Kathy and Me

While we were preparing Mom's celebration of life, my cousin David was kind enough to send me a bunch of photographs, which I used in the event's slideshow. I didn't use this one, since Mom isn't in it, but I'm still quite happy to have this photo of my cousin Kathy and me in Devon, Alberta, from around 1988. Shockingly, this may be the last time I saw Kathy in person. 

Granddad's Partsman Award

I was straightening out some things at Mom's place while she's in the hospital, and I stumbled across this plaque. I've seen it before, of course, and I'm pretty sure Dad told me what his father's award-winning idea was . . . but I've forgotten. Sometimes it feels like some of the most important memories slip away. Was this one of them? I'll never know. 

 

83

Dad would have turned 83 today, had pancreatic cancer not taken him away in 2018. Here he is at left with his father, William Woods, sometime in the late 1950s. 

Happy birthday, Dad. I hope you're flying something cool. 

 

A John Saxon Christmas

I made it to the underground mall in Leaf Rapids at the last possible minute. It was gargantuan but nearly deserted, a seemingly bottomless pit of escalators, raised gardens, water features, hanging chandeliers, and storefronts in every dimension. I hadn't bought anything for Dad, and I was in a panic. Now I was riding one of those endless escalators up to a midlevel strip of stores, hoping to find something thoughtful and appropriate. 

"You've already gotten his gift, you know," said a voice behind me. I turned. 

"John Saxon?" I blurted, for there he was. 

"You don't need to get him a gift. He's with me, remember?"

The truth deflated me. I just nodded and leaned against the escalator rail as we rose. 

"He invited me over to watch you and Sylvia opening gifts together last night, enjoying the lights and music. And we were with your mom and Sean, too, in Leduc. And we'll be there tomorrow, when you guys get together."

"So you're getting along?" I asked, somewhat bewildered; for Dad had always irrationally hated John Saxon, though he'd never met the man. 

Saxon smiled. "Your dad never really hated anyone," he said. "We're pals now." 

Not really understanding why, I felt immense relief. 

"Just keep enjoying your life," Saxon said. "That's what he likes to see." 

"Is he still angry?" I asked, for my father was always angry when he came to me in dreams. 

"Only sometimes," Saxon said. "It's not forever." 

We escalated in companionable silence, and then I transitioned back to the real world, like a ghost slipping away from home. 

Validating Our Worst Selves

As sometimes happens, I had a pretty lousy week (by the standards of my particular forms of privilege). I missed a day of work, the news was getting me down, I'd accidentally inconvenienced a couple of people, I wasn't getting much sleep, I had no drive to accomplish household tasks--the sorts of problems that really should be taken in stride. Instead, by Thursday I'd worked myself into a state of fierce self-loathing. 

Today I felt much better, thanks almost entirely to simply cuddling with Sylvia through Thursday night. As we drove to pick up groceries today, I made light of my maudlin mood of the days prior, mocking myself by saying things like "Oh, I've been so mean to people over the years" and "I've been a complete idiot so much of my life" and "I've accomplished nothing." I said it in a tone that tried to suggest I knew such feelings were silly, but Sylvia saw through me, as usual. She admitted that she sometimes felt that way too, but then she said something that hit me like a bombshell: 

"Why do our negative thoughts get all our internal attention and validation?" 

Yes! Why? All my life I've validated my worst feelings about myself while at the same time dismissing or devaluing the positive assessments of other people. I'm not alone in this. 

I wonder what percentage of human beings validate their bad feelings about themselves, and what percentage enjoy a healthier, more balanced view--not narcissistic, but a view that accepts their good and bad qualities without feeling undue self-loathing or overweening pride. Furthermore, I wonder that genetic traits or environmental conditions make the difference between mental health and depression and other disorders. 

I've written a few times about how much I loathed my first job after graduating from the University of Alberta: driving a truck full of automotive parts to different garages on the south and west sides of Edmonton. I had that job for three years, applying for other jobs all the while, and the longer I was there the more I began to believe that I'd never do better. (To give myself some credit, I recognized, even as an ignorant twentysomething, the inherent value of any job that in some way helped the community; I didn't feel as though I was "above" the job, just that it didn't suit my interests or skills.) 

