forth to work is almost like two little mini road trips a day. They can be eventful and if you love to people watch, there are so many stories to be told each and every day. If only I had the time, the stories I could tell. I do write down ideas as events inspire me so hopefully as the year plays out, I will be able to give some of my train adventures a page or two in this years blogging journal.

This is my first real ‘road trip’ though, since my crazy adventure down the I90 to Boston back on New Years. Windsor is a little closer and the event wasn’t quite as historic as that Legends Classic at Fenway Park, but the company you keep makes a road trip a ‘good’ trip more so than the reason for your travels, and both my mini-road trips today, were amongst good company and old friends.

Today’s overnight trip was actually for business purposes, but I won’t beat around the bush in saying that when I realized I needed to make this visit, I tried my best to plan it around finally seeing a NHL hockey game in Detroit.

A co-worker of mine from the Windsor area and myself, have been saying for years that we should catch a Wings game sometime but until tonight, we had never been able to make that happen. This trip seemed to be that opportunity so my friend and I finally made the arrangements, he hooked us up with some tickets, and now I have the memories of what is now a great rivalry, and seeing the historic JLA (Joe Louis Arena), up front and personal.

I won’t talk too much about the hockey game here, but it was quite an event. I never seen Gretzky play so the opportunity to see Crosby was something I wanted to make sure I jumped on in my adult years, and this turned out to be a great game to be at. The atmosphere was electric. It was like a playoff game. It was loud, and the funniest part of the game for me, was that every single time Sidney Crosby stepped on the ice, the crowd chanted ‘Cros-by sucks.’ I was quietly rooting for the Pens, but it was all in good fun. I was a good little visitor and did what the Roman’s do when they are in Rome – voted for the home team.

Mr. Hockey himself (Gordie Howe), was also present at the game, and the announcer as it turns out, was calling his 3,000th game so it was a fairly eventful night all and all.

I have a few souvenirs from the game to remember the event by, including the ticket stub and the free game-day program, but the one souvenir actually has nothing to do with hockey, except for maybe it’s ties to the game.

Who amongst us orders their Tim Horton’s coffee double cupped? Too damn hot to hold with your bare hands, I am a culprit of always ordering that extra layer when I go to Horton’s on the weekends. Well, I had to drive all the way to Detroit and order a coffee at the hockey game for this souvenir (and I’ll add I ordered a hot dog with my coffee instead of a donut which was fun all in itself), to finally see what a Tim Horton’s cup cozy would look like. Perhaps I’ll take a pic of it for those of you out there who have also never seen one. Why aren’t these in Canada? Even their lids are better engineered than ours. We may have perfected the coffee (if you can call it perfection), and the donuts (they are better than Krispy Kreemes any way), but the Americans stepped up with the lids and the cozies. Nicely done. A lid that actually snaps into place. Go figure.

‘Cozy, where have you been all my life.’

As for the actual road trip itself, there is a bit of significance to this one. Nothing earth shattering or anything, but this is the last road trip (I would imagine anyway), that the work van that I am driving will ever see. The felt on the roof is falling down, the power steering seems to be making a little noise, and the color has faded to show it’s years, not to mention that the odometer crossed the 250,o00 km’s threshold mid-trip this afternoon, but somehow the thing is still ticking.

This particular van has been in our department for quite sometime, and although I do not get out on the road much with work, I have done some traveling around Ontario within the old clunker both by myself, and with co-workers. Many of those trips, were first times traveling to those destinations. I have ventured to far off places like Cobourg, Huntsville, Peterborough, Windsor, Kingston, Ottawa, Niagara, and Toronto. I have seen some roads with the old beast, so I guess it’s kind of special in some weird way, to be sharing in if not the last trip, at least one of the last trips this van well ever see dressed in blue and yellow.

Cars to me have always been about memories. When you part with them, yes they have been causing you grief and money and in the end you know it’s time to say goodbye, but in those last days of ownership, the memories do come back that were shared amongst the mobile cabin. Even though this is just a work van, it too holds some fond memories.

Friendships and new bonds are created amongst co-workers on trips such as these. There is always work conversation to be had, but when you are sharing a vehicle for 3 or more hours, that conversation always leads into the family life and you are truly able to get to know your co-workers a lot better. Understand them more, and to add a stronger friendship, outside that ‘co-worker’ title that your relationship may have only previously known. After all, you see these people more than your family, and certainly more than your friends. If you can build strong friendships amongst the work environment, work can be that much more rewarding.

I will have been at my present company for twelves years in just over a months time, and when I look back at some of the fond memories of these past years, the road trips both with co-workers and even just by myself to visit co-workers, have been some of the most memorable moments. Quite possibly because I have always loved hitting the open road which was my biggest attraction to Jack’s book (On the Road), but I know it also has a great deal to do with some of the friendships that I have built both with internal co-workers, and the ones I have made with my colleagues from around the province.

Even during the hardest of times at work where I didn’t know if I wanted to remain or start looking elsewhere, it was these friendships that made the difference in wanting to stay, and not passing GO and just taking my money and running for new opportunities. I still don’t know some days if this will be where I hang my hat forever, but I do know that I will never forgot the friendships I have made here, and I can only hope that if I do one day make the move, that some of these friendships will be everlasting.

Well I guess I can finally say that a quarter of my way through this 2010 project,  I have finally truly sent a post out into cyberspace that I didn’t check and re-write a dozen times. Isn’t that what blogging is supposed to be anyway? I think I look too much into it like I do everything else. It is nice to just blurt what’s on your mind out once in awhile. I think I’ll try this a little more often.

Well, time to get some sleep. An early start to the day tomorrow.

Until the next road trip.

Photo by Lawrence Thomas

It was a picturesque, blue sky, no clouds, sunny Monday morning. 

The skies had been bright for the better part of a week. It was the kind of day that if I was dying, I imagine I would think about how I’d miss beautiful days like this. The freshness in the air, the sounds of spring songbirds, the happiness that this time of year brings to the faces on our streets, the curious little noses coming out of winters hibernation; creatures and humans alike. The kind of days when the once sleeping winter world, seemed so alive and free again. 

I had noticed the night prior, that a friend had sent me a Facebook request, suggesting that I join a group dedicated to helping find someone who had gone missing. These kinds of group invitations happen all too frequently. Not to take away from their importance, but up until that moment, those missing persons requests had not been anyone I had known personally. 

It wasn’t until the next morning, that I had a chance to login to read the message. All I had seen on my mobile device the night prior, was ‘MISSING PERSON: PLEASE HELP…’. This time, I knew who the missing person was. 

She was more of a friend of a friend sort of acquaintance. I had known her in this manner since high school. I always thought that she was as an attractive, fun, and charming girl. A bit of a rebel, but loved by all who knew her.  

I had talked to her briefly in recent months, as we re-connected through Facebook. It was more of a Hi, good to see you on here, how has it been, kind of catch up. Typical of many Facebook re-acquaintances’ between those we never really knew all that well. You browse through some photographs, and laugh in remembrance at the old photos from back in the days when they weaved more frequently in and out of your life. 

Fast forward to just a few weeks ago, when this friend added me to  Facebook again. I hadn’t noticed she had left and I didn’t get a chance to say hello again, before I realized I would never get another opportunity. 

Drawing by Lawrence Thomas

I started chatting with the creator of the Facebook group that morning; a close friend of the missing woman. I shared a few back and forth messages with her, explained how I knew her friend, and that I was thinking of her family and friends during this difficult time. She was understandably upset, yet optimistic of finding her friend and for her safe return home. 

I received a call later that morning however, informing me that the search was over. This acquaintance had ended her life. Her child, her family, and her friends, were all left with an empty space and a grief I can only begin to imagine. She had not known the happiness and hope that this spring-like Monday morning would offer us. 

A co-worker had also known this friend. He is the same age and a former classmate of hers. I couldn’t stop thinking of that phone call all day, and when I caught up with my work friend much later that evening, he talked about how deeply he had been bothered by this horrible truth as well. 

It makes you think of your own life. How far down we have been or currently are. How close we may have come, to something in our own lives pushing us over that sanity edge. 

You look at groups such as this, browse the old photos posted by friends and family, read the heartfelt messages on the wall, the poetry, the song dedications, and you think to yourself How does someone surrounded by so much love, end up in a mental place that makes them feel like there is no way out, but up? That life is not worth living. That the only ending, is an out of body beginning? 

The sun is shining brightly. It’s warm. My jacket is unbuttoned. No gloves. No toque. No more long, dark, cold, winter days. A new season. A new beginning. New inspiration. 

For one beautiful yet troubled soul however, even all of natures hope was not enough to continue in this life. 

Human’s desire to hide much of their lives, to keep so much of themselves, their thoughts, their fears, dreams, hopes, heartaches, financial and relationship woes to themselves – I just don’t understand it. Not that I am always the most open person, but why do we allow ourselves to feel like we are alone in these thoughts? 

Photo by Lawrence Thomas

What is wrong with admitting that my wife and I had a really bad fight last night. I wanted to say it was over. I was so mad, but then I went for a long walk with the dog. When I returned home, the anger was gone, I said I was sorry (even though I wasn’t totally convinced that I had done anything wrong), we hugged, and all was good in the world for another day.  

Or, I broke up with my girlfriend last night. It was the hardest thing I have ever had to do. I am lost and lonely. I hate this feeling, although a large part of me knows it was the right thing to do. Why does this hurt so much? 

How would those words be received by your friends or your readers? How would it feel to someone who was lost in a loneliness similar to yours, to know that there was at least one other person in the world, feeling as poignant as they were at that moment? 

If you are a fan of the weekly night time drama House, last week’s patient of focus, played by Laura (Jackie) Prepon of That 70’s Show fame, was a blogger. Much to her husbands disapproval, there were few aspects of her life (their lives), that weren’t open for all the world to read. She felt no reason to hide her life. To her, there was much more to be gained and learned from others and in turn, so much she could offer her readers from her own life’s experiences. 

As it turned out, it was actually those blog posts that helped House’s team of doctors, determine what was wrong with her. Yet, it was the one thing she hid about her health that meant the difference of a cancer diagnosis with a few days to live, to some medication and a valve transplant, and the rest of her life ahead of her. 

You can understand why bowel movements wouldn’t be a topic many of us would jump to share, but it was obviously one thing above everything else, that she should have at least communicated with her husband or doctor. 

In recent years, I too have found that life is much more rewarding and more fulfilling, when you aren’t afraid to share who you truly are deep inside with the world. Good or bad. Communication has never been my strong suit. I won’t beat around the bush, but as I learn to open up and surround myself with souls willing to share all of themselves with me, I have learned so much about myself. Most importantly, that I am not alone. 

