This morning I tried to give away something that is in high demand, is known as a precious gift, and is synonymous with life itself. It seems outrageous that there were no takers. Right? Well, not really. Especially when the very thing you are trying to give away is only pretending to be that priceless commodity. I was trying to give away some of myself. Literally. Let me explain.
I've been donating or attempting to donate my bodily fluids since I was a much younger man. Okay, I admit that some of those attempts were self serving. Perhaps there's a pattern because I never had any takers back in those days either! I digress.
The specific fluid in my body that I tried to give away this morning is one that many people actually want and need. I am referring to my plasma. That yellowy liquid that shares space in our veins and arteries with our blood is a life saver for so many who are sick or injured. As you can imagine, the need is endless. I've been trying to do my little bit to help by donating frequently. The tally of my donations for my plasma, my rare B negative whole blood, and the couple of times I gave platelets is now at 105.
Surely I've given a few gallons of myself over the years to Canadian Blood Services and to its predecessor, the Canadian Red Cross. I understand that in the States donors are actually paid for their blood donations. I figure I've been more than adequately compensated by the awesome people I have met at the various centres throughout Canada, as well as for the number of oatmeal cookies that I have eaten during the rest periods that are mandatory following every donation. The last thing needed is an anaemic donor rushing out the door and causing a traffic accident, thereby suddenly requiring the very blood that was just donated. Wouldn't that be ironic or is it? (Ever since Alanis Morissette wrote that song I'm not sure if I know the true meaning of the word "ironic".)
This happened to be the first time that I was ever rejected as a donor. I've always gotten through the screening process that is the envy of anything I've ever witnessed or tried during my 20+ year career as a cop. Use cocaine in the last six months? No. Had sex with a man, even once? No. Lived in Africa? No. Been to prison? No. Pregnant? No .......... and so on and so on. You get the message. Today I never even made it to the interrogation. All it took was a simple pin prick of my finger and the jig was up. The little pretest on my blood determined that there wasn't really that much premium test flowing through my veins today. My blood was more like Crisco shortening. What was up with that?
I didn't have to think too hard. The signs have been posted on the walls at the clinic since I started going there and the advice was in those pesky pamphlets in black and white. Donors are always reminded to drink lots of water and to eat healthily prior to donating. Now this is good advice at any time and for everyone. It seems that some of us need a kick in the pants to understand that these words actually mean what they say. It seems my Swiss Chalet chicken and rib combo supper (with fries) would not fall in the realm of healthy eating. Who knew? Also, the brownie and cookie batter I licked from the bowls just after my daughter put her creations in the oven probably aren't on the plasma donor A-list. Suffice to say, the fresh from the oven final products weren't a good choice either. At least I washed them down with skim milk.
The staff at the clinic are wonderful people. After all of the years I have been going there to donate, they are more like friends than vampires. They cheerfully sent me on my way this morning with some heartfelt advice. Apparently, oatmeal is an excellent short term antidote for having so much fat in the bloodstream. The only question I had for them was "Do oatmeal cookies count?" Apparently not.
Thursday, March 29, 2012
Thursday, March 22, 2012
The Walls Fell
I'm back!
I'm not sure if I was beseeched with a case of writer's block or if I just figured I had nothing worthwhile to write about. Anyone writing in a public domain, such as a blog, really has to ask themselves the question of why they are putting themselves out there in the first place. I think I became too fixated on spitting out stories that were cutesy and whimsical. If I couldn't make you laugh, then damn it, it wouldn't be worth writing.
I think I had it all backwards. At least for who I am as an individual. If I am to continue as a writer and to improve at this wonderful craft, then I must write for the person who is my biggest fan and who is also my harshest critic. Me. By being true to who I am, I believe the words will flow more freely, the stories will be more compelling, and you, the reader, will willingly join me on my quest to enjoy each and every slice of life's pie.
My blog, Tales of the Not So Private I, is a look at the world as I see it. I'll continue to share some very personal thoughts and experiences if I believe they will be necessary to make a point or add to your understanding of my story. If I can't be open and honest as a writer, then I may as well turn off my computer, put away my thesaurus, and stick to reading self-help books.