For several months of this three-year period, I was living with my parents and commuting to Edmonton with Dad. After one particularly rough day, I confessed to Dad that I thought there must be something wrong with me because even after years of trying, nobody wanted to hire me. (I'd gotten the truck driving job thanks to Dad.) 

"Earl, that's bullshit," Dad said forcefully, startling me a little. "You're a very smart kid, but these are tough conditions. It won't be long before you find something much better suited to all the things you can do." 

Dad's no-nonsense clarity helped quite a bit that day, and he was right; it wasn't long before I moved on to better things, though not without some amusing misadventures. 

Sylvia's question today has helped me realize that I need to investigate why I've given so much weight to the ways I've failed other people, the ways I've failed to live up to my expectations of myself, the ways I've hurt others--almost always unintentionally--and yet, NOT always unintentionally, and when you hurt someone, what do your intentions matter anyway? 

This is turning into a screed, so I'll conclude with this: If you've ever had feelings like mine, I hope you'll give yourself a break. Believe people when they say nice things about you; don't devalue their judgement or support. I'm going to do my best to take my own advice. 

Introducing the MBU: Phase One

 

Tonight I watched The Bees (Alfredo Zacarías, 1978), one of a series of the killer-bees-panic subgenre of the 1970s. John Saxon stars, so I immediately started texting Sean with a play-by-play of the film, mostly because for some reason Dad hated John Saxon and famously said he'd "shoot that son of a bitch" if he ever ran into him. Of course Dad actually would never do such a thing (although he did in a dream once, right in the face), but Sean and I have always found Dad's irrational hatred for an actor he never met pretty funny. 

Anyway, captured above is Sean's inspired moment where he laments the lack of an extended bee universe. I immediately dubbed it the "MBU," the Malevolent Bees Universe, aping Marvel's MCU, the Marvel Cinematic Universe. 

Phase One of the MBU begins with a recut of Freddie Francis' The Deadly Bees (1966), in which a beekeeper creates a strain of killer bees and uses them to start killing people because the scientific community doesn't take him seriously. After the bees kill a few people on remote Seagull Island, the mad beekeeper's plans are thwarted by a rival, ethical beekeeper. 

Phase One continues with Invasion of the Bee Girls (Denis Sanders, 1973). By looping in some new dialogue, it should be easy to connect this film with The Deadly Bees by revealing that the formula used to create the bee girls of this film draws upon the science established by the mad beekeeper in the first film. 

Next, Curtis Harrington's 1974 made-for-TV thriller Killer Bees our heroine, Victoria, encountering an eccentric family who are using Africanized bees to improve yields at their vineyard. With some editing tricks, we can connect villainess Madam Van Bohlen to the first two films by suggesting that her psychic power to control bee swarms is a result of experiments from the first two films. We could also suggest that our heroine, Victoria, is an ex-Bee Girl. By film's end, she has become the new Bee Queen. Perhaps we'll see her again...

Mission: Impossible creator Bruce Geller produced and directed The Savage Bees (1976), in which savage bees stow away on a freighter and attack partiers at Mardi Gras. With some simple newly-shot scenes, we can create a framing story that reveals the Bee Queen is behind this attack. 

Believe it or not, there was a sequel to The Savage Bees: Terror Out of the Sky (Lee H. Katzin, 1978). This time (thanks once again to some newly-shot footage), the Bee Queen uses her psychic bee control powers to attack a school bus, a marching band, a truck driver, and other unfortunates. What is her overarching plan? 

In Irwin Allen's The Swarm (1978), the bees mount their greatest assault yet, invading the continental United States in full force with only an all-star cast of classic Hollywood greats (Fred MacMurray! Olivia de Haviland! Michael Caine! Richard Widmark! Lee Grant! Ben Johnson! Richard Chamberlain! Henry Fonda! Katharine Ross! Slim Pickens!) standing against...THE SWARM! (And the Bee Queen, thanks to some dialogue looping and new scenes, of course.) 

