Swimmingly Simplistic

I love to see Lynda laugh.  I especially love it when I am the one who has made here do it.  She can laugh with me, at me, for me, because of me, despite me.....it's all good.  Last evening , it just may have been a little of all of those.

We were at the residence of the president (the guy) and the team manager (the gal) of our swim club. It's not actually "our" club, but the one Kendall and Avery are in - The St. John's Legends.  It was the occasion of the club's monthly board meeting.  Lynda is the secretary and social club go-to person, while I am the Meet Manager.  No, I don't liaise with Sobey's for deals on beef.  My job is to coordinate the couple of meets that our club hosts each year.  No small task when you consider we get over 350 swimmers, from all over the province, at our pool for a weekend.  The effort required has equalled the project management that I used to do as a supervisor with the RCMP drug unit here in St. John's. Swimmers and drug dealers strive for good times, but the comparison ends there.  Instead of a cushy cell at a Federal Pen perhaps convicted drug traffickers should have to do a 1500 meter free style.  That'll go way further in teaching them about the attributes of hard work, dedication and self respect.  I may even take their handcuffs off.....nah.

Everyone on the board is a  parent of a swimmer.  Like all of the other parents, Lynda and I pay a small fortune for the privilege of having the girls partake in an awesome sport.  I thought I was getting off easy when the girls gravitated towards swimming - no expensive skates, no $250 hockey sticks, $400 catcher's mitts.  Boy, was I wrong.  Competitive swim suits run from $80 to $300 and are only worn during competitions because they disintegrate to near invisibility after a dozen wearings.  The girls each have 4 or 5 regular suits too that don't cost an arm and a leg.  These manage to get them through the practices that go on every day, except Sunday, and twice on Monday for Kendall - before and after school.  Going into the world of swimming as a newbee, I could see that goggles were a part of the sport.  I just didn't realize that the girls just had to have the ones that are the latest and greatest and come with a price tag to match.  Those damn things wear out way too quickly.  I guess the chlorinated water eats away at the plastic and rubber.  Oh yeah, it must also eat away at the kids' brains because way too often we've come away from the pool only to find their swim bags void of the goggles that were there when they went into the pool.  I've pretty much fixed that problem though.  The girls have to buy their own if they lose their goggles and I have threatened to make them where the ones I've been using for the last 15 years.  I'm pretty sure the idea of wearing goggles that makes them look like a gigantic housefly is more effective than forking out a couple of months allowance, but my wallet is just happy that something gets their attention.

And how could I forget the travel.  If you want to go anyway in the sport, then you have to go just about everywhere.  The thrill of competition and the life experiences gained are priceless commodities for our kids.  It just so happens they tend to be pricey too.  Last weekend, Avery and I went to Gander for her very first swim meet.  It was awesome!  I was so proud to see her belly smacking off the blocks, giving maximum effort during her races, and coming up smiling no matter how she placed.  It was well worth the cost of the hotels, gas to drive there, meals and entry fees.  It looks like Lynda and I will be writing many more cheques for upcoming swim meets for Avery.  Then there's Kendall.  At 13, she's a virtual veteran of the world of competitive swimming.  Her swimming schedule will see her go to Corner Brook; Gander; Pointe-Claire, Quebec, New Brunswick, Florida and maybe California.  Guess where the money will be coming from.  I'd have Kendall take up a paper route if only she wasn't so busy practicing and going to school.  Seeing how I drive the kids to 5:30 a.m. practices four days a week that leaves me out of the paper delivery option.  Hmmmm, Lynda is not busy at that hour.  I don't think she's laughing at, or even with me, about that idea.

I am but a simple man.  Lynda always knew this.  Now, so does everyone else.  A couple of weeks ago the club held an auction as a fund raiser.  It was a somewhat formal affair, with a nice meal and wicked items available to the highest bidders.  For those who follow my stories and who know me a little, you are aware of my passion for cod fishing and my fondness for my little boat.  It was a natural fit for me to offer a cod jigging experience as an auction item.  A day out on the waters of Torbay, watching whales, exploring cliffs and coves, breathing the salty air, catching our cod quota......does it get any better than that?  Surely it is priceless!  My buddy, Wayne, was the auctioneer.  No one is better at it.  It so happens that Wayne has been out jigging with me, so he knows what I have to offer.  The organizers want me to spice up the experience and suggest an on board meal would fetch more money.  I'm easy, so no problem.  I'll just get my mom to make it all anyway.  A granola bar and a Pepsi are usually the extent of my fine dining while out on the water.  No need to fill your belly only to end up sharing it all with the gulls.  In any event, I don't have a bathroom on board.  I've never needed one.  It's a truly liberating feeling to pee off the bow into the great big sea.. Just be careful to make sure no sharks are lurking about, especially when the ladies tinkle.  Anyway, a lunch will be included.  The bidding is going well, $400....$500.... when someone asks Wayne what exactly is included.  Wayne repeats the spiel....cod fishing, Torbay, lunch, then pauses and looks my way.  He then tells everyone to look at me, that this is what you get, Jim is just a simple man.  $500 to $600 to $700 and it sells for $800.  Maybe simple ain't so bad.  (I forgot to look to see if Lynda was laughing with me or at me.  I bet she wished she had a newspaper to hide behind.)

So, finally I'll get back to the last evening's board meeting and what made Lynda laugh.  We were discussing having Santa attend an upcoming swim practice to meet all of the kids in the club.  We could do pictures, candy canes and Santa would interact with the kids on the pool deck for a couple of hours.  All I could think about was Santa, big beard, bigger belly, red suit and the heat and humidity of the pool.  The big guy wouldn't stand a chance.  I had to come to the defence of St. Nick.  I told everyone that the poor guy would surely sweat his bag off!  Everyone busted out in hysterics.  Hey, I meant the bag he carries on his back.  I can't help it if people take things the wrong way.  Anyway, Lynda was quick to come to my defence.  She told everyone - "Don't mind Jim, he is simple."

Silent Night

It's dead calm and quiet.  The whooshing of the wind through distant corridors is the only challenger to complete silence.  A rare occurrence in this place.  Night time usually invites the muted sobs of many who call this place home.  But not on this night.  Daytime is a stark contrast, anything but peaceful and anything but silent.  Six hundred men, trapped inside an ancient medieval structure that is maximum security, awake, alive, but not quite living, come together to make a singular sound that is not quite human, unnatural, unsettling.  Further penance perhaps?

But this night is different.  Eyes closed and ears taking in only the rhythm of the breeze, he finds it possible to allow his mind to escape the confines of this place.  He is here because he deserves to be.  His body will be here for a long time. He has imprisoned his flesh, but to survive this place, to leave someday with his humanity, he needed to find freedom.  Any type of freedom.

He taught his mind to do what is not possible for his body, to escape, to go beyond these cursed walls.  Everyone has their "happy place".  It can be real or imagined.  A place where we feel at ease, not weighted down by worry, more alive, free....free...free.  He takes himself there.  He is happy.  As happy and as free as inmate 41391 can be...deserves to be.

Utterly Ridiculous

It's remarkable what little things we remember and how we cling to those ideals and expressions for the remainder of our lives.  My little case in point is surprisingly silly.  It has to do with the devilish and very adolescent practice of cow tipping.  "What the heck is that?", you may be asking.  I can assure you it has nothing to do with 15% gratuities at the Keg, nor is it a slice off the age old argument as to whether filet mignon is a better cut of meat than strip loin.

Cow tipping is just what the name implies.  It so happens that cows sleep standing up, so if a person is stealth enough, it is possible to sneak up on one and pull two legs out from under her and down she will go.  Hint - make sure the two legs are on the same side, otherwise the cow will do a face plant or a butt drop.  That would be cruel!

I have only experienced this tipping phenomenon from the comfort of a semi-reclining theatre chair.  It was when the kids and I were watching an animated Hollywood movie that I think was called "Barnyard".   This was several years ago when Kendall and Avery were wee ones.  We still joke and laugh about the silliness of the idea.  It was even sillier in the movie because the main character was a cow named Otis.  Otis was a boy cow!  Otis had utters and a girlfriend.  Confusing perhaps, particularly if you are from my generation, but my children took it all in stride.  Kids today are certainly much more accepting and worldly than I ever was.  As a kid in the late 1960's, it was as normal as bell bottom pants to have our fresh milk miraculously appear on our doorstep each morning.  The still chilled milk would be in reusable glass bottles that had a flimsy cardboard seal.  Ain't no way our kids would be drinking that stuff now-a-days. Some cow may have pee'd in it.

My now half grown kids and I are reminded of the shenanigans of Otis and friends almost daily.  There are a couple of dairy farms near our house and the black and white bovines must wonder what the heck we are always smiling at when we drive by the muddy, sea salt air whipped fields.  They'd be wise to sleep with one eye open.

I know that decades from now, whenever I want to take Kendall and Avery with me back to a time of simplicity and innocence, I will simply have to ask them if they want to go cow tipping.  I'll remind them to avoid any cow with a deep gravelly voice,who can stand upright and goes by the name of Otis.  That dude, if he hasn't yet been turned into ground beef, is definitely on to us.