So from here on, I will be selfish (though only as a writer). My writing will be a reflection of my thoughts and my feelings. I'll be writing about what happens to be tickling my fancy at a given time. I promise to be more controversial than the financial expert I saw interviewed recently on the Business News Network. The expert was an analyst for the agriculture sector of the United States economy. Her only salient point in the ten minutes of airtime was that if the weather is good this spring and summer, then the US will have a good corn and wheat crop. She added that if the weather is not favourable, then the crop will likely be not as good. Now that is captivating stuff! Thankfully the world has experts to inform us of the obvious. I'm not an expert on anything, but even I can tell when the bar of common sense has been set way too low. I'll endeavour to raise it a notch or two.
As for how often I will write, who knows? I'm under no editor's time crunch, nor is the payment of my light bill predicated on churning out the next story. I'll know when I see it. Or as may be a better descriptor - I'll know when I feel it.
With my selfish perspective to writing all that laid out, I do still hope that you will continue to read, share, and enjoy my tales. As long as Jim's world continues to present good stories, I will be here, ready to dissect them from angles that may be both acute and obtuse. After all, the beauty of life is in its unpredictability and variety. The blocks that from time-to-time encircle many writers form all too predictable angles and shapes. Once these walls fall, the result can be an exhilarating ride for the writer, as well as for the reader. So, hang on!
I'm not sure if I was beseeched with a case of writer's block or if I just figured I had nothing worthwhile to write about. Anyone writing in a public domain, such as a blog, really has to ask themselves the question of why they are putting themselves out there in the first place. I think I became too fixated on spitting out stories that were cutesy and whimsical. If I couldn't make you laugh, then damn it, it wouldn't be worth writing.
I think I had it all backwards. At least for who I am as an individual. If I am to continue as a writer and to improve at this wonderful craft, then I must write for the person who is my biggest fan and who is also my harshest critic. Me. By being true to who I am, I believe the words will flow more freely, the stories will be more compelling, and you, the reader, will willingly join me on my quest to enjoy each and every slice of life's pie.
My blog, Tales of the Not So Private I, is a look at the world as I see it. I'll continue to share some very personal thoughts and experiences if I believe they will be necessary to make a point or add to your understanding of my story. If I can't be open and honest as a writer, then I may as well turn off my computer, put away my thesaurus, and stick to reading self-help books.
So from here on, I will be selfish (though only as a writer). My writing will be a reflection of my thoughts and my feelings. I'll be writing about what happens to be tickling my fancy at a given time. I promise to be more controversial than the financial expert I saw interviewed recently on the Business News Network. The expert was an analyst for the agriculture sector of the United States economy. Her only salient point in the ten minutes of airtime was that if the weather is good this spring and summer, then the US will have a good corn and wheat crop. She added that if the weather is not favourable, then the crop will likely be not as good. Now that is captivating stuff! Thankfully the world has experts to inform us of the obvious. I'm not an expert on anything, but even I can tell when the bar of common sense has been set way too low. I'll endeavour to raise it a notch or two.
As for how often I will write, who knows? I'm under no editor's time crunch, nor is the payment of my light bill predicated on churning out the next story. I'll know when I see it. Or as may be a better descriptor - I'll know when I feel it.
With my selfish perspective to writing all that laid out, I do still hope that you will continue to read, share, and enjoy my tales. As long as Jim's world continues to present good stories, I will be here, ready to dissect them from angles that may be both acute and obtuse. After all, the beauty of life is in its unpredictability and variety. The blocks that from time-to-time encircle many writers form all too predictable angles and shapes. Once these walls fall, the result can be an exhilarating ride for the writer, as well as for the reader. So, hang on!
Friday, December 23, 2011
Christmas Comes Calling
At this time of year, I swear the Newfoundland part of our province sinks deeper into the icy North Atlantic Ocean. It has little to do with the ebb and flow of the tides. It has more to do with the collective weight of so many more people putting such an immense strain on our island's foundation that it cannot help but sag a little towards the resting place of the Titanic. Nothing calls a Newfoundlander back home more than the season that is Christmas.
Late last week, I had to go to the airport in St. John's to pick up my wife and daughter, Lynda and Kendall, who were returning from Kendall's swim meet that was held in Montreal. Their flight was to arrive at 11 p.m. and it just so happened that several other flights were scheduled to arrive at around the same time. When I walked into the normally sparsely populated terminal, I found myself having to zigzag around the myriads of people who had come to the airport to meet arriving family members.