Phase One of the MBeeU concludes, fittingly, with The Bees. After a tremendous amount of hilarious carnage, John Saxon learns how to communicate with the bees and basically acts as their spokesperson at the United Nations. The bees swarm the General Assembly, and in a fantastic cliffhanger to end Phase One, Saxon sides with the bees to demand humanity surrender control to the bees - or face genocide by bee sting. Wow, Dad was right: John Saxon really was a son of a bitch! At least in this role...

 

81

We didn't know it at the time, but this was the last time Mom and Sean and Sylvia and I celebrated Dad's birthday--a few days early, on January 27, 2018. We had a nice time, and as I think about Dad on this, what would have been his 81st birthday, I'm grateful for that gathering and all the other times we spent together. I hope he's flying or watching a football game or cursing a blue streak while renovating a room somewhere. 
 

Dad's 80th

If Dad were still on this mortal plane, he would have been 80 years old today. Here he is in 1960, age 18. We still miss him. 

 

Dad in the 40s

Dad would have been 79 today. Here he is at left with his friend George Wells. Mom thinks this might have been around 1944. 

This photo was originally shot in black and white. Colour was added by an algorithm. 
 
Miss you, Dad. Take care. 

Two Years Gone, Never Forgotten

Dad passed two years ago today, and I miss him. But I'm forever grateful for his kindness, his sense of humour, and his curiosity about the world around him. I like to think he's still exploring. 

Dad Meets John Saxon

As I've written in the past, I am both blessed and cursed with vivid dreams that, in the moment, are as utterly convincing as real life itself. This means that my dreams can sometimes be traumatic, which is why I'm writing this at 5 am.

Last night--in the dream, I know now--I was in my library, culling books to make room, a project I've been working on for a couple of weeks now. As I was boxing some old thrillers I know I'll never read again, Dad, who died back in 2018, appeared in the doorway. This seemed quite natural, even though Dad appeared to be in his late 30s or early 40s--younger than I am now.

I was very pleased, but because I've always been a bit emotionally stunted, I didn't let it show. We exchanged greetings, and then this conversation followed:

"How are you doing?" I asked. "Hey, I don't know if you've already heard, but John Saxon died a couple of days ago..."

Dad laughed, embarrassed. "Oh yeah, he came by to see me as soon as he got here."

"And what did he say?" I asked eagerly.

Long ago, you see, Dad had a dream in which character actor John Saxon confronted him in a narrow staircase. Saxon was coming up the stairs toward Dad menacingly, and this is how Dad reacted, in his words: "I shot that son-of-a-bitch in the face."

This always made Sean and I laugh uproariously, because Dad is not a violent man and it's hard to imagine him shooting anyone, nor even wishing harm on anyone. We always asked what he had against John Saxon, and Dad always said he couldn't explain it, he just couldn't stand the guy--despite never having met him in the real world.

"And what did he say?"

And Dad said, "He said he'd heard about me, and he came by to tell me that there were no hard feelings, because there were times in his life when he really had been a son-of-a-bitch. Turns out he's a pretty good guy, told some interesting stories."

Dad then asked if he could borrow a couple of the cardboard boxes I'd set aside for the books I was giving away, and of course I said sure. He took them and walked away, and I woke up crying, which was very therapeutic because I haven't had a good cry over Dad's death yet; it's been brutally suppressed by some emotional mechanism I don't understand. Sylvia comforted me, but unfortunately I woke up again, this time in the real world--or so I hope, as I'm writing this--dry-eyed and feeling numb, catharsis lost.

I am not a spiritual person, not a believer in ghosts or the afterlife. And yet I hope Dad really did meet John Saxon, and that he's enjoying himself in some joyful place beyond mortal ken, because he deserves it, gone too soon and forever missed. 

Dad on the Alaska Highway

Dad would have been 78 today. I hope he's still enjoying his travels. 

Dad on the Left

Here are two recently rediscovered photos of Dad, on the left in both images. The boy on the right is George Wells. This would have been shot in Nipawin, Saskatchewan, sometime in the early 1940s; maybe 1944, assuming Dad is two years old in these images. 

