To thine own self be true

Must have been about 8-9 years-old, an obvious step down from teenagerhood. I used to walk about five cold blocks in -20 Winnipeg winter to the rink at the nearest community club. The two boarded rinks were usually in use, but there was an open pleasure rink where many would go and play makeshift ‘games’, especially pre-adults.
In those days, shin pads were a luxury and rather obvious if you wore them over your pants, usually held up by sealer rings. So kids my age went without unless we were on actual teams at the community club.

In those days, I was most interested in playing goal and my heroes were Plante, Sawchuck, Worsley, and Glenn Hall. It was a tough life for NHL goalies in the pre-mask era (before Plante pioneered masks). They would get cut up; their faces resembling Frankenstein’s monster’s mug with all those occasional quick game stitch-ups, which sometimes even halted games. It was a rough life–Glenn Hall used to throw up before games. I guess it’s a little unnerving to have players like the Rocket bearing in on you and frozen rubber coming your way, especially via 60+ mph slapshots.

Back to the story. I was an only child who sometimes craved attention which showed up in wanting to play goal in pick-up games, and wanting–like every other red-blooded prairie boy–to stand out in whatever game–by being tough, strong, and maybe even heroic.

This day I’m describing, there weren’t any kids my age around at the pleasure rink, but I attached myself to a couple of teens (boy and girl 15-16ish) and some others in a pickup game with a real puck. I played goal for them sans shin pads, and took a number of hard shots on the knees and shins. I remember the girl was pretty and maybe I wanted to impress her with my hockey heroics, taking shots for the team. She came over to me a couple of times and asked me if I was ok after taking several shots which hurt like hell. I said I was fine, though there must have been some tears showing. We played, me happily, until it got dark early and turned even colder before calling it quits.

I limped home with my wounds, but happy that I had impressed these older kids with my goaltending heroics. It felt good at home to sit in front of the old furnace grate warming my frozen legs, but feeling happy that I had stopped a lot of pucks, and won the brief attention and solicitude of that never-seen-again teenage girl.

The pain per se lasted for days afterward. And I vowed I would never play in the NHL if this was what a goalie’s reality and sacrifices were anything like, never mind the constant risk of facial injuries.

But be that as it may, once–on one frigid Saturday afternoon in Winnipeg–yes, I did experience all the pains and pleasures of an ephemeral hockey love.

“The grand essentials to happiness in this life are something to do, something to love, and something to hope for.”

is the month of feelings, family, memories, and true closeness.

Wim Wenders’ classic is a must-see. Wings of Desire is about two angels Damiel (Bruno Ganz) and Cassiel (Otto Sanders) who spend their eternal lives (along with many other angels) tuning in to peoples’ most secret thoughts and desires. Most of the humans they tune into in Berlin are unhappy, depressed, even suicidal, except for children who occupy a special place in this film along with its several references to how children see life and the big questions they ask.

It is Damiel who is closest to children and who becomes attracted to circus life and a trapeze artist played by actress Solveig Alekan (she trained as a trapeze artist in order to play this role) who is restless in her own life to acquire purpose and a significant other. Damiel falls in love with her and desires to give up his eternal angelhood for all the possibilities–good and bad– of human life in order to win her love. Surprisingly and humorously, Peter Falk, of Columbo fame, is the guest star who assists in the process of Damiel’s transition and introduction to human life.

Wings of Desire is an odd existential view of human life that poses larger questions of consciousness and identity that are open for any adult. Back of that, though, there is also a charming child-like awareness reflected by Damiel’s character and both his and the trapeze artist’s inner-child quests. It is through the sensibility and consciousness of children that these two characters find purpose, each other, and a life together that works which angels like Cassiel can never experience (presented in vivid color segments), only vicariously or second-hand (represented by pale black-and-white segments).

The visual style of the film is thoroughly engaging and intriguing with much easy camera movement to show the angels moving at ease among humans. The sound and music of the film is bizarre on the metallic atonal side, culminating in a weird live performance by Nick Cave and The Seeds. The music adds an odd, but appropriate strangeness to the worlds depicted in the film from such unconventional points of view.

Overall, despite the many realistic, bleak human and angel lives depicted in the first part of the film, Wings of Desire remains an optimistic, occasionally humorous film about the many possibilities most of us take for granted or have never even considered. Highly recommended on the themes of death, life, love, risk, choices, and childhood perspectives.

“The Republican Party in 2017 is a place where both Nazis and child molesters can feel at home,” –Mitch McConnell.

“It is not half so important to know as to feel.”–Rachel Carson, The Sense of Wonder

“(with up so floating many bells down)”
“they sowed their isn’t they reaped their same”
“children guessed (but only a few
and down they forgot as up they grew”
“(and only the snow can begin to explain
how children are apt to forget to remember”
“wish by spirit and if by yes”

–E.E. Cummings, excerpts-pastiche from “anyone lived in a pretty how town”

I was five-years-old. We were living a year with my father’s mother in a big old house on Thompson Drive, then in the outskirts of St. James with only Kirkfield Park west of us. My grandmother always had men rooming with her and one of them, Matt, a large gruff man, was very ill and somewhat angry about having me around the house. My parents were working in the day then and I was probably getting underfoot so my grandmother sent me outside to play on a cold windy day on the snow-covered garden plot beside the house (I presume she didn’t want me to wander off).

I may have had a sled, but mostly was digging about in the drifts. She would call me in later for Howdy Doody, a ’50s tv program for kids in the late afternoon. Anyway, as I tried to play in the snow, I imaginatively transferred Matt’s condition to myself there outside and pondered what it might be like to die. I finally decided that it would be better to die in the house watching Howdy Doody, and then my grandmother called me in.