We are either not a patient people or we are extremely loving. (I think it's the latter.) It seems that entire families are required to go to the airport in hopes of being the first to be able to say he or she was the first to get a glimpse of Ricky, Margie and the kids as they ascended the escalator to meet up with their luggage that may or may not have made the flight.
Despite the fact that several of the flights were delayed and the others had not yet let the passengers deplane, no one would dare move away from the entrance to the arrivals area. I had no intention of adding to the chaos, so I figured I would mosey up to the Tim Horton's to see if I developed a thirst for a cup of tea. To get there I had to get through the throng. When I finally succeeded, I realized what a pinball ball must feel like. I wasn't interested in a replay or to be tilted any more, so I decided to hang a safe distance from the arrivals area. Lynda would have to text me when she and Kendall finally arrived.
As I sat in relative safety, people-watching, I couldn't help but recall a time when I was living abroad and was lucky enough to get home for the holidays. I was a cop, living and working in Ontario. An investigation I was working on had me dealing with my counterparts in St. John's. As luck would have it, they needed a prisoner escorted from Toronto to St. John's on a last minute, urgent basis. It was December 22nd and no one, who was already in Newfoundland, was willing to risk leaving so close to Christmas. The unpredictable weather or the even more unpredictable airlines could easily commute a wonderful down home Christmas to the not-so-merry metropolis of Mississauga. In me, the Mounties had their man. In return I got an all expense paid trip back home to see the folks and two brothers. It was pre-kids for Lynda and me, so she was happy to see me go. (I'm not certain that sounds the way that I meant it.)
I had no idea who my prisoner was to be. It didn't matter because it was to be a quick three hour flight and I could stomach anyone for that long. The guy had been in jail for a while, so I was certain he'd be content with the change of scenery. It turned out the prisoner was also a transplanted Newfoundlander. Like so many of us, he had left home to seek fame and fortune in the big city of Toronto. Well, he may have been more infamous than famous, but he carried the common trait we all have of always considering the Rock to be home.
I didn't let on to this guy that I too was a Newf. After years of mainland living, I had become fluently bilingual enough that I could turn on or off my native Newfanese, so he never caught on. He revelled in the idea of telling me all about the unbeatable experience I would have when I spent an evening on George Street. He had a particular affinity for one particular nightclub called the Sundance. Apparently, the world renown friendly ladies of Newfoundland were even more so at this particular establishment. He repeatedly suggested that no visit to St. John's would be complete without experiencing all that the Sundance had to offer. I did a lot of nodding and listening to his stories and assured him that I would give the place a try. It almost seemed cruel not to tell him that I had chugged more than my share of beer at that place in my younger days, but we cops have found it a bad practice to tell bad guys too much about our personal lives. The last thing any cop wants is for some bad guy showing up on his doorstep, whether it be to exact revenge or just to reminisce about old times.
As I arrived at the old airport in St. John's, with its one carousel and 1940's decor, I saw my mom and dad amongst the horde of people waiting. With only two family members there to meet me, we were thoroughly outnumbered by the rest of the clans. I had given my folks careful instructions not to approach me until my prisoner was off my hands. Luckily for me, my RCMP comrades hadn't started partying early and remembered to meet me and their prisoner. I retrieved my handcuffs from the wrists of my travelling companion and bid him and the officers a Merry Christmas and farewell. As I was making my way to my awaiting parents, I heard the prisoner shout to me from across the crowded terminal, "Remember Jim, it's called the Sundance." He gave me the Newfie nod and was whisked away. I never did find out what happened to him. I'm sure he's now out of jail for whatever it was that caused him to be locked up over fifteen years ago.
It's funny how I fondly recall that story after so many years. Many cops have told me of their own memorable experiences involving Newfoundlanders - how Newfs are so honest that they often will readily admit to a crime when asked if they did it; or how they love a good scrap with a cop, but always fight fairly and go willingly when bested.
When a group of people are unique, an oft used phrase to explain the uniqueness is "there must be something in the water." In the case of the people of our province, this phrase is so true. The something in the water for us is this island that sits all alone in the frigid North Atlantic. Hopefully, we will never change. See you at the airport.
Merry Christmas
Jim
Late last week, I had to go to the airport in St. John's to pick up my wife and daughter, Lynda and Kendall, who were returning from Kendall's swim meet that was held in Montreal. Their flight was to arrive at 11 p.m. and it just so happened that several other flights were scheduled to arrive at around the same time. When I walked into the normally sparsely populated terminal, I found myself having to zigzag around the myriads of people who had come to the airport to meet arriving family members.
We are either not a patient people or we are extremely loving. (I think it's the latter.) It seems that entire families are required to go to the airport in hopes of being the first to be able to say he or she was the first to get a glimpse of Ricky, Margie and the kids as they ascended the escalator to meet up with their luggage that may or may not have made the flight.
Despite the fact that several of the flights were delayed and the others had not yet let the passengers deplane, no one would dare move away from the entrance to the arrivals area. I had no intention of adding to the chaos, so I figured I would mosey up to the Tim Horton's to see if I developed a thirst for a cup of tea. To get there I had to get through the throng. When I finally succeeded, I realized what a pinball ball must feel like. I wasn't interested in a replay or to be tilted any more, so I decided to hang a safe distance from the arrivals area. Lynda would have to text me when she and Kendall finally arrived.
As I sat in relative safety, people-watching, I couldn't help but recall a time when I was living abroad and was lucky enough to get home for the holidays. I was a cop, living and working in Ontario. An investigation I was working on had me dealing with my counterparts in St. John's. As luck would have it, they needed a prisoner escorted from Toronto to St. John's on a last minute, urgent basis. It was December 22nd and no one, who was already in Newfoundland, was willing to risk leaving so close to Christmas. The unpredictable weather or the even more unpredictable airlines could easily commute a wonderful down home Christmas to the not-so-merry metropolis of Mississauga. In me, the Mounties had their man. In return I got an all expense paid trip back home to see the folks and two brothers. It was pre-kids for Lynda and me, so she was happy to see me go. (I'm not certain that sounds the way that I meant it.)
I had no idea who my prisoner was to be. It didn't matter because it was to be a quick three hour flight and I could stomach anyone for that long. The guy had been in jail for a while, so I was certain he'd be content with the change of scenery. It turned out the prisoner was also a transplanted Newfoundlander. Like so many of us, he had left home to seek fame and fortune in the big city of Toronto. Well, he may have been more infamous than famous, but he carried the common trait we all have of always considering the Rock to be home.
I didn't let on to this guy that I too was a Newf. After years of mainland living, I had become fluently bilingual enough that I could turn on or off my native Newfanese, so he never caught on. He revelled in the idea of telling me all about the unbeatable experience I would have when I spent an evening on George Street. He had a particular affinity for one particular nightclub called the Sundance. Apparently, the world renown friendly ladies of Newfoundland were even more so at this particular establishment. He repeatedly suggested that no visit to St. John's would be complete without experiencing all that the Sundance had to offer. I did a lot of nodding and listening to his stories and assured him that I would give the place a try. It almost seemed cruel not to tell him that I had chugged more than my share of beer at that place in my younger days, but we cops have found it a bad practice to tell bad guys too much about our personal lives. The last thing any cop wants is for some bad guy showing up on his doorstep, whether it be to exact revenge or just to reminisce about old times.
As I arrived at the old airport in St. John's, with its one carousel and 1940's decor, I saw my mom and dad amongst the horde of people waiting. With only two family members there to meet me, we were thoroughly outnumbered by the rest of the clans. I had given my folks careful instructions not to approach me until my prisoner was off my hands. Luckily for me, my RCMP comrades hadn't started partying early and remembered to meet me and their prisoner. I retrieved my handcuffs from the wrists of my travelling companion and bid him and the officers a Merry Christmas and farewell. As I was making my way to my awaiting parents, I heard the prisoner shout to me from across the crowded terminal, "Remember Jim, it's called the Sundance." He gave me the Newfie nod and was whisked away. I never did find out what happened to him. I'm sure he's now out of jail for whatever it was that caused him to be locked up over fifteen years ago.
It's funny how I fondly recall that story after so many years. Many cops have told me of their own memorable experiences involving Newfoundlanders - how Newfs are so honest that they often will readily admit to a crime when asked if they did it; or how they love a good scrap with a cop, but always fight fairly and go willingly when bested.
When a group of people are unique, an oft used phrase to explain the uniqueness is "there must be something in the water." In the case of the people of our province, this phrase is so true. The something in the water for us is this island that sits all alone in the frigid North Atlantic. Hopefully, we will never change. See you at the airport.
Merry Christmas
Jim
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