A Message from Keith

Keith Gylander was one of the first, if not the very first, friends I made when we moved from Manitoba to Alberta, by virtue of living next door to us in Leduc. (The photo above captures him in Grade 9.) Today I received an unexpected email from Keith, which read, in part:

I am sorry to have just learned of your father’s passing, a year and 10 days ago today.

I remember touring Leduc and riding down 46 Ave the summer before last on my motorbike, lamenting the status of what is now left of my parents' once-proud home (gulp). Your mom and dad were out front and I pulled up to the curb, unrecognizable with my loud bike and full-face and shield-tinted helmet. Still, your father came happily walking up to me to say hello. Even after I took off my helmet I still needed to tell him who I was - ha ha.

He was the same jolly, friendly and outgoing man I knew him to be from the day I first met him 40 years ago (gulp - the sequel). As I rode away from our brief chat, it felt good to know that at least some willowy tapestries still connect us to the whimsical days of youth. He is a good man.

Keith and I exchanged some news, but this part of his message (published here with his permission) really moved me. It was nice to know that people still remember Dad fondly, and nice to hear that Keith and his family are doing well. Over the last few years many people in my life have endured struggles of all kinds, but the ties of friendship and family help us all pull through. Thanks so much for the note, Keith. 

One Year Ago...

Dad left us a year ago today, and we still miss him. I'm still angry because Dad wanted to live, he fought, and he still had things he wanted to do. I'm trying not to be angry because I know Dad would want me to just enjoy life, so I'm trying. But it's hard. Miss you, Dad. Love you. Hope you're flying. 

Great Moments in Bad Photography

Here is a  photo of Dad's lower legs, the horrible old back deck that the family ripped out and replaced a few years later, and an old spool for cable that we used as a table.

I'll never forget Dad's reaction when we ripped out that deck only to discover that there was a set of cement stairs sunken into the ground underneath. There was an almost elegant, outraged cacophony of "colourful metaphors," as Spock would call swearing. He immediately rented a jackhammer and smashed the old stairs to bits. 

Shut Up & Sit Down Reviews Crokinole

I really enjoy crokinole, and my dad and his dad were really good at it, playing in tournaments together. So in their honour, and to mark Canada Day, here's the Shut Up & Sit Down review of one of Canada's most popular gifts to the  world, crokinole. 

Father's Day 2019

It's our first Father's Day without Dad, and it's hard. Here's something Mom found online a few months ago: a photograph of the church and manse in Rocanville, Saskatchewan. Dad was born in that manse in 1942. Miss you, Dad. 

Film Review: Monte Walsh

I turned 50 this year, it's been a few months since the death of my father, and the news of the world - our relentless march toward a jobless society at the same time collapsing in on itself due to corruption, greed, climate change, fear and ignorance - weighs down on me more with each passing day.

So perhaps tonight was the perfect time to watch Monte Walsh (William A. Fraker, 1970), a movie obsessed with literal death, spiritual death, and the death of a way of life - the world moving on and leaving so many behind.

Monte Walsh, magnificently portrayed by Lee Marvin, is navigating his twilight years, reluctantly learning that the West as he knew it is dying, along with a livelihood he loved. He tries to adjust, but circumstances rob him of any hope of happiness; his world collapses around him, and he rides off to an uncertain fate.

I feel like I'm just a few years away from sharing Monte's fate. Right now, I'm very lucky; I've enjoyed a comfortable life and a rewarding career for some 25 years now, and theoretically I have another 15 years to go before retiring comfortably. My colleagues are brilliant, my manager superb, and I work in a thriving industry.

But 15 years is such a long time. Already, software is automating aspects of my white collar job; it's primitive now, but how long before advances in this kind of technology make communications professionals like me superfluous? Five years? Ten? Can I possibly make it the full 15 to retirement? Or will societal collapse make the point moot?

Marvin, as Monte, never gives up. He keeps his dignity. He remains a sad but inspirational figure by the time the credits roll.

But his world has moved on, nonetheless. 

Dad at 18

Today Dad would have turned 77 years old, had he not died back in November. I still miss him, and I still haven't processed the sudden loss.

Here's Dad at 18, back in 1960. Hope you're soaring, Dad.