Home And Away

I am home, returned once again to the quiet and familiar of my modest apartment here in Calgary. Just as much as travel and exploration is exciting, coming back to the safety and stability of home is comforting. To sit without agenda, no need to move or be moved, no requirement to get up and go or pack up and leave, this is the calm that home delivers.

This is not to say I don't like travel and adventure. If you know anything of me, you know how much I love to see a new place, to re-explore an old place. To know me is to know I am an adventurer, forever seeking the road not yet driven, the site not yet seen. I love to go where others have not considered going, to do the uncommon thing, to see the place less traveled. What is more true is that my love of adventure and travel have made home all the more precious.

If all of life were adventure, there would be no adventure, for without the knowledge of hearth and home, adventure simply becomes the norm. In the same breath, to never leave home, to fail to explore even the closest of adventures around you, is to learn little, to live in fear of the unknown, the unexpected. The power of home is its predictability and safety; the power of travel is its unpredictability, the unknowns, the risks. Both of these things, in measures that fulfill, mean more than each on its own.

My home is a meaningful place to me, a place where I belong, where my few possessions surround me, I possessing them rather than them possessing me, so it's easy for me to both be here and to leave. My home is a place where I have a place, where I fit, not just in these four walls that surround me, but in my community and social life as well. There is a peaceful rhythm to home, where each day is known and each night is similar. It is where I fit, where I belong.

Travel and adventure is such a powerful experience, made all the more powerful not by its plan and perfection but by it's lack of plan and imperfection. The excitement is when it takes you to a place unknown, to see that which you have not yet seen, the wonder of arriving in a place where you never thought you could or would. The amazing part of it is that this adventure can take place as close as a short drive away, or as far as halfway around the globe. The new is not just the far, often it is the near as well.

I will head off to Europe in a few weeks, an adventure for sure. Yet this adventure will take me to both the familiar and the unfamiliar. Soon this kind of travel will be more than I can do. Then my adventures will become closer to home, to the mountains and backroads where a friend can drive me for an afternoon. And even then, returning home will be as good and fulfilling as leaving it.

Tapping My Toes

It was a tough drive home last night, through near white-out conditions and a spring blizzard on the stretch from Field in BC to just before Cochrane here in Alberta. It was a long, brutal stretch of driving mostly borne by Micheal; after Canmore he had had enough so I took over for the last stretch of tough driving. We finally got in after 1:30 AM and it was after 2:30 AM before I finally got to bed.

With Mike driving, I had plenty of time to look out the window and think. I spent much of the drive, especially after he took over in Salmon Arm, thinking about my week, my children and grandchildren, and my life in BC. I was sad; sad about what I was missing, sad that I would not get to enjoy being a grandfather for long. I was tired, and that added to my sadness.

Still, the day itself was not a sad day. It was only those moments of reflection that took me down that dark stretch. Looked upon in its entirety, my day was anything but sad. It was filled with funny and joyful, laughter and love. I got to spent a bit of Grandpa time with Charlotte, something I have never really had the opportunity to do in the past.

Yesterday, before we left Abbotsford, Meaghan and I had some paperwork to complete at the insurance office. When I arrived, Charlotte was excited to see me, thrilled to climb on my lap and say "I love you, Grandpa" and go for a ride with me. She noted our similarities; "I have a buggy and you have a wheelchair." She asked about why I needed a wheelchair and I simply replied "My legs don't work", an insufficient answer at best for a young mind that continually asks why. She asked, and I went on to respond that my legs were sick and didn't work, to which she responded, "But my legs work", as if that statement settled the matter. I was later to discover that it did not.

We went into the insurance office to complete the paperwork. My part consisted of signing, so on completion I asked Charlotte if we should go get hot chocolate while Mommy did her paperwork. "Yes", she said, "we can go now." It was not so much permission as instruction.

We went off to the coffee shop, her sitting steady in my lap as I wheeled us along. We discussed cake, a subject on which she was more than agreeable. So in we went; I ordered drinks, Charlotte got a Rice Crispy Square and I got a piece of Carrot Cake. We sat and discussed a great many things; why Mike was here, where I lived, how she would like to come with us to Calgary. Then the subject of legs came up again.

At this point she simply announced "My legs work, Grandpa, but yours don't." Not wanting to be completely bested by a three year old, I, having my right leg up and crossed over my left, pointed out to Charlotte that parts of my leg worked. "See", I said, "I can tap my toes", moving them up and down, my shoe tapping out an unknown rhythm.

"I can tap my toes too, Grandpa." Charlotte then reached down with her tiny fingers and tapped the toes of her boots, announcing gleefully "tap, tap, tap, tap".

I had no answer for that. She had me. What's more she had taught me a lesson. Just because I see the world and describe it in one way doesn't mean she, or anyone else for that matter, has to see the world the same way. She certainly could tap her toes. As I immediately realized, so could I, in more than one way.

I love children. They have not yet constructed the walls and windows we use to frame our world and protect ourselves. They simply see things and say it as they see it. I think I would be a good Grandpa; I am pretty sure both Charlotte and Rose will be wonderful grandchildren. They already are.

Kids

It's been a good week for me as a father. I got to see Meaghan and Charlotte while in Vancouver; I got to see Mary, Rose and Albert while in Victoria. Last night after we arrived in Abbotsford, Ricky and I went for a couple of beers at Moxies. This coming Saturday Kate is moving to Calgary; I get to pick her up at the airport. Children and grandchildren, plus Mom and Ray too, all in a few days. I don't know when this will happen again; I am glad it's happening now. In fact it continues; I'll be meeting Meaghan and Charlotte again this morning, albeit to do some paperwork and business but it's a good thing nonetheless.

Coming to Abbotsford is always problematic for me. I don't like being here; it reminds me too much of unhappy things. Yet here is where two of my children live, in the same house with my ex-wife, a woman and a house I hope never to see again. Here is where one of my grandchildren lives, also in the same house with her grandmother. I am jealous that she sees her granddaughter daily while I see her only periodically.

Once again I wonder about my decision to stay in Calgary, so far from children who are obviously so important to me. I am thrilled that Kate is moving to Calgary; she will be near and I will get to be a Dad again. I talked to Ricky about this last night and he said I was right to get out of Abbotsford. He calls it "a soul sucking hole." It's clear that he doesn't want to be here, yet he is trapped by history, circumstance, and cheap room and board from his Mother.

It is the classic dilemma with kids; sometimes the best way to help them is to make things harder, not easier. Sometimes to get them to fly, you need to make the home nest a bit less comfortable. This is certainly happening to Ricky. Some of the frustrations he is experience with living in that house are the same ones I experienced while living there. Meaghan has them too at times. It makes me wonder who is helping who in this scenario.

Ricky will be airborne one day, probably sooner than later. He worries that he will become successful after I am gone. I told him not to think that way, that I was happy knowing he was happy, that I was confident in his ability to make is own decisions and make his own way in life. I believe in my children. They're good kids. I miss them; I am sure they miss me too.

The Last Time, Again

This is our second day in Ucluelet. It is also our last for this trip, and perhaps my last forever. That's part of the problem for me these days, and on this trip in particular. I've begun seeing things as "the last time I might do this", begun to start looking at things as if I might never see them again. Of course for some thing this is always true. Today is the oldest I have ever been, and I will never again be as young as I was yesterday. On a more practical note, this may be the last opportunity I have to visit Ucluelet, or maybe not.

I remember seeing my Dad this way in the last month of his life. His goodbye was short and sharp. There was no uncertainty for him. The last weeks of his life were certain; cancer was taking him and he knew it. Thanks to my brother Adam, my Dad got to spend time seeing things and doing things that meant something to him; going fishing, seeing the mountains, spending time on a boat. Thanks to my own unique long, slow goodbye, I am doing these things for myself so far, although Mike has been a great partner on this trip. Soon I will need help to do these things I may not do again.

Today's adventure will be a short one, or at least that is the plan. Our intent is to check out of our room and head over to Nanaimo, about a three hour drive, or perhaps a hour tour rather like the Minnow. The road between here and Port Alberni was a night drive on our way in. Today it will be a daytime drive, exposing to us the dramatic cliff and lake edges along which the highway runs, bordering Kennedy Lake, and then taking us through the mountains that make the backbone of this island, the western-most mountain range in BC, the one people forget about, thinking this island is all shoreline and gentle forests.

Once in Nanaimo, we will be forced to make a decision. Do we go onward, across the ferry to Vancouver, or do we stay the night in Nanaimo after a short road day? Either way, we are compelled to stop in Nanaimo for afternoon coffee so that Mike can have a Nanaimo Bar in Nanaimo. That's a lot of Nanaimo's in that paragraph!

I am not sure if this will my last visit to Tofino or Ucluelet. I am not sure that I will ever have the opportunity to make this drive again. I'm not going to worry about it, at least not too much. After all, nobody really knows when it's their last time for anything. At least I get some warning. At least I get the opportunity to think about it, to drink in the experience, to live for today, here in the now.

Two Days In Ucluelet

It's cold and wet here in Ucluelet. Of course that is no surprise in this rainforested coast, where the Spanish Moss hangs limp and wet, high in the branches of the cedars and firs dotting the shoreline, where everything is green and alive with moisture, where even the sea creates its own kind of dampness as it reaches its glistening black rock barrier. It is raining; of course it is raining, the rainy season is not yet over. Much like winter in Calgary, the winter rains here hang on desperately, seeking unending dominion.

Our hotel room looks out over the rocky shoreline of a small bay, more like a cove. The edge is rugged with rocks, patched with areas of grass and small bits of sand, laced with logs shoved ashore by the unceasing motion of wind and wave. The diamond drips of rain hang onto the railing as I look out the window, protected from the small wind by the cover above. How did they get there? The rain here gets into everything outdoors, much like the sand in the Arabian desert gets into everything there.

Our hotel has been a bit of a disappointment. Mike called ahead to ensure there was a room with wheelchair access; they said there was. Mike asked the all important question as to whether or not there was a roll-in shower; they said there was. Unfortunately the only rooms so configured are their one-bedroom suites, selling for $280 a night. Regular rooms are half that price. Furthermore these rooms are far down at the end of the building, with much less view than a standard room. Still, we booked it.

We arrived late, checking in at around 10:00 PM. Our adventurous drive had taken us through all the back roads and logging roads from Victoria through Port Renfrew nearly all the way to Bamfield and then out to Port Alberni. From there we crossed the rugged twisting highway along Kennedy Lake and out to the narrow Ucluth Peninsula that is the home of Ucluelet. This is the southern end of the Pacific Rim National Park; Tofino is the much better known northern end.

After checking in, we began to relax, unpacking as we could. Mike is sleeping on the foldout couch in the living room. I, as a gesture to seniority and sleeping late on my part, get the small master bedroom, the one where my wheelchair has almost no room to turn around. Once we figured that out, we checked out the bathroom. There certainly was a roll-in shower. It even had one of those plastic shower chairs in it. Unfortunately there is not a safety bar in sight. The transfer from my wheelchair would not only be unsafe, it would be downright foolish.

Once again a hotel fails to understand the basics of wheelchair access. They certainly thought about it, at least with a roll-in shower. It would appear that those thoughts did not include safety bars. I plan on talking to the manager. Once again I expect that nothing will change. After all, I am only here for two days. On the other hand, the setting is beautiful. I am indoors, warm and dry. The adventure continues.

The True Adventure

I've just spent the last three days visiting with my children and grandchildren, along with my Mom and Ray. I've had a granddaughter read me a story and sit with me to talk about toys. I've had a granddaughter insist that I sit with her and watch Toopy and Binoo. I've seen them laugh and heard them chatter, watched them play and seen them run to their mothers and fathers. I've loved every minute of it.

One of the greatest sadnesses for me in this disease is that I know, with a reasonable degree of certainty, that I will not see these precious children grow into adults, that I will miss their first day of school and their graduation, that I will not be there when they choose husbands and have children of their own. This, and so much more, will happen long after I am gone.

One of the things I like to say about my life is that I have "lived the kind of life people write books about." I've stood on the sands of the Arabian Desert, sailed my small boat out into the open Pacific. I've fished the Arctic Ocean, the Pacific Ocean, the Atlantic Ocean, and the Caribbean Sea. I've hunted big game in the high mountains and plateaus of BC and Alberta and had it hunt me back. I've traveled this continent from top to bottom and east to west, and touched the soil of almost every other continent. It's been an amazing life, filled with wonderful adventures.

Yet the life that has been most important to me has been my life at home, my family and my children. All I have done pales in comparison to a small child sitting next to me, sharing thoughts and wants, playing games and telling stories. I have had, and still have, four wonderful children of my own. I was there when they were born; I've seen them grow into adults. Now they are having children of their own. This is the journey in life that I will miss the most, the adventure that I most regret not having the opportunity to take.

Today I will go on another adventure, up to Tofino and Ucluelet, out on the Canadian edge of the Pacific Ocean. I will see the seas pound the shore, hear the skewling of gulls, watch the white foam of breakers leave their mark on the rocks and sand. Yet this will be minute, miniscule, tiny in comparison with the laughter of my grandchildren. They are the true adventure.

Pool Time

It's summertime here in Victoria, the flowers in bloom, the warm sun shining, a light breeze blowing. It was 24° C yesterday; we needed the air conditioning on in the truck as we drove the easy stretch from the ferry to our hotel. Micheal has worked a wonder and come up with a hotel that offers a roll-in shower for me. This morning, after writing, I plan on a relaxing shower.

As we arrived yesterday I called Mary and asked about getting together. She suggested that she and Rose come to my hotel and go for a swim in the pool. I wondered about this, as Rose is only 2 years old and Mary is about 8 1/2 months pregnant. But it was what she wanted to do. I said "Sure". I picked her and Rose up at her doctor's office, near where she lives, as she had an appointment late in the afternoon. Rose has not been sleeping well lately, waking up several times a night, and Albert needed a break. He stayed home to rest while Mary and Rose rode with me to the hotel.

Mary and Rose got into their swim suits and we all headed for the pool. It took barely a moment for me to realize that this was a terrific idea, a wonderful thing to do. Rose is a water baby, near fish like in her comfort with the water, with swimming, or at least her version of it, with splashing about. She leapt into the water, landing safely in her mother's arms, giggling and laughing, yelling with joy. She kicked and splashed, spouted and bubbled, and generally had a great time.

It eased the barrier between us as well. I was the keeper of the towel and her bottle of milk. Whenever her face got wet, whenever she needed a towel or a drink, she would clamber over the edge of the pool and come running over to me for the required element, whatever it may be. Then, quick as she could, it was back to the edge and into the water, trusting in her Mommy to catch her and keep her safe.

I had a wonderful time, seeing all this energy and fun in this small child of my child. I could not go in the pool, yet I enjoyed this pool time as much as she did. It was a wonderful idea.