The Tree

hope –noun
[hohp]
1. the feeling that what is wanted can be had or that events will turn out for the best

A picture I took in Costa Rica

When my Uncle was a young boy, around eight or nine years old, he came home one day with an average looking branch. My Nana asked what he was going to do with it, his plan, to plant it in the backyard and grow a tree. Well sure enough that branch did grow into a huge tree, big enough that the roots ended up causing some damage to the foundation years later.

Now is he just born with a green thumb, or was it a child’s hope that turned a branch into a tree?
I’ve decided to take on a project and turn an unused portion of my backyard into a summer oasis where I can do my work. So far all I have done is clean the garden area and already there are tulips and some other sort of plants flourishing.

Here’s to hoping that the green thumb is a genetic trait.

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The Weekend Dad

tra⋅di⋅tion –noun
[truh-dish-uhn]
1. a long-established or inherited way of thinking or acting
2. a customary or characteristic method or manner
I went to the local diner this morning for breakfast. Usually I enter to find like-minded individuals seeking a simple greasy breakfast to soak up the previous evenings beverages. This morning however I was three to four hours earlier then the regular afternoon brunch crowd, so upon entering I found a whole new group of individuals sitting in the cracked vinyl booths and keeping vigil on the old time chrome stools that surround the Formica counter. Early Sunday morning is apparently the time for the Weekend Dad to take his kids to breakfast.

Seeing all these groups of fathers with their younger children took me back to my weekends growing up. The weekend Dad is a predicable creature. He follows a similar pattern that has somehow been passed down through generations of weekend Dads. The Weekend Dad can be found taking his young children to a greasy spoon diner for breakfast, followed by a trip to a barbershop and maybe a stop over at the ice-cream shop before it is time to go back to weekday Mom’s house. There must be some club where the rules are discussed, guidelines are outlined and agendas are drawn up.

God forbid I ever become a Weekend Dad, (or a Dad for that matter) but if I ever do I am breaking the mould. I’m setting up some new routines. Although when I think of my Dad the memories that first come to mind are the weekend breakfasts, getting my haircut alongside him and going for an ice cream on a Sunday afternoon. In fact many years later, at the age of three decades, I still enjoy doing those things with my Dad… so maybe the traditions should remain the same after all.






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Making Ends Meat

con⋅fu⋅sion –noun
[kuhn-fyoo-zhuhn]
1. the act of confusing
2. the state of being confused
When I was younger my Nana was trying to explain to me that sometimes in life it is hard to make ends meet. My young, very literal mind imagined this dish, much like a meatloaf or some kind of tasty Christmas cake - at the time I think I thought about mincemeat, something I had also heard about but never had the chance of tasting. I found myself wishing we were a little poorer at the time so I could have the benefit of trying this Ends Meat I heard so much about.

I am not sure how long it took me to figure out that Ends Meat was not a tasty dish for the poor, but in fact was a phrase about struggling to survive. In fact as I grew older and learned how hard it can be to make ends meet sometimes, I found it is not very often that one can afford to eat meat, in any form, either the end or the middle.

In ways I am still a very literal person – I was that kid after all who thought, for more years than I wish to admit, that a Dump Truck was called a Dumb Truck. Even after being lambasted by childhood friends for calling their toy truck dumb, it still took awhile for me to clue in to the proper name.

If you have ever spoken to me in person, you may have noticed that some of the words or phrases that come out of my mouth make no sense. I am probably just confused, and may have been for sometime. So please, do me a favour, correct my vocabulary, trust me, I will not mind.







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Liar Liar – The Life

hab⋅it –noun
[hab-it]
1. an acquired behaviour pattern regularly followed until it has become almost involuntary

Can the liars of the world really be blamed for their character? From the time we are able to speak we are taught how to lie. From Santa Claus to the Easter Bunny and every other silly thing that adults like to tell children, like the stork, the tooth fairy and maybe even God, we are led to believe in something in our most impressionable years and then are cruelly told, usually by an older sibling or a childhood pal in the schoolyard, that everything we have ever believed in, everything that the most trusted adults in our life had assured us is real, is in fact a lie.

