Third Time's a Charm?

There's less than one week to go and I'm less than halfway there. It's all up to you.

As of writing this post, I've only reached 48 percent of my fundraising goal for the CN Cycle for CHEO on May 7. And my goal is a modest one.

If you can spare $5, $10, $20, $50, or whatever, now's the time to make a difference in cancer research at the Children's Hospital of Eastern Ontario. Go to my fundraising page and give whatever you can. Help me reach my goal of $250.

Go now.

As a reminder of what goes on at this worthy event, here's the video that I made of last year's ride. My fingers are crossed that we have weather just as good, if not better, this Sunday.

I know that together, we can be part of a worthwhile cause.

Thanks to all who have already generously donated. Cheers!

Junk Collecting

Pens.

Return-address stickers for envelopes.

Holiday greeting cards.

Calendars.

Key chains.

Note pads.

Fridge magnets.

Tote bags.

Mittens.

Socks.

It's got to stop.

Every year, DW and I—like so many people—make donations to various charitable organizations: the Red Cross, Heart & Stroke, the United Way, Plan Canada, CHEO, World Wildlife, Canadian Diabetes Society, Ottawa Food Bank, and many, many more worthwhile charities. We pick and choose a handful of charities each year, give what we can, and then choose another handful the next year and repeat the process.

We can't give to every charity every year, but we do our best to spread our donations around.

We never expect anything in return: we believe that these organizations should put every penny that they can toward the cause, including paying the hard-working people who work for these not-for-profit organizations.

Of course, once we give, we expect that we are entered in their databases so that they can contact us down the road to remind us that the cause is still just and for us to give what we can. A call for help is reasonable.

Lately, however, we are receiving huge envelopes, stuffed thick with many papers. Some envelopes warn the letter carriers and recipients to not bend them. And, more and more, some envelopes are stuffed with... junk.

Because these charitable organizations need to operate on thin margins, the so-called 'gifts' are of dollar-store quality, or lower. The pens are of cheap plastic and work for a short period of time, if at all. The key chains use poor-quality metals and feature tacky images. The calendars are small and feature images that just don't appeal to us.

Socks? Really? Like I'd actually wear them?

Of all the items that are sent from these charities, we might make use of the notepads. But because we also receive endless notepads from real-estate agents in our neighbourhood, we find ourselves flush with stationery, and so a lot of these pads end up in the paper-recycle bins, unused.

I use the tote bags to collect garbage, and they go out with the rest of my trash.

One of the charities also affix a nickel to the correspondence, and I simply peel the coin from the paper (before I put it in the shredder—it has my name and contact info on it) and put it in my pocket. Considering how many people this organization must send these nickels to, they must surely spend more on these coins than many people give.

Save the nickel. Put the money toward the people who really need it.

The junk that accompanies the call for donations is actually working against the charity, for me. Whenever we receive a thick package, filled with items that I suddenly find myself burdened with their disposal (pens, stickers, and key chains are destined for landfill), I am less inclined to want to send cash to the charity. I feel like contacting the organizations and saying, "Listen. Obviously, if you're buying all of this junk and spending more money on postage, you don't need my money. Please stop sending me anything more than a simple letter, with a return voucher and envelope. If you continue to send items that I neither need nor want, you're off my donation list for five years."

Maybe, I should just tell these charities to stop sending me correspondence of any kind. After all, they're already on my own list of organizations that I regularly give money. I've never used the return form and envelope to send my donation. I just go to their online site and give.

What about you? Do you find that you're collecting junk from organizations? What have you done to stop it? Leave a comment.

Now, excuse me: I have to take out the trash.

Don't Forget to Give

Canadians have never shied away from giving to the needy. We are, by and large, a fairly socialist society that believes that when we help each other, we all win.

Canadians have proven that in an undeniable way, over the past week, in their generosity towards the unfortunate folks in Fort McMurray, Alberta. The fire that swept through the town and is still burning through the province had forced more than 80,000 people from their homes. Many of those people will return to find their home, their neighbourhood, gone.

But their Canadian brothers and sisters have opened doors to them, provided food and shelter, and have donated to the United Way and Red Cross. The Canadian government, in turn, has offered to match donations, dollar-for-dollar, to help the town rebuild and help those Albertans get their lives back to normal.

My wife and I gave to the Red Cross, as we've given any time there are people in need. We went to their Web site, and donated $150. Not a huge donation, but we give what we can.

Many stores, across the country, are collecting for Fort McMurray at check-out counters. I used to give to these causes, as I paid for my groceries or beer, but I don't anymore. I refuse to give at the check-outs, and here's why.

For years, I would give anywhere from $2 to $10, to CHEO, to MADD, to the United Way, but no more. Because when I give a few bucks here and a few more there, it adds up. And these stores, who collect for these great causes, don't give tax receipts. And while I don't care about a couple of bucks, I figured that I typically gave about $200 a year at the check-out counter, and that adds up to a nice tax deduction.

If I give $200, I want to claim it.

And while I don't get a tax receipt for my donation, the companies that are collecting on our behalf are, most likely, getting a deduction when they put all of our money together and writing that big cheque to the charity.

Maybe not all of them are, but most.

And so, a couple of months ago, I stopped. I keep my change in my pocket, or I decline the addition to my bill.

I want to help, but I don't want a corporation to take the credit.

Don't forget to give.

The Max

The last time that I saw him was about a year ago, maybe longer. He walked into Mill Street, with his grandson, and sat on the other side of the main bar from me, facing me but not noticing me at all. He looked smaller than when I had last seen him make a public appearance, his hair much thinner and greyer than the days when I knew him, when he was a regular customer at the camera store.

In those days, he would often come in just after the lunch hour, dressed in a suit, ready for work. He didn't drive himself there: he had a driver. He liked a lunchtime drink, and I could usually smell a bit of it, but that didn't matter. He was always kind, always friendly, always had a smile.

There were some people who dropped film off, regularly, for processing. Often, out of curiosity, we would look at the printed products in the envelopes, curious as to what sort of subjects filled their camera viewfinders, what sort of images they had composed.

Never his. He was a big name. He was a pillar of the community. And we respected his privacy.

At Mill Street, the bartender, Pete, served the man a half-pint of pale, yellow ale. An Organic Lager, I guessed. I drew Pete's attention after he delivered the glass. "Make sure his beer goes on my tab," I said. "His money is no good, here." Pete nodded, smiled. I went back to my tablet, continued the writing that I was doing before I noticed this man enter.

From an early age, I remembered seeing him in my neighbourhood, which wasn't far from where he worked. My family and I would see him, like us, pushing a shopping cart through the aisles of Robinson's IGA, in the City View Plaza. When I was in my late teens, partying at the night clubs in Hull, my friends and I would see him every once and a while, walking along the strip or getting out of a car. You knew that wherever he was going, there was going to be a good time.

I watched him on TV almost every night. And while my decision to go into journalism school is not attributed to him, I think my lifelong interest in the news is due, in a large part, thanks to him.

"I understand that you are to thank for my drink," he said, having come up to where I was sitting. His grandson was still sitting across the bar, smiling.

"It was an honour, Max," I said. "You won't remember me, but for years I served you at Black's Cameras in the Merivale Mall. But I do think you'll remember my mom." I said her name and he smiled.

"Yes, of course. How is she? Is she still in the flower business?"

If anyone has ever seen a broadcast of CJOH News, with Max Keeping, you will remember the colourful boutonnières that he wore, almost every night. My mom made those for him, back when she owned a flower store on Baseline Road, near Greenbank. Personal Petals was its name, and Max was a loyal and longtime customer.

"She's been retired for some time," I said. "She'll be glad that I saw you."

"Please give her my best," said Max, "she's a lovely lady."

We chatted a little longer before he returned to his grandson, and they left Mill Street.

Max was a big part of the Ottawa community, known mostly as a champion for the Children's Hospital of Eastern Ontario, but his community service touched practically every facet of this city. He was bigger than his on-screen personality as the anchor of the dinnertime news.

He gave so much for this city. Buying him a beer seemed like such a small act. But when he came to thank me, when he talked to me and gave me his undivided attention, when he smiled a truly genuine smile, it didn't matter that he didn't remember me. He made me feel as though, from that time forward, he wouldn't forget.

Rest well, Max. And thank you.

Getting Too Old

It's worse than a hangover.

With a hangover, my brain hurts and I feel dehydrated. With a hangover, I take a couple of ibuprofen tablets, drink a big glass of fruit juice and even more water, suck it up, and get on with my day.

I haven't experienced a hangover in a while because, while I may drink often, I don't drink a lot. These days, I'm not drinking at all.

But when the body wears out and fails you, there's nothing you can do except rest and take it easy.

This weekend, my wife and I attended a fund raiser that had us dressing up like it was the 80s and dancing to music from the 70s, 80s, and early 90s. The event raised almost $4,000 for the School Breakfast Program, which gives nourishing morning meals to kids who might otherwise have nothing in their bellies at the beginning of the day.

Good cause, successful achievement, great party.

My wife and I met up with our good friends, Bee and Marc, and we all dressed for the event. Marc dressed fittingly as John Bender, the "criminal" from The Breakfast Club; Bee dressed as she had in that era, ready to attend a Ramones show at CBGB's. Lori donned leg warmers, curled her hair and covered it in spray, added a hat and an 80s-style jacket (though it was severely lacking in shoulder pads). I wore a wig that was fitting for an 80s rock band (and added black eye liner for effect), dug out one of my actual jackets that I bought sometime in the 80s (complete with shoulder pads and turned-up lapels), white t-shirt, jeans, and white sneakers with the tongues turned up.

When I actually lived in the 80s, as a teen, I never dressed up like that. Of all the styles my hair has seen, big 80s hair was never it. I wore sweaters most of the time, and my colours of choice were often grey and black. Not Goth, but black jeans and a grey sweater was an outfit you were likely to see me in.

We danced to Simple Minds, Depeche Mode, Quiet Riot, M.C. Hammer, Bowie, and of course, the final song of the night was "Stairway to Heaven," though we left before the end of the dance. Because, though we danced like it was the 80s, my body succumbed to the 50s.

I did all the moves from when I was in high school, and I did them for about as long as I did them when I was at school dances, longer than I did when I went to clubs in Hull with my friends. When I was in my late teens and 20s, I could dance for a very long time. This weekend, I held out as long but when my body finally had enough, it had more than enough.

I overheated and had to take the wig and jacket off. And then, when I sat down to rest my feet, atrophy set in as my osteoarthritis took over. I could barely walk, let alone dance. As soon as I got home, I sank my feet in a bucket of ice water, and then into a hot tub. Lori massaged my feet and calves as I downed three ALEVE^® tablets. I fell asleep with shooting pains that travelled the length of my legs.

I also slept until 10:30 the next morning.

For most of the next day, I was stiff and sore, and groggy. I napped in the afternoon. I did few chores around the house, making sure not to add to my pain. I walked around the house like a 90-year-old man.

Last night, as I typed these words, I was still tired and a little sore.

It was nice to relive my youth, but I'm too old to maintain it.

Would I do it again?

Absolutely.

But next time, I'm leaving the hair behind, trading the wig for a good drink. At least that way, I can try to blame my pain on the booze.

I'm pretty sure ladies didn't keep cell phones in their back pockets in those days.

 

The Road to He'll is Paved with Autocorrect

When a total stranger threatens to stab you, you have very few options:

• Comply with his or her demand.
• Try to run away.
• Stand your ground and, if need be, fight off your would-be assailant.

"Nice bike," he said, casually, as we stood on the corner of Rideau and Dalhousie. Late afternoon traffic brought us to the same spot. Countless pedestrians moved about, focused on his or her destination.

"Thanks," I said, not really wanting to engage him in conversation, but seeing no reason to be rude. He obviously lived on the streets: late teens or early 20s, disheveled hair, skin on his face that had seen far too much sun and too little soap. Dirty clothes that seemed to have no colour: brown or perhaps grey.

"I think I'll take it."

"Excuse me?" I said, knowing I heard the words but not really believing they came from the young man.

"I'll take your bike," he repeated.

"I don't think so," I nearly laughed.

"I'll cut you."

I blame karma. It was that bloody chipmunk, coming full circle. I had taken a life today, and now my life was up for grabs.

Yesterday started out with so much promise: another beautiful morning with sunshine and mild temperatures; very little wind. I became accustomed to cycling to work a couple of times a week. Sure, we have no showers, but I make due with a facecloth, hand towel, and the handicap bathroom stall.

My route is longer than it needs to be, crossing into Québec at the Portage Bridge instead of the Champlain Bridge, skirting around the Casino de Lac Leamy instead of climbing through the Gatineau Park. My new morning route takes me an extra three or four kilometres, but the climbs are not as treacherous, and I don't like arriving at the office, at the beginning of the day, already exhausted.

My commute was enjoyable and refreshing, awakening. I was maintaining a good pace, making the ride a personal best. Except for a split second, on the east side of Lac Leamy. It happened so fast that for a second I thought my eyes had played tricks on me. I didn't see a creature so much as a shadow, and at first I believed it to be a tiny field mouse.

On instinct, I swerved my front tire to avoid whatever it was that had scooted in front of me. My front tire hit nothing, and because I felt nothing on the back wheel—no bump, no soft squeezing—I thought I had missed whatever may have startled me.

I looked back, and knew I had killed it.

A small chipmunk, trying to cross the pathway. It had died instantly, it's fragile neck crushed. It never knew what hit it. My heart sank, but I took comfort in knowing it hadn't suffered. Without slowing—what would be the point?—I kept going.

By the time I reached the office, the chipmunk was practically forgotten, and I concerned myself with stretching, drinking my recovery drink (chocolate milk), and starting my computer. It wasn't until I was removing my smartphone and water bottles from their respective cradles that I discovered my rear tire was flat.

Totally flat.

I hadn't felt a difference in the ride at any point in my commute, so I figured I must have rolled over something in the parking lot. Over my lunch break, I would replace the inner tube and be set for my evening commute.

I blew out my second tire only 12-and-a-half kilometres into my ride, as I was about to cross the Alexandra Bridge. I could see it coming but, as with the chipmunk, I couldn't avoid it. Where the interlocking brick ended and the concrete sidewalks met, a small depression revealed a pointed corner in the concrete. I tried to swerve, but only my front tire avoided the hazard.

As with the chipmunk, the back tire could not avoid its fate. I heard the bang and immediately felt the firmness of the rim.

I could hear Lori's voice, having spoken to me less than a week ago, as I was trying to fit two spare tubes in the carry case under my seat: "Why do you need to carry two tubes? What are the chances of getting two flats in one day?"

Pretty good, it would seem.

From this dilemma, I learned one thing: my cycling shoes aren't made for walking. While they do have clips that recede into the treads, the backs of the shoes rub my heels. I was going to have blisters before I reached the Byward Market.

I called Lori to tell her of my dilemma. She told me she thought there was a bicycle shop on Clarence Street, so I headed to where she thought it was located. There was no shop to be found.

Using my phone, I spoke to Google Now: "Where is the closest bicycle-repair shop?" The result showed me a place on Dalhousie, less than two minutes from where I was standing. I pushed my bike onward, relying more on the handlebars for support, my feet beginning to ache.

The store was not at the quoted address.

Discouraged, I decided to head to the bus stop on the Mackenzie Bridge, on the other side of the Rideau Centre. With luck, I would have enough loose change in my backpack to get me to my end of the city.

"Nice bike."

We were standing at Dalhousie and Rideau. He had sights on my bike. I was not willing to relinquish possession of it.

He wasn't holding a knife, but that meant nothing. He could have drawn it from any pocket, or from behind his back.

I could have handed over the bike, but I didn't want to. I could have run, but with a flat tire and sore feet, it would have been a slow getaway. I opted for the third option: stand my ground. I watched for him to reach for a knife, knowing I would only have a second or two to make a move. I knew exactly how heavy my bike was: I know how much effort is required to hoist it over my head—I hang it upside-down from the ceiling in my garage. If need be, I would swing my bike up, using it to keep my would-be attacker at bay. With any luck, one of the many passers by would come to my aid.

As an absolute last resort, I would use the bike as a club and crack him over the skull with it.

This bike had already killed today.

No weapon was pulled. The kid noticed the flat tire and said, "Your bike's no good." He then looked beyond me, seemingly recognizing someone, and yelled, "Hey! I thought I told you to not come back here... ." Already having forgotten me, he started walking towards his next target.

The light had changed and I walked a little faster to the bus stop.

I stopped briefly to rest my feet and took a moment to type a short message to the Twitterverse: Okay, this is turning into the day from Hell.

Only, the autocorrect on my "smart" phone changed Hell to He'll. Great. Just bloody great.

On the Mackenzie Bridge, I scrounged through my backpack, collecting and counting coins. The bus fare was $3.45, but I was 20-cents short. A woman, standing at the stop, watched me, saw me count my coin. "How much are you short?" she asked.

"Twenty cents."

She opened her purse and gave me a quarter. "Here you go," she said.

"You have been the brightest light in my day," I said, almost crying. She moved on, recognizing the bus that was approaching as her own.

On my bus, the driver didn't even look at the coins as I dropped them in the fare box. But to me, it didn't matter. I hadn't short-changed OC Transpo. My day felt a little better.

One kind deed made all the difference.