Recently, our family hit a low point when we started seeing payments for various things bounce. My wife had quit her job six months ago to stay home with our two children, and to run a home daycare. I supported her decision 100%, but as is the case with most new businesses, it took awhile to build a steady client base. Ensuring first and foremost, that our new daily guests fit in perfectly with our family; including our crazy dog who likes to join in on daily play. 

We were struggling to make ends meet in recent months, with fewer options left to balance the mortgage, car payments, credit card debt, and utility and grocery bills. We were both stressed and stretched to the limit.

Then one day I walked by a Money Mart, and just when it seemed that all options were used up, there was at least one more.  

I was embarrassed to go in there that first time and up until recently, at my wife’s request, nobody knew that we had to result to payday loans to keep the bottom from falling out. The way my wife and I ultimately looked at it though, was that it was a few dollars cheaper than NSF charges, and certainly easier on the old credit score. 

We had to count on this quick cash option a few times over a two or three month span before my wife’s daycare was fully on its feet. I can’t help but wonder now, what might have happened if things hadn’t turned around when they did? Money in advance was surely going to catch up to us. We were safe for another day. 

I know we are not alone in the day-to-day troubles we face as a young family, but how many people that  seem to, from the smiles they paint on each day, have everything going for them on the outside, are actually in a similar or possibly even worse situation than you or I?  

What does hiding the truth about our relationship and financial issues truly gain us? What is so embarrassing about hitting rock bottom? Why do we need to feel like we have failed the ones we love, that there is no way out, that we are alone in the loneliness of our secret lives. Is failure actually losing your house, a broken marriage, or getting fired from your job, or is failure going through these difficult times alone?  

Standing outside the viewing room door, lined up down the hall. Family, friends, and acquaintances, waiting to pay their respects. On her coffin, flowers and a few photos. Pictures ranging from youth, to more recent photos, including one of her young child. All of them memories of a life no more.

Crying, stories, laughter of past times together. Old friends. The old gang. Not the reunion any of them had envisioned.  

She was the third person I had personally known, to take their own life. One, a family member, the second one, was also a friend of a friend. Both of them had ended their lives in their own homes for their children to discover their lifeless bodies. If there was ever any consolation to suicide, it could be that at least this last friend, went away to end their life. That still doesn’t take away from the fact however, that all of them left children behind. In all their innocence, left with the haunting, lifetime memories, that their mother or father had killed themselves.  

That parent would not be there to watch them graduate, see them off to college, walk them down the aisle or cry in the front row when they get married. They will never hold their grandchildren, or be there to enjoy sleepovers with kids you get to give back, or so many of the other firsts that watching a child through a grandparents eyes offers. These children will never know what it feels like, to share in the moments a child longs to one day enjoy with their parents – especially watching them interact with their own children.  

BANG! SNAP! SLICE! Three lives gone. 

You are not alone, is the message we need to share with one another; desperately. Money, material things, broken romance; there is nothing  you cannot get over with the help of a friend, family member, and the admission as a society, that it’s not only okay to share your dreams and fears with the world around you, but it’s the key to a healthier, happier, life more fulfilled.   

~

I dated a woman once who I had only known for a short while, who shared some of her deepest, darkest moments of her then recent past with me. This particular piece isn’t directly related to this post, but I though it relevant to share her story at this time.   

Jessica made me realise what could be gained from being honest about the fears and pain we hold inside. I learned so much from her in the short time I knew her, but she would inspire me forever, for the truths she so openly shared with me during that brief friendship.   

Now she is happily married. Her son, who was just two when I met her, has grown into a handsome and pleasant young man. She had seen the darkest of days from a broken marriage, post partum depression, raising her little boy all by herself, losing both her mother and father, and yet by sharing her fears with the world, she learned from her wounds, grew from them, and eventually found happiness and a soul to share her life with. Because of her, I know that there is hope beyond all the pain and suffering this world can sometimes throw at us.   

For one friend however, there is no happy ending.   

Nothing can bring her back, and there should be no feelings of guilt. If there is blame to be felt, it should be by society as a whole; the realization that, with all that we know about life and the world and with all of the technology we have at our disposal to share that knowledge, there are still broken souls out there. Lost. Alone.   

I am afraid. You are not alone.   

It is the message we need to send.

Here is a link to an early draft of the short Love and Honesty.

Recently, a friend of mine over at Tara Cronica, wrote a post about Honesty. Tracy (Westerholm) has always inspired me with her honest, tell it like it is writing style, but after reading this particular post, I was left with a feeling  that there was a little blog karma going on between our two sites.

Fear and honesty go hand in hand, especially as it relates to fearing the consequences of our honesty. Fearing the unknown. Fearing change. Fearing being honest about what your heart is telling you must be done, and what you may stand to lose as a result of that honesty.

I have always been someone who has worried too much about what others thought of me. Always trying to please everyone, but tending not to listen to who I was, or at least who my inner-self wanted to be.

It probably wasn’t until around my mid-twenties, when I started to find myself; when I truly began to stop worrying about what others thought. Yet even today, a couple of weeks shy of my 37th birthday (also my birth year reversed), I have to admit that I still have a long way to go to being that true self.

Everyday, that self comes closer to the surface, as courage and an inner-voice screaming to be set free, break the walls that are now some 25 years in the making, and 12 years in the breaking.