You’re taught right from wrong, good from bad, so if Mom and Dad told you a lie about Santa Claus, then lying must be okay right? Is there a line when it comes to good and bad lies? And if so when do you cross it?

Are there good lies, and if so what are they?

• lying to save someone from hurt feelings


• lying to get a job, keep a job, leave a job


• lying to get into a relationship, keep a relationship, leave a relationship


• lying to a child about a mythical being who gives presents

Are any of these expectable lies?

My Papa is a wise man and has handed down many sage pieces of advice over the years – one that I have yet to follow is this:

“If you never tell a lie you will never have to remember anything.”

I have lived a lie many times throughout my life, usually for employment but sometimes for survival. In fact as a writer the only way I get paid is to lie. So where do I fall on the lie scale?

The Lie Scale*

The Occasional Liar
This category pretty much covers all of us, from the person who lies about why they are late for dinner to the parent who tells their children that a rabbit hides chocolate eggs around the house once a year. Most people don’t like to lie and are not very good at it, but they’ll do it to avoid an unpleasant situation or because they don’t want to admit to doing something embarrassing. Think 'You'.

The Frequent Liar
Frequent liars know lying is wrong, but it doesn’t make them as uncomfortable as the Occasional Liar. For this reason, they are more likely to lie regularly and are less likely to reveal lies through their appearance. Think 'Player'.

The Habitual Liar
Habitual liars are fairly uncommon. These are people who have difficulty separating fact from fiction and who say whatever comes to their minds no matter how exaggerated, ridiculous, illogical or untruthful it may be. Habitual liars lie so frequently that they never show physical discomfort, but they are so sloppy with content that they are easy to catch. Think 'The One-Upper'.

The Professional Liar
Professional liars have thought their lies through and know exactly what they’re going to say and when. Because the lie has been practiced so often, it will not be revealed by the liar’s voice, body language or appearance. Think 'Salesman' or 'Writer'.

*Source: Adapted from Various Types of Liars

I am a liar. Don’t believe anything I say. I am telling the truth.



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“I wish I was an angel”

su⋅i⋅cide –noun  
[soo-uh-sahyd]
1. the intentional taking of one's own life
2. a person who intentionally takes his or her own life
I had a really bad sleep last night. I managed to get a solid three hours in, but from 12am to 6am I was lucky to average 20 minutes and hour. I think I am coming down with a cold, or some sort of flu bug. All my joints are achy and I have a slight headache.

In those semi-conscious hours between 12am and 6am, I wrote over 20 posts in my head. You know that delusional state between sleep and waking, where you sort of daydream with your eyes closed? Well ya, that’s where I wrote all those posts, and I guess that’s where they are going to stay too because now I forget most of them. However this one stayed with me, probably because it is so dark.

This is not a true memory, as I have no recollection of the event, other than what my Mother divulged to me one evening after she had been drinking wine. When I was just a little guy of three years old I became really morose and withdrawn. One December evening my Mom packed me in the car and drove all around Hometown so I could see the Christmas lights, living in an apartment we never really got to string up our Christmas lights. I guess she thought this would cheer me up. As we approached one house I asked her what was the thing on top of the house there all lit up, she responded by saying ‘Oh that’s an angel honey’. I don’t know if there was more to the conversation, where I asked what an angel was, but from what I gather I said with a sigh ‘I wish I was an angel’.

What a dark and disturbing thing for a kid to say. It totally freaked my Mom out. How could her three-year-old child be so depressed? How can a child be suicidal?

Of course I don’t have a memory of this conversation, but adults tend to blow things out of proportion sometimes, maybe I just really wanted to sit on the roof. At that point in my life I don’t think I knew anyone who had died, or could even understand the concept of death, but who knows?




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