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Another life lesson.

Recently, like about a few years ago, I discovered the most appropriate culinary pairing.

Oven-toasted Apple Blessoms and Argentinian Malbec.

Reserve Malbec.

The warm and toasty, yet delicate apple cinnamon notes graciously complimenting the earthy malbecy aromas, fastidiously interlacing South American panache with North American wholesomeness.

The golden brown hues of the Blessom absorbing the complex inky violet shades of the unique, and obviously Mendozen foothill-sourced, thick-skinned grapes leaving the discerning palate yearning for more.

Each succulent, gooey bite paired with a properly aerated sip, suckled through ergonomically clenched teeth, combining the essence of all that is grand in the world today.

The new world. And the old one.

All worlds. As one.

Together in my mouth.

Score: 94.26

Sometimes people ask me to be their guarantor for their passport.

It’s an important request. It shows how much they value me, how much trust they place on me.

In one way, it’s a popularity contest and I feel special when they choose me over all the other reliable people in their lives.

I become the chosen one.

It’s a huge honour and I take it very seriously.

So far, only three people have been deported because I got their names wrong. Along with their height, their hair colour, and length of time I’ve known them.

1 out of 4 ain’t bad, right?

If you are caught reaching over and stealing someone’s rye toast, one might say you have been caught bread-handed.

– person across table from me

A while back I was reminded by Facebook of a time when I was left high and dry. Painful memories resurfacing, bubbling up to challenge my amygdala to work at full capacity.

You may not have read about it the first time, but here I will share with you the vivid memory that is still etched in precise detail deep within my limbic system, the same way those lover-vandals had etched their names ensconced in a heart in the neighbourhood oak tree years ago, causing irreparable harm to poor Oakey, who later died a slow painful death from Oak wilt.

I hope, wherever he is now living as a table or a bed, he is resting in peace, and not pieces…but I digress.

Here is my tale of sorrow and woe, read at your own peril as you may get a case of the sads. You have been warned…

I would have posted earlier but was otherwise occupied watching cat and baby goat videos, because my soul needed the levity.

It had been one of those trying days; one filled with immeasurable loss and sorrow.

This morning, I was the victim of an unspeakable crime so heinous that I must speak of it.

Someone took my mid-priced stainless steel water bottle from High Park while I was doing what I rarely do, running. They absconded with it, surely never to be seen again.

And now I will remain dehydrated.

Parched forevermore.

Photo by Natalie Thornley on Unsplash

With age comes wisdom and responsibility.

Therefore, I no longer jump in puddles.

As that would just get my own pants wet.

Instead I drive through them.

And get other people’s pants wet.

Photo by Rupert Britton on Unsplash

I was going to post this earlier but being Canadian Thanksgiving, I was caught up in a multitude of Turkey dinners, and didn’t quite have the time to get around to it until now.

Driving to work one time, I found myself in the inside left lane nearest to the directional yellow divider, whereas usually I stick to the right, slower moving traffic lane, except to pass. I had noticed a bicycle up ahead in the curb lane. I mention this because this is important…I could see in my rear-view mirror that there was a car coming up beside me in that right curb lane.

My brain, working the way it does, like an advanced supercomputer from the 70’s that it is, put these two pieces of information together almost instantaneously.  In that nanosecond or so, I deduced that the car would likely want to change over to my lane, so I eased off the gas and created abundant space in front of me. More than enough for that car to squirt right in.

As expected, that’s exactly what happened. When the driver of the curbside car noticed the bicyclist, he shifted over.

Now having created space like that, I didn’t have any expectation that the driver would have noticed what I had done. But to my surprise and delight, he did and waved his thanks as we rolled up to the red light together.

So obviously, I waved thanks back for him acknowledging my courtesy.

To which he waved back at me.

And so on and so forth for a good couple minutes – the back and forth of humanity living.

And on this Thanksgiving day, I feel it’s appropriate to acknowledge these small acts. To give thanks.

It was really nice.

Polite aware drivers getting along. Spending a few moments realizing we’re all in this together. That we can make the streets safer for all users, drivers, cyclists, and pedestrians.

Road friends forever.

Until the rude driver behind me started honking and swearing while shaking his fist, interrupting my new friendship ritual.

Looking up into my rear-view mirror again, I could make out something about green light…

I was reminded today of how I did my good deed for the day at a local Tim Horton’s a couple years ago.

Let me set the scene for you.

This poor guy was trying to hard to exit the building with his Double Doubles and their well designed lids precariously perched on the sturdy cardboard tray.

I could see him clearly. He kept pushing and pushing against the door, but it just wouldn’t budge. He couldn’t get out. There was no egress for him. It appeared as though he would be trapped inside, forevermore, his specialty coffees going cold, his companions going thirsty and un-caffeinated.

Now I know what you’re thinking…Because I, in your situation, would have thought the same thing. 

He was pushing on a pull door.

Well, he wasn’t. It was definitely a push door, at least from his direction. And hot damn, was the guy pushing.

For the record, he was not a small dude. He’d probably describe himself as girthy. Well muscled, he’d definitely spent some time at the gym. Or on the needle. Or both. 

I couldn’t stop watching as the scene unfolded right before my eyes. He wouldn’t give up, yet still could not escape. I was mesmerized. His tenacity was astounding. He wouldn’t give up, undaunted by repeated failures to achieve his goal, like a wee toddler learning to stand for the first time.

I could even see that his big juicy superficial temporal vein looked like it was going to burst. It was throbbing. Pulsing. He had sweat starting to bead up at his furrowed brow and upon his pursed upper lip. The sinewy muscles of his neck were straining against his skin. His effort was real. As was his struggle. 

He was startled when he noticed me as he looked up at his reflection on the glass door. We made eye contact, briefly, before he looked away, in shame.

But in that instant, I was able to silently mouth the words, trying not to cause him any embarrassment in the packed establishment on account of his exitile dysfunction:

Do you need some help?

He looked so defeated that whether he wanted my help or not, he was going to get it. He needed it. We must all step up and away, and become the Good Samaritan that resides within us all.

So I removed my foot from the base of the door and pulled it open for him.

As he walked out past me, he quietly mumbled his thanks. I felt so good inside.

Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping.

Mr. Fred Rogers

That morning I was a helper.