Baby, Ignored

The baby lies on the delivery slab, moments old.

White vernix paste marbles the infant's skin.

The stuff smells sweet, like holiday shortbread,

a trick up the wild sleeve of nature

to encourage mothers to lick their newborns clean.

But this mother has left the building.

She pushed the baby out without passion,

releasing it into the void of abandonment,

worth no more to her than the toileted regurgitation

of a drunken binge.

She would flush it, if she could.

Push the handle and watch a season of derision

swirl away and disappear.

People walk by like the baby is already dead.

The silence is oppressive.

Even the child knows better than to fuss.

It watches the funereal procession

of powerless people who honestly don't give a shit

waddle by with their eyes averted,

thinking of their thing, the big thing, 

the thing that will make their pockets fat

as the meconium pooling in their cranial cavities

strangles their reduced capacity for love

and their long-lost ability to believe.

In the face of such harrowing neglect

the baby pisses on itself and dies,

final hubris lost on those who clean up the mess.

Peanut butter pockets 10 times fast

"Say peanut butter pockets 10 times fast."

"Peanut butter pockets 10 times fast."

Sam laughs. "No, no. Say peanut butter pockets, 10 times fast."

"Peanut butter pockets 10 times fast."

Laughs and groans from Sam. "OK. Say peanut butter pockets."

"Peanut butter pockets."

"Now say it 10 times fast."

"It-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it-it."

"MOM!"

And so it went. While Sam and I were lost in the twisty turning Bermuda Triangle that is backwoods Muskoka, I drove him positively bonkers playing dumb and managing to avoid saying peanut butter pockets 10 times fast.

"What?"

"Are you doing this on purpose?"

"No, I'm doing what you say."

"OK. In quotes," and he makes quote marks with his 11-year-old fingers, "Peanut. Butter Pockets. End quote." Fingers make end quotes. "Got that?"

"Yes," I say. Rolling my eyes with great overstated fervour.

"Now, say that."

"That."

"MOM!"

Maybe it was the sweet smell of Don's Bakery goodies wafting up from the back of the Jeep. Maybe it was the hot weather deep frying our sense of humour like a Scottish Mars bar but Sam and I had the best time Friday afternoon. Having been given the afternoon off, a Friday afternoon on a sunny summer day which is as fine a gift as baccarat crystal filled with Dom Perignon champagne, I decided I would drag Sam to the Butter Tart Festival being held by my company in Port Carling, Ontario. We got to Port Carling alright but there were SO many people and SO many cars and so (all cap it yourself) much everything that we never found the festival. We tried unsuccessfully to park a few times before I said to Sam, "let's just go." And he said, "Great!" Because he doesn't even like butter tarts. (Insane, I know. It must be because of the time I dropped him on his head.)

Since we were in the area anyway, and since I had a fever for butter tarts, we decided to go to nearby Bala, home of the world famous Don's Bakery. I spent half a week's pay on perfect butter tarts, incredible chelsea bun, egg bread and cookies. Fifty drooling dollars worth of awesomeness. Then we decided to go visit my blogging friend Debbie, who lives not too far away.

Now, I had only been there once. A long time ago. But I figured I would remember. Well, we did find it. Forty-five minutes of back roads and wrong turns and getting unbelievably lost later, all the while driving Sam into gales of giggles trying to avoid saying peanut butter pockets 10 times fast. He laughed, I played dumb, butter tart fumes made the Jeep smell like a bowl of brown sugar heaven and I must say it was the best afternoon I had ever spent with my youngest son. Possibly ever. So thanks, Sam. And this is just for you:

Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets. Peanut butter pockets.

You can't please everyone

The one thing I know for sure after a lifelong career in the newspaper business is you can't please everyone.

Fact is, you're lucky to please anyone. Sometimes I think the newspaper reading public is a vast vat full of circling sharks, or maybe ravenous buck-toothed piranhas, waiting for the next columnist to dip her toe in the tank and give her a shiny new blood red toenail polish.

Everyone's a critic, see, and everyone has their own idea of what a newspaper should and should not contain; they are also not afraid to express their opinion, in the form of letters to the editor, usually penned in a self-righteous holier-than-thou tone.

That's a good thing, in many ways. If readers are claiming ownership to what belongs in a paper and what doesn't, it means they care about the publication. It means they're reading it. There are so many newspapers struggling in this modern age of internet news and television that many publications are going the way of the dinosaur. So the fact that anybody cares enough to criticize the content is good.

However, it does suck being on the receiving end of such letters. No matter how many you get, it still hurts. I received two such letters in the last week. One from the local drive-in complaining about a piece I did about racy movies, children and drive-ins and one from a former colleague at the paper taking me to task for a column about potato salad. (By the way, if you follow the links you'll see original unadorned posts. What appeared in the local newspaper was edited for profanity and MUCH tamer, especially in the case of the drive-in post.)

For the record, I LOVE the local drive-in and I've written many times about how wonderful it is. Nobody's a bigger fan than our family. We go several times every summer and spend a substantial amount of money at the concession stand because we truly believe in supporting this awesome business. When I went there last year to take pictures for an article that appeared in one of our summer magazines, the drive-in people were so happy they sent free passes. They weren't so happy this time, although I do believe any free publicity is good publicity. Like letters to the editor themselves, it means people care enough to talk about it. Any fading celebrity knows that not-talking is career-death.

The letter from a former colleague really hurt my feelings, though, I think mostly because he IS a former colleague and I would hope there would be some degree of professional courtesy among writers. This is what he said:

I was a humour writer for the Muskoka Sun for some 10 years, so it was with some surprise and shock as I read through the article by Cathy Oliffe-Webster "If it ain't Bojac, it ain't potato salad", Muskoka Sun June 29/12. 

I have read and usually enjoyed her humorous takes on life, in your Weekender publication. There is often a fine line between humour and distasteful tripe. I personally think she dug too deep into the humour barrel in this article with references of  'child trafficing, heroin use and whoring' not to mention 'skank and leather'. This is not the kind of journalism I associate with the Muskoka Sun. It might be better suited to the tabloids that that are rife with these kinds of references, but not something I wish to read while enjoying the beauty and serenity of Muskoka.

I realize that she was trying to be funny but I really think she and perhaps your editorial department missed the mark on this one.

Distasteful tripe? Erm, whatever.

As for the references to skank and leather, it was a JOKE and it was about my MOTHER who is the epitome of classiness and SHE thought it was hilarious so honestly that's all that matters. That, and the potato salad, which was delicious.

Also, I don't get paid for the articles in the paper. Not a dime. