Dell on Where Were You

Alan Jackson's Where Were You (When The World Stopped Turning) was playing on the radio this morning.

 911: September 11, 2001.

I know exactly where I was: at home, in the living room, waiting for my grand-daughter Shelley to finish getting dressed. The television had been on while we had eaten breakfast. That had been a solemn affair as we digested our bran flakes along with the phone call the night before.

We had been putting new line on Shelley's reel in anticipation of September's usually fine fishing. She was reeling  across from me while I was sitting in my chair holding a pencil stuck through the spool, feeding line out to her. The phone rang. Since I have hearing problems, I keep the volume settings high. Shelley listened as the police officer ... regretted to inform....as next of kin...had been found dead...alcohol...pills...but appeared to be natural causes...there would be an autopsy... had died at home...Shelley's fishing line lay pooled and tangled at the foot of the couch, where she had dropped it the evening before as she ran to her room.

This was my daughter who had died, but my own grief was secondary to Shelley's pain. Her mother had been trying for years to quit drinking with no success: the demons that drove her, I had realized too late, were in part my doing. I had provided the material things for my child; unforunately, I had been too wrapped up in myself to be the father I should have been. I failed to give my child the tools she needed to cope with life and had barely seen my daughter after she married David after her eighteenth birthday and moved out west.

If it had not been for David, Shelley's father, I might have lost contact with my grand-daughter, too. David made sure Shelley spent many weeks of her childhood in Ontario. He worked at long-haul truck driving and would give me a call when he was heading this way. I generally met him somewhere, and would keep Shelley until the call came and she went home again. By the time she was seven and her father was killed driving his rig near Toronto, I had a fair idea David had been sending my grand-daughter to me whenever her mother's drinking was getting out of hand.

After David's death, I only saw Shelley during her summer holidays. As long as I covered the travel expenses, I was welcome to Shelley for eight weeks. It was no financial hardship for me, but I kick myself now to think how things might have been if I had been more involved with Shelley the other ten months of the year. As it turned out, by the time she was fourteen, Shelley came to live with me permanently. And now her mother was dead.

As I reached over to shut off the television, the sight of the two towers stopped me in my tracks. There was smoke coming out of one of them and when I turned up the volume, the reporter was saying a passenger plane had just crashed into the tower. I quickly shut off the set as Shelley joined me. There was no way I was going to share that bit of news with her as we headed up to the city to make her mother's funeral arrangements.

Once on the highway, I pulled in at the Trading Post for gas. Shelley got out and went into the restaurant for a coffee and hot chocolate to go, while I pumped and paid for the gas. Finished with gassing up, I was surprised when she still wasn't done in the restaurant. There weren't many cars in the lot: tourist season was past its peak. Pulling my truck out of the gas bay I parked, just as Shelley appeared at the door waving me to join her.

That morning there were a dozen or so people in the restaurant; mostly travellers lingering over their breakfast coffee. Shelley simply pointed to the television. I listened to a reporter's shaken voice saying a second plane had crashed into the World Trade Center's other tower. Then the now famous video clip of the moment of impact rolled on. Shelley and I walked outside into the sunshine, got in the truck and sat there, holding hands, crying tears of our shared and personal grief.

Where were you?

Dell on Dating Sites & Fishing

The things I learn from my grand-daughter never fail to amaze me.  Last week I discovered she has a profile on one of these dating web sites. Apparently, she has been at it for some time. I might never have found out except she'd been out here for a visit and used my computer. The next day when I went to listen to music on youtube, up pops a message: have you gone fishing today?

Hell, yes, I went fishing, but why was the computer asking me? Surely cookies couldn't tell what I was up to on the lake.

It was like the breast situation [see my post: Dell on Getting It]. No matter what I tried, I could not get that question to stop popping up every time I went to youtube. Shelley came out to camp to rectify the situation and confessed she had checked her fishing messages on my computer. She assured me she was extremely cautious before meeting anyone in person. Moreover, she said she had no difficulty telling a keeper from a release and went on to name several nice young men she has brought out to camp over the last couple years.

Did I want to sign up? I told her I prefer to choose my own waters, and that was fine with her. Now here's the interesting part: she starts telling me about an unusual phenomenon [her words] that is currently going on at this fishing site. Expecting to hear something lurid, she threw me for a loop when she next asked if I remembered when she first came to stay with me.

Of course I remember. I had always told Shelley that if things got too bad with her mother's drinking she could come and live with me. The day finally came with  a telephone call from the child protection agency where her mother was living at the time. My daughter, Shelley's mother, had been arrested. The live-in boyfriend had tried to get friendly with Shelley. Her mother had been drinking and caught him at it: grabbed a kitchen knife and cut him just enough to send him to hospital. This worker from the agency was fine with Shelley living with me, but wanted my word I would see she got counselling. The worker was worried she had been traumatized. I didn't ask whether she meant just then or all her life. I agreed to the counselling, no problem.

I know today that Shelley really did need to see a professional. The psychiatrist at the time thought there were indications she suffered from a psychiatric disorder: BPD, standing for Borderline Personality Disorder. I did some research on the matter and could see they had a point. While the description fit her mother to a tee, Shelley was still young and was not exhibiting as many of the behaviours as her mother. She had difficulties with her self-image, emotional reactions and the like. The part I read that described BPD women as being afraid of being abandoned and having numbed emotions was an accurate enough description of the young woman I picked up at the airport eleven years ago.

Shelley got the help she needed: the first years she went to Al-Anon for teens, talk therapy sessions for her BPD and counselling, too. She read self-help books until they were dog-eared. The past four years she seems pretty much able to manage her own life. I had more or less forgotten that original diagnosis,  until Shelley brought it up. 

"Remember when the psychiatrist said I had BPD issues. Well, I sort of stumbled into the men's forum at this dating web-site, [yeah, right] and discovered the men were discussing signs of BPD among women."

"Back up, " I said, "I'm confused. What are these men doing?"

"They are posting messages, Grampa...at the dating site...about what to look for...how to spot women who exhibit signs of Borderline Personality Disorder. You know, clingy, needy, fearful, which medications to look for and so on. These guys either don't want women with histories like my own, because of the emotional relationship difficulties associated with it, or they are targeting this type of woman for short term sex without commitment."

"Can they actually spot these women?"

"Sure they can. I know you can, so why wouldn't they be able to? It's pretty obvious if you know what to look for."

I recall thinking at the time what shit heaps we men can be  but before I could get the thought into words, Shelley continued,

"What fractures me, Grampa, is these men have profiles saying they want to meet someone wonderful. What about me? ...sure I have stuff I have to keep on top of...my emotional triggers and all that...but with posts like that I'm wondering if I shouldn't just quit fishing there, period. It's sort of like dropping a rock in the lake before putting your line in the water. Ruins the fishing. "

She then gave me a refresher on how to use my tools and options to delete things and how to change my settings to keep my computer free of pop-ups. Shelley is not only a beautiful person inside and out, she is one smart young lady. Any man she feels is worth considering will certainly be welcome around my bon fire. I just hope I live long enough to meet the man who lands her.

I'll post again later on this weekend's activities.

For those of you who want to read more on the subject of BPD, I recommend Canadian author, A. J. Mahari's book for Kindle The Legacy of Abandonment In Borderline Personality Disorder available in other formats, with additional materials, through Ms. Mahari's website.

Dell on Campbell & Tolle

My grand-daughter, Shelley, and her friends will be out here shortly for the weekend. Fine night for a sit around the bon fire. Most of her friends are regulars out here: have their own "flop spot", as Shelley says. The lake is like glass this evening and there's enough of a breeze to keep the bugs at bay.

Excuse me if I just give you a head's up on the situation with my Shelley. Because I took her in with me as a teen, after that business with her mother's boyfriend, there were some who thought I rescued her: it is exactly the other way around. She opened my eyes to so many things over the years and brought vigor to an age I wasn't particularly looking forward to reaching. One thing in particular she brought me gave me a sense of hope for the future like nothing else had done for years.

After I had my fill of organized religion, I used to wonder how the next generation's children would be able to find the way to any sort of spiritual truth. To my way of thinking the only good thing about organized religion is it provides a context and symbols, as old as humanity, that satisfy certain human longings.

For those of you too young to remember, PBS had a series back in 1988, The Power of Myth : Joseph Campbell with Bill Moyers. Hugely successful, the six part series preceded the book by the same name and is still available on VHS. The book is beautiful with illustrations and art history accompanying the various subjects discussed in the series. Some might know his bookThe Hero with a Thousand Faces from university reading lists but it is this book, based on the PBS series Joseph Campbell and the Power of Myth  that I keep going back to time and again. Campbell was pointing the way to finding your bliss  as he called it.

I had to wait another twenty-five years to read a book as illuminating. Shelley brought it out to me with the advice : don't start reading it at night, Grampa.

"That good, huh?" and she was right.

A New Earth: Awakening to Your Life's Purpose  by Eckhart Tolle. Apparently, it's a huge success. I'm not one bit surprised. People search for the purpose of their lives; they are seeking the bliss Campbell was talking about, found in the symbols and myths that abound through human history.

Do you recall the story of Jesus and the woman he met at the well? Personally, I am convinced this woman would have been labelled Borderline Personality Disorder if she were alive today, but that's not why I mention that story. My point is Jesus gave her good advice, and to my way of thinking it's pretty much the same advice Eckhart Tolle has for his readers. The truth isn't here or there, it's inside of us.

Our truth is revealed to us and each man's truth is as unique as the man himself. Jesus' teaching and other great writings are as relevant today as when first written. To find your own bliss you just need to have an  awakening.

I'm hoping to get into this topic some more tomorrow. Right now I've got to skee-daddle and put some liquids to chill before Shelley, Dorg and Co. arrive.

Dell on Aging Gracefully & Decisions

You will recall I posted on Seniors' cottages/camps regarding taking charge of what to do with the family camp: keep it or sell.

Too many older folks give up their life at camp the minute they face their first serious health issue. If you had planned to spend your retirement at camp, as I have, there will be adjustments in areas such as mobility, maybe blood work on a regular basis, monitoring, prescriptions, appointments and the like.

Aging is a process: processes require time; usually, good decisions require time, too. My advice is this, "Don't rush into big changes the second your body starts to act up."

Naturally, there will be some who will suffer severe ongoing medical problems: giving up the camp will be a non-issue for them.

More often, a medical crisis will resolve or stabilize over many months. You will adjust to new medications, learn to live with some physical limitations and find new ways to do the things you formerly took part in. Given time, you might just discover you can continue your retirement plans after all, perhaps in a modified fashion.

In my case, I maintain a small apartment in a town almost an hour away. I spend most of my time at the lake. My camp uses satellite radio contact  [skype works for some], and manage to spend most of my time at the camp [pretty nice for a camp: most people would call it a cottage].

Aging Gracefully by Norma Roth, addresses typical preconceived notions on aging and then gets into what our Silver Generation can do to take charge of their lives, make good decisions and live independently with dignity. Ms. Roth offers sensible advice, bringing a sense of humour along with a whole new set of rules for seniors. Included in this book are her ten tips for keeping people off your back: I refer to them regularly.

I'm off now to take my power nap. If there isn't a crowd here tonight, I'll be surprised. The rain has passed and it's shaping up for a lovely evening.

Dell on Native Identities

Ron boated over to the camp last night and was out of here at dawn with a sky that threatened to empty all over him. He was home about an hour [gave me a head's up using the two-way radios]  when the sky let loose with rain that formed a wall of water moving across the lake. Intellicast [my trusted online long range weather forecast] had noted thunder-storms were possible. The generator is outside doing its thing, so I'm good to go.

What I want to share today is something Ron and I were talking about last night. Have you been following the CBC National? This week they featured stories from Canada's Four Nations' survivors of residential schools: they suffered because of government policy at the time that attempted to eradicate the native culture and replace it with the "white man's" ways: they suffered emotional, physical, spiritual, and every pain known to man while most folks looked the other way. Ron and I got talking about the native identity.

Ron reminded me about Long Lance. Now there's a documentary you might want to watch. Canada's National Film Board has archived, and continues to add to its archive, projects produced over it's lifetime [a great use of the tax dollar].

Long Lance [55 mi.] , a documentary by Bernie Dichek, based on the book, Chief Buffalo Child Long Lance: The Glorious Impostor by Donald Smith, is the story of a young man who hid his black heritage behind a native identity. He became so well known, following the 1928 publishing of his autobiography,  that Long Lance starred in  Silent Enemy a 1930 movie that almost didn't make it to release, because Paramount was told one of its stars was not native but in fact of black descent.  Long Lance: The autobiography of a Blackfoot Indian chief had plenty of truth in it, but it wasn't Long Lance's history. He had taken the true tales of a Blackfoot and made them his own identity.

The original movie, Silent Enemy, had a voice over introduction and depicted the life of the Ojibway native. It was a box office failure in 1930: talkies were the latest thing; however, many who have seen the remastered movie, believe Silent Enemy may well have influenced the making of Dances with Wolves : Kevin Costner's 1990 award winning movie. Canadian native actor, Graham Greene, was nominated for an Oscar for his role in the film.

The social and cultural issues surrounding identity are thought provoking material and, to my way of thinking, should be discussed in Canadian schools. Now that Canada's National Film Board is finally making its documentaries available to the public for purchase, I have put together my own collection on the subject. My experience has been "It's hard to see where you're heading in this world, if you don't know where you've already been."

I've got to stop here. One perfect cup of coffee is waiting for me.