I worried, as I always have, when I hit the publish button to publish my post Finding My Religion (The ‘G’ Word), that I might offend or upset some people dear to me who have strong belief systems; whether it be God or otherwise.

Two friends from BC, were amongst those I worried I might offend. There were more, but I had just finished having religion related conversations with one and the other w,ho follows my work religiously, inspires me to continue my writing journey with their genuine and heartfelt words of encouragement. This persons daily messages inspire me, and I know from their profile, that they have a very strong faith system.

I worried that I might put those friendships that had been cyberspacially (no, it’s not a word) developed over the past six or so months, at risk.

Then I reminded myself, that 2010 was to be a year where I wrote about everything that was on my mind. To get it all out on my path to finding my creative and inner-self, so I posted the story and waited.

And I waited.

And then, that message came and once again, I was inspired. Inspired more than I had ever been. Touched. Teary-eyed. Thankful, grateful, and assured that my honesty and open-heart, were being warmly received.

I know a true friend would not judge a person from one post, but one of those same BC friends had also recently said when referring about his own job, how one word can make all the difference. How one word, could significantly change a message. So, I spoke from my heart, yet I tried to choose my words wisely. But in the end, I let the voice inside of me take the podium.

~

I would say my fears go back as far as at least Middle School?

Fear in hockey stopping me from being the better player that I knew I could be. Fear of being school president. Putting together a strong social and visual campaign and having many people say to me that they knew I was going to win, yet being disqualified for forgetting to hand in a signed permission form from my parents. Not that I have ever had a good memory, but I wonder now if I forgot accidentally on purpose; subconsciously or otherwise. Did I sabotage my own presidential campaign?

Now I wasn’t vying to run the country or anything, so what was I afraid of?

Success.

Julia Cameron talks about this in her book, The Complete Artist Way. One of the assignments for the first 12 week course, is to keep a daily journal or Morning Pages as she calls them.

The purpose of the Morning Pages, is to help us realize where our fears and disbelief’s surrounding finding success in our creative aspirations, comes from. They are about becoming unblocked, and basically learning to believe in ourselves. We are encouraged to write about anything and everything that comes to mind, however trivial or silly those thoughts may be. Every thought is relevant to breaking the negative thought patterns that are stopping us from realizing our dreams.

I could almost trace my fears (and fear of change), back to grade 1, when I wrapped myself around the fence in our front yard, crying because I didn’t want to go to school that day. As it turned out, it was the last day of school and I didn’t want to pass to the next grade because I loved my teacher so much. My mother reassured me that I would still see my teacher in the halls everyday and that she also lived across the street from my best friend, so I released my grip, stopped crying, went to school, and gave my teacher a great big hug to show her how much she meant to me. You could also say she was the first teacher of so many throughout my studies, that have inspired me.

Out of high school, I was accepted to two out-of-town colleges. Mohawk College in Brantford Ontario for Advertising, and Conestoga College in Kitchener Ontario for Graphic Design. I declined both acceptance letters, probably out of fear of moving from the only city I had, and still do, called home, or even fear of possible failure or that I simply wasn’t good enough.

Instead, I joined the working world and it wasn’t until my mid-twenties, that I risked failure and pushed aside fear, to give me dreams of becoming an animator a shof

I enrolled in a year long arts program at Sheridan College in Oakville Ontario to prepare me for my Classical Animation studies. I worked very hard and did very well in all my classes that year, and was accepted into the Animation program. My dreams were coming true.

Only three months into the program, I quit the best animation program in the world out of fear that most jobs were in California, and because I didn’t think I could move that far away. I later visited a friend who was living that dream at Dreamworks in Glendale California. I spent 9 days with him, and when he was working, I explored within an hour radius of Hollywood where he lived. I left California with a sense that I could have done it, and dreaming of what a grand adventure it would have been.

Dreams of returning to California haunted me for a long time. Every once in awhile, I still have vision of that magical land.

Dreams of what could have been.

Fear.

Dreams.

Fear.

My Mentor's Dream

Even today, that fear still exists, but as I break down those barriers, as I chase away fear, I am slowly realizing my dreams and becoming a much more happier me. I am answering the call from deep within that has been longing for so much more, and I am being rewarded for my bravery with messages of encouragement from those that believe in me; even on days where I find it hard to believe in myself. And believe me, they are still all too common for my liking.

When I think of what fear has taken from me, or better  yet, how I have let fear take things from me, I wonder what roads my life life might have traveled had I not given in to fear, or had I more confidence in myself?

Don’t get me wrong. I have no regrets. I truly believe that everything in life happens for a reason. To have regrets would be to erase the biggest part of me. My two beautiful girls. I have just decided that my life lessons can no longer come from fear. They must come from trying.

~

Going back to honesty, after reading my friends post, I realized it was time for me to be honest with myself; to stop fearing  honesty.

I started by asking our waitress the other night, if the mushrooms on our mushroom bruschetta were supposed to be cold. I wasn’t trying to be a smart alec or anything, but I needed to be honest. As it turns out, yes, they were supposed to be cold. Had I not asked the question, I might have always wondered if I had just been served a cold appetizer that was supposed to be warm.

To be really honest, I liked it better the next day – toasted in the oven.

That question didn’t change the world, but it felt good to be honest about how I felt.

Baby steps.

~

Creative Affirmations

Oh, and remember how I mentioned that Julia Cameron talked about replacing the word God with whatever worked with your belief system? Well, I took that statement quite literally.

I have crossed out the G word as I work my way through the early pages of this book, and I have replaced them, and various other quotes, phrases, and statements, with words that better relate to how I feel -  what works to inspire me.

I truly felt it was important that I do this, because many of these pages we are asked to go and read over and over again, to inspire us and help us become unblocked artists.

Well, the other day at work, a co-worker (whom I have great respect for her as a person, mother, and a co-worker), who is a very devoted Catholic, with pictures of God and Mary in her cubicle and rosary beads around her rear view mirror, asked about my The Complete Artists Way book sitting on my desk. I guess it does look a bit like a bible, and so she suddenly began to flip through it out of curiosity.

I froze in horror.

She looked betrayed as she noticed words so dear to her, crossed out like you would an old flame on a the cover of a school notebook, so I immediately started to tell her why I had done such a thing. I was honest.

I am not sure it soothed her mind, but for the first time, I was really beginning to be me. I meant no disrespect to her, to Julia, or to any one else of any particular faith. I hadn’t expected anyone would open it to see my customizations.

I did it simply because that is what worked for me, and as soon as I started to deface this beautiful and inspiring book, I knew I had to make sure I was ready to back up my reasons for doing such a thing.

Honestly, it felt really good to be me.

* Not an actual painting of Buddy.

Teddy was the first cat that truly caught my heart. I have always been an animal person, but before I met Teddy, I really had no desire to own a cat.

Even when I was first asked if I wanted a new housemate all those years ago, I was sceptical. My cousin however, in his plea for me to consider the orphaned tabby, knew how to pull at my heart strings. So, with a little hesitation, I agreed to at least go and meet the little guy.

What was I thinking? Me. A cat owner?

Teddy was an older cat. In fact, nobody really knew how old he was because his owner, who had just passed away after a long battle with cancer, was actually his second family. His first companion had sadly died on him as well.

Teddy had lived by himself while his owner spent her last months in a hospital. Someone would go over each night to feed him and let him out for some fresh air, but for the most part he had been the only occupant of the old Mountain Avenue home for many months.

I arrived at his home early one sunny summer’s evening.  My cousin brought Teddy out onto the front lawn, and almost immediately, he came to check me out. It was almost as if he knew that I was there to see him. He was a skinny little orange tabby, with the biggest green eyes I had ever seen. His make-up reminded me of that of a Tiger, yet his poor little meow sounded like he had something caught in his throat.

The connection between Teddy, Theodore Watson as he was formally known, and myself was immediate. There was something about that gentle natured feline that told me that our friendship was meant to be. Teddy moved in the next day.

Teddy ready for a walk.

Teddy came with all the accessories, including a six months supply of food and litter, and even his own portrait in a thick wooden frame fit for a prince. It was not actually a painting of him; that anyone knew for certain anyway, but it did exhibit an uncanny resemblance to the spoiled little creature.

Before long, Teddy and I were good friends.

He enjoyed his outdoor time and would spend hours on end exploring within a few house radius of our 2nd floor, four-plex home.

Although sharing my new space hadn’t been what I had envisioned when I moved in, Teddy made that apartment a home. That little orange fur ball curled up in the middle of my bed, was just the finishing touches my new pad had needed.

Tara relaxing at the Cottage

It was just Teddy and I for the first year, until I adopted an eight year old Black Lab, Tara, the following Christmas.

Tara settled in quickly, and neither animals seemed to mind sharing their space. Even though the dog and cat never really played or seemingly paid much attention to one another during the brief time they were in each other’s lives, it was obvious that they did appreciate the others company.

When Tara and I started to explore the neighbourhood in search of new friends, a certain curious cat began to wonder where it was Tara and I would go.

I had never seen anything like it, but to my, and every single person we passed by on our walks, surprise, Teddy started to follow us. We wouldn’t go far when Teddy was in toe, but from that point on, unless we were going for long walks, our cat would join us.

He’d check out a garden or a porch, disappear for a short period, only to jump out to greet us again further up the street. The little sag in his thin tummy swaying back and forth as he trotted ahead of us.

Teddy would visit neighbours; walking right in their front door and welcome himself in for a visit.

Teddy and Tara out for a walk.

The neighbours loved him, talked about him amongst one another, and one of the neighbourhood teens even started calling me Dr. Doolittle, as he watched the cat following close behind.

Right up until Tara passed away last fall, I looked back at Teddy with amazement, and a smile, at how lucky I was to have such a special and sweet cat.

Teddy was my oldest girl, Emma’s, best friend. She carried that poor little guy around like a ragdoll, but he never seemed to mind. He very rarely hissed unless he was truly in pain from the kid-handling. He would just look for his chance, and gently sneak away, but he would always come back for more.

It wasn’t long after Tara passed, that Teddy joined his walking companion. Teddy had only been in my life for just over 5 years, but he touched my soul deeply in that short amount of time.

Teddy had been gone for over six months, but I still missed my little buddy very much. Even my daughter occasionally asked about her furry compadre. I am glad my girl was able to create a special bond, with Teddy, and that she shares my affection for animals.

I didn’t think there would ever be a cat like Teddy. That I would love another feline as deeply as him. That is until I met Buddy.

Buddy is proof, that souls really do find us.

Buddy on my lap.

Buddy and I actually met when Teddy was still with us. He was one of the few strays who would come up to you and let you pet him if you bent down and called him over. Most cats just raced the other way.

In early spring of last year, Buddy started coming around a little more often. We had never put food out for him before that point, but after seeing how attached my oldest seemed to be getting to the old guy, or perhaps more so, how attached I had become, I started buying some food to offer him when he came by for visits. My girls would pet him on the front porch, and he would sit there and soak it all in as he gobbled down every last crumb of kibble. Emma would offer him individual morsels of food, and probably would have patiently spoon fed him, given the chance.

Buddy was a ratty mess when first he crossed our path. I figured he was quite old with the way his fur was. He also had a noticeable limp, favouring his one back leg, his nose was running, he had a few war wounds from a scrap or two no doubt, and he definitely had fleas.

He was a grey tabby with a thinned coat, skinny, yet so sweat. I always made the kids wash their hands after petting him, as did I, but they loved feeding him and loving him. Buddy was getting used to it too, and his visits became much more regular.

I couldn’t believe how gentle Buddy was with Emma – with both girls really. You could see how much Emma missed having a cat to carry around, and the little guy certainly took all attention he could get. Buddy would hang around for as long as someone would show him a little love.

The name Buddy was actually how I often referred to Teddy when he was alive, so when the old stray came into our lives, ‘Buddy’ just seemed to fit. My daughter and my wife all started to refer to him as Buddy as well, so that is the name that stuck.

There were still days, here and there, when we wouldn’t see him, but we have many cat loving neighbours who leave food out for the strays so I never worried. Buddy had a few homes that he frequented, and it seemed every two or three days he would make an appearance.  We’d hang out and have a little snack and some bonding time, before he would head back out to nose around.

~

It was later that summer, and I hadn’t seen Buddy in a few of days, when he suddenly came to me with a bleeding, swollen front paw, limping, and very vocal. I was very worried about the little guy.

I was touched that he came to me, but at first, I really didn’t know what to do. I finally called my neighbour who was always watching out for the neighbourhood strays. She knew someone who took them in, arranged to have them spayed and neutered, and then released them back into the community from where they came.

I set up a bed and food for Buddy on our enclosed front porch area and kept him in there overnight until the agency could get an appointment for him.

With not knowing how old he was, and from his overall appearance, I feared the next day when my neighbour came to take Buddy to the vet, that that might be the last time I seen our feline hobo.

It broke my heart to think this could be the end of the road for the little guy.

I waited patiently for a couple of days, fearing the worst, but I tried to stay positive for Buddy’s safe return. When the phone rang, my heart sank when my wife passed the phone to me.

The news was good however. A torn dew-claw that they cleaned up, bandaged, and gave him some medication to take home. They also neutered and micro-chipped him, gave him some more medication for the runny nose, treated him for fleas, and released him, free of charge, back into our care.

On Buddy’s papers from the vet, was a little note. “Otis was a good little patient.” For some reason, they had named him Otis. I tried it on my oldest, but she was set on Buddy. So was I.

Buddy had to remain indoors for a couple of days while his wounds healed, so he could receive his meds. My girls were thrilled to have a kitty in their lives again.

My oldest put up quite a fuss, and always wanted to hang out with him on the enclosed porch. Feed him, give him treats, pet him and talk to him. Buddy purred like an old station wagon at all the attention, and after a couple of days, I popped open the screen door and let him come and go as he pleased.

Later that summer, I moved Buddy to our covered back porch, where I concocted a shelter and bed for him to protect him from the elements.

Every once in awhile, if we didn’t close the screen door properly behind us, Buddy would sneak in. Sometimes we would catch him in the act, but every so often he would meander around the house unnoticed. One time, my wife walked through the living room with a cat in her arms, I looked up, and she had Buddy. He had been sleeping on the girl’s bed.

Gracie wanting to play.

I thought Buddy was awesome. Affectionate, and adventurous. He followed me around everywhere. Into the garage and around the yard, but the moment I truly became attached to the gentle soul, was the day he started to follow our 1 year old pup, Gracie, and I around the block for our walks. I must have been smiling ear to ear. He was so much like my Teddy, yet with his own little quirkiness.

Dr. Doolittle was back with a new dog, and a new wandering kitty.

Buddy was officially our resident stray. Now he was the talk of the neighbourhood and people laughed in amazement, as they watched this new cat following close behind each night.

“Is that your cat,” people would ask. “That is awesome! Honey, come look at this. His cat follows them on walks.” And there Buddy would be. Sitting patiently off to one side, waiting as we stopped periodically to talk to neighbours and strangers alike. He didn’t care about the fame. He just wanted to be with me.

I worried about Buddy as we ventured a few blocks from home; especially crossing the streets, but he was good. He would sit and wait a few feet back, far enough from the dog, for me to call out ‘cross’, before he trotted across the street.

~

I wouldn’t say that Gracie and Buddy are friends, as she loves to chase him up our fence at every opportunity, but one time, Buddy had a sore on his neck, and he sat there and let Gracie lick the wounds, and his head, until Buddy looked like he had just come out of the tub. My wife even once caught the two sleeping in the dog’s bed in the front window together. Those moments are rare, but they do have them.

When the nights started to get really cold, I took Buddy for a check-up, and to get all his shots, so that we could at least offer him a warm roof at night.

I decided to let Buddy out of his cage in the van ride to the vet, to see how he would be. He didn’t mind car rides at all. He wondered around a bit and came up to see me every once in awhile for a pet. He was great at the vet, and never complained in his crate while we waited, even though there were curious, sniffing noses everywhere much bigger than he.