Just a few moments ago, this afternoon almost 60 years later, lying on the couch in the darkened living room, the big tree ablaze with glorious lights and decorations, listening to the holy-voiced English choirs of the Christmas 101 CD, singing carols and other seasonal music I had not heard for many a year, thinking ‘Yes, this would be a fine way to go. I could not imagine a better exit at Christmas time.’ Until I remembered a five year-old-boy playing by himself for what seemed like hours, imagining a better, more perfect finale–while watching Howdy Doody.

Every year at this time I break out my favorite Christmas CD–the diamond anniversary editions of Holiday Inn and White Christmas with songs by the great Irving Berlin. Warm memories of watching those movies annually with my parents on the old black and white through the ’50s and ’60s, remembering their enthusiasm for the vision of life and Christmas presented by those two classics. The big band sounds of another era–the ’40s and ’50s–and the best and happiest of what they remembered of their times–all come back with each song.

Listening to the CD, I remember my Dad singing along with Bing Crosby, the feeling I had while watching each song or dance number. Exquisite and exceedingly sweet or precious–all of it. It all comes back–those times, those memories, those deep bonds, the feelings of those times–the ’40s and ”50s, magically communicated seven decades later (Holiday Inn, 1942) and 59 years later (White Christmas, 1954), the memories of war camaraderie in the latter movie, and the sorts of extremes one would go to, to honour those who had once been part of one’s (war) life. So special, remarkable, and now-thoroughly, but charmingly passé and simple.

I appreciate the places and memories I return to each year thanks to the following songs:
Happy Holiday
White Christmas
I’ll Capture Your Heart
You’re Easy to Dance With
Lazy
Abraham
Be Careful It’s My Heart
I Can’t Tell a Lie
Easter Parade
Song of Freedom
I’ve Got Plenty to Be Thankful For
Let’s Start the New Year Right
Snow
Count Your Blessings Instead of Sheep
What Can You Do with a General?
The Old Man/Gee I Wish I Was Back in the Army

Once one gets past the tragic darkness in/of It’s a Wonderful Life and A Christmas Carol, there are these other two wonderful movie takes on Christmas, and if one ever needs more of a lift, one needs look no further than an old New Year’s tv favorite–the effervescent Singin’ in the Rain with the ever-sunniful Gene Kelly.

Romance, comedy, history, and making-your-own-fun-and dreams-come-true. All such large and wonderful seasonal worlds that lift any sagging year-end spirits–movies and music that have delightfully transcended time and our oh-so-limited/limiting, diminishing modern era.

Del’s last Christmas was in 1997. He had been diagnosed with cancer in September that year and the cancer and treatments had started to obviously ‘waste’ him, something I became aware of when I was in Winnipeg that November. I drove my family the last week in December in -35 C across the prairies for them to be with him, for likely the last time as we all likely knew. He was very tired all the time and could not eat more than 2-3 mouthfuls, but he was in good spirits for the visit. In particular, he showed the kids my parents’ photo albums and various artifacts around the one-bedroom apartment. It seems like he could only do a couple of hours with us each day; he was that exhausted. However, we spent New Year’s Eve with them before we drove back home the following day.

Rose’s last Christmas was, nine years later, in 2006. (This time, we flew to be with her.) She was able to walk, slowly, three flights of stairs at that point so we were able to take her out for a drive in the rented van to see the city lights–something she really appreciated, even commenting that her pain had magically subsided. We also took her to Assiniboine Park to the zoo part where my Dad’s bench and plaque were and cleaned the snow off for pictures. Special treats included a Chinese food supper one night and Rose dancing with her teenage grandson. Unlike Del, I don’t know that she felt this was the last time she would see the family, and we know that she had hoped to make it to my son’s wedding in the summer of 2007 (which sadly was not to be).

Amazingly, Del and Rose died on the same day/date March 31. He passed quickly in Winnipeg General after learning one morning that he would be going to a long-term care facility, not back home. She died quickly, within days, in the Riverview cancer facility after she was removed from home via ambulance. The decline was fast following her admission, after she realized and anxiously whispered to me “We forgot the cigarettes.” Like my Dad, she,too, had been a chain smoker back to her teens.

They died within one hour of each other on that same day. There is a lot that is mystery and I don’t believe my mother was aware of dates or time for the last week before she drifted into the coma that led to her admission. But the irony and significance of their death dates and times did not escape me. My parents were that close.

Del and Rose were generally very happy people and inseparable in their retirement years. They were always quite active, walking miles to and from the park they loved each day. They did a lot of line- and round-dancing, and were snazzy dressers–formal and classy-looking. As you can see from the picture above they were vibrant, outgoing types. They enjoyed travel and considered themselves very fortunate for even the smallest of gifts. And they always looked out for those older and less fortunate than themselves, often befriending and visiting these people, even non-family members.

Gifts, company, family, kids, peace and joy aside, Christmas is also a time for reflection and perspective. Life and Christmas, in many ways, is simply presence and absence. And sometimes we get lucky–though one should never delay, especially when one has the intuition and opportunity (which, of course, was not there again for both these people the following Christmases). Del and Rose truly enjoyed those last Christmases as did I and the family. Those were special, unforgettable Christmases for all concerned, even for those–my remarkable parents–no longer present today. How they smiled and laughed those final visits. How grateful all were to be together, despite the schedules and geographical distance, even in those difficult, challenging, and obviously so sadder times.

March 31 is always a memorable day each year. But Christmas–those last Christmases, is how and when I fondly remember Rose and Del. When they were last with the son and family they loved, at home, in their world, on their own terms.