The doctor figured he was a little older than originally thought. 8 to 10 years old is what he figured, instead of the 6 to 8 that had previously been guessed. He had two broken front incisors that he suggested removing, and he seemed to have a heart murmur as well. Otherwise, besides his limp, he was a healthy, happy cat.

The temperature really dropped a couple of days later, so Buddy finallyspent his first night with us. He sat on my lap on the couch, with Gracie lying beside us, until bedtime when I made him a bed in the basement, and showed him his litter.

There was definitely some jealousy towards Buddy from Gracie, but I tried hard to make sure Gracie knew she was still my girl, and that there was enough love to go around for everyone.

~

Even though it’s mid-winter, Buddy still likes to go outside, and actually meows at the door to go out. Cold or not, he still likes to wander around, and visit the neighbours for a snack, although his outdoor time is short lived now, before we hear his haggard cry outside our back door.

He doesn’t seem to show any jealousy towards other cats either, and one day I actually seen the neighbours cat in our backyard. The two friends sharing a bowl of kibble on the back deck. Unfortunately, I didn’t notice them until I had already opened the back door. I had never seen a cat run so fast, and I don’t think that cat ever came for a visit again. Good ‘ol Gracie.

I never knew what to expect when we brought Buddy in. I had never rescued a stray before, but if there was a poser cat for strays, Buddy would surely be that cute little face on the flyer.

Who knows how long he had been roaming these streets without a home. Without a steady meal. Without someone to love. He deserves to be spoiled and loved as much as possible, for the rest of his days. He has done his time in the cold, lonely world outside.

Many would say they are just dogs or cats, but I say we are just humans. What makes any living creature just. We all need love, affection, friendship, and although an animal can, to some extent, fend for themselves for basic survival, Buddy is one of the many examples of a soul who was in search of something more.

Oliver. One of the strays we have found homes for.

There are many ‘Buddies’ out there. Wandering through our streets and back yards, and there is only so much room in our local shelters for the overabundance of stray cats.

The catch and release program is an amazing service. Our neighbourhood is a good example of how well it works. Our Buddy was a big part of our stray problem, and now I have noticed there are far fewer cats wandering our streets that do not have homes.

I never thought someone would do that much for a cat, for free, until Buddy came home as good as new that summer’s day. The compassion that exists in this world isn’t always apparent amongst all the negativity. I am forever grateful for what they did for Buddy. He has been a joint effort. Almost a community project. Many people coming together to give one cat, a second chance to live out all of his 9 lives.

For the way people have united to help this beautiful soul, to how he has touched our hearts, I cannot simply take him to a shelter or put a free ad in the paper to find him a home. Buddy deserves the best. Lot’s of love, time, and to preferably be able to continue to head out into the day to explore. He knows where his food is; where the love is.

Perhaps a dog-free home, or at least a dog that isn’t quite so ‘curious’. Buddy doesn’t seem to mind Gracie. She has her moments, but I am not sure his little heart can take the torment of a one year old dog at this point of his life. Perhaps an older canine who wouldn’t mind a little extra company.

So I make the call. Grey Tabby looking for a good home. Neutered, all his shots up to date, treated for fleas, clean, litter trained, and eager to find a place to call home for the remainder of his days. Still a full mitt-full of claws, a limp leg and a heart murmur, but above everything else, he has a lot of love to give. Give him a mouse filled with catnip, and you’ll even see there is plenty of kitten left in this old soul.

Buddy listening for Gracie.

He could touch your life for months, for a year or two, or he may still have a lot of life left in him.  One can never know, but I can guarantee you that however much time you are meant to spend together, he will touch your heart forever. I know he has touched mine.

It is going to be hard for me to say goodbye. Even just writing this has been difficult as he lay on my lap keeping me warm. I never realized how much I missed having a cat in my life, until Buddy came into ours. Until the first time he came over to me on our front porch, climbed on my lap, and started purring as I stroked his shaggy, knotted fur.

It’s been nice hearing the pitter patter, or in Buddy’s case, bang, bang, clatter, of little feet again. A purr, a meow, and little whiskers against my skin. Most of all, it has been great having a new little walking companion again.

So, instead of a 3-line free ad and a tiny black and white photo, I felt Buddy deserved a story. His story.

To be continued …

In the meantime, please join the Facebook Group at http://groups.to/ahomeforbuddy for more information.

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* Please note, the image in the mock Classified ad above is not a portrait of Buddy. It is a painting by a friend of mine that has always reminded me of Buddy.

Portrait used with permission from the artist. You can visit Billy-Jack’s website at http://www.billyjacksfineart.com, or join his Facebook group to stay informed when new paintings have been posted at http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=41662057020.

“And here I am in Colorado! I kept thinking gleefully! Damn! damn! damn! I’m making it.” ~ Jack Kerouac from On the Road (The Original Scroll)

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The drive home along the Mass Turnpike.

Well, we arrived home from Boston safe and sound on the Sunday, after an 11 hour, slow, snow filled journey, at 9:30pm.

I drove my friends car most of the way home, while he slept. He had to go straight to work after dropping me off. It’s been awhile since I have driven stick, so it was a fun switch for me.

In my first post I did while in Boston, I forgot to mention another funny story.

I eluded to how the GPS had us turned around a bit once we arrived in Boston. Three trips around the same landmark was definitely the funniest, but this folly ranked right up there.

We had no paper maps, so we relied heavily on our sometimes hesitant guide. We were circling an area with tight street openings, the snow was falling, we were running very late, we had just circled one area three times, and couldn’t  afford another wrong turn. We were getting so close to the hotel, when the GPS took us on another detour. It told us to turn right at one laneway, but my better judgement, and my friend in the passenger seat begging me not to do it, did have me second guessing this particular decision. But as I would later blurt out to a confused police officer, “the GPS told me to do it.” How could it be wrong?

The Green Stairs - 3 times' a charm

The snow covered streets were cobble stone, and all the people wonering everywhere almost immediately had me further second guessing my decision to listen to the GPS. It was like a town square, surrounded by shops and shoppers. Finally, mid way through the square and beyond the point of no return, a female officer casually walked toward our vehicle as I rolled down the window and said to her “I guess we aren’t supposed to be driving in here?”, and then I proceeded to innocently ask her how to get to Portland Street.

I heard her mention to her partner as we drove away, “he said the GPS told him to to it.” Scary at the time, but these are the stories that will be told over and over, as we remember this trip for years to come.

Our night in Boston was fairly uneventful.  Probably because we left the driving up to the cabbies, and walked everywhere else.

I did end up closing my eyes for probably an hour or so of broken sleep after my first Beantown blog post. I set the alarm for 8:30pm so we didn’t sleep all night, but it was actually 10:30 before we finally headed to The Fours on Canal Street for dinner.

Who knew Balsamic vinegar would be good on a burger? I had a concoction called ‘The Gorgonzola Cheese’ which was a 1/4 pound homemade burger with mushrooms, bacon, and of course, that yummy Gorgon cheese. A little bowl of brown beans, and a side of spiced fries, surrounded the mountainous burger which I washed down with a Samuel Adams.  Somehow driving 8 hours for a Bud, didn’t seem right, although that was the drink of choice for last call.  Which I might ad, comes quite early in the TD Banknorth Gardens district. We were lucky to find a watering hole open past 1 o’clock.

We headed back to the hotel after dinner, to except our complimentary drink at the Red Room at The Onyx. There we met Neil (I believe that was his name). I also am pretty sure he said he was from the Cape, but I do know that he had worked in bars from San Fran and Chicago, and surely had many more stories to tell beyond the few he shared with us over our Sangria’s and Martini’s.

He was a very personable young guy, who was trying to subject a few patrons to the wasabi flavored lime green martini he concocted. One guy nearly choked it was so hot. Just the smell was enough for me. I felt bad not trying his masterpiece in the works, but with no sleep and a Gorgonzola cheese filled belly, I wasn’t up for a date with the porcelain gods.

We headed out into the blustery  Boston streets for last call, which we spent with half a dozen young locals at what seemed the only open door in the district. We sat quiet, and tired, as a group of friends enjoyed a night cap of some deadly shot, before making our way a few doors down to our hotel.

It had never felt so good to crawl under the sheets, and sleep came immediately.

You learn a lot about yourself and your travel partner when you are on the road for 48 hours (41.5 to be exact)  with someone. No time alone with your thoughts except for the can, the shower, in your own head, or in your dreams.

It’s easy to pick apart the little things that annoy you about that other person, but in a year of change and self-discovery, I tried to look at it from another angle.

There is a song that describes me in a nutshell, with a few lines that go something like this:

“I’m in a hurry to get things done
I rush and rush until life’s no fun
All I really gotta do is live and die
But I’m in a hurry and don’t know why.”
~ Alabama

Head in the clouds. Eyes on the puck. Looking up before I have hit the ball. Thinking about tomorrow when I have barely opened my eyes to today.

I lost $260 at an ATM in Niagara-on-the-Lake this past summer, because I don’t take a moment to check to make sure I have everything before moving on. If you see me behind an ATM, watch for free cash.

An umbrella and two lunch filled lunch bags (one also containing a pair of black mittens), have found new homes courtesy of one absent minded commuter the past couple of months.

Most recently,  $100 US dollars went the way of the Dodo, somewhere in transit betwen Niagara Falls Canada and Boston Massachusetts. I just hope that that $100 is at least, in a collections tin back in Scottsville, NY along the I90, and that a family who lost everything to a house fire, is the beneficiary of my blunder – Hoping that I had mistaken a $1 bill for a $100. Easy to do when the bills are all the same color. Can’t really mistake a brown spot for a loonie back home, but I am not making excuses for my careless ways.

I watched my friend check, check twice, and check a third time while we were running late to make it to Fenway for the 2pm game – our whole reason for being in Boston. Making sure he wasn’t forgetting anything. I realized as I watched impatiently with one foot out the door, that although I thought he was going way overboard in the time he was taking to double check, that that is the reason he knew where every dime had been spent, and he still had all his money in his pockets.

Slow down. Take a look. Note to self.

So I end this post with a quote from a song by a Canadian band who I listed in my On the Road Jukebox while Twittering on our recent road trip. “The good in everyone. (You see)” – Sloan

It’s easy to find someone’s faults, but if we take a moment to look at ‘the good in everyone’, we might just learn something about ourselves.  We all have our little querks. After all, it was me who had us circling Boston and driving in town squares wasn’t it.

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Watch the slide show from our trip below, or see it full screen from the Photobucket.com website here. I took these pics with my Blackberry, having forgotten my digital camera in the hotel room. Some of them turned out not too bad, but blurry or not, the feeling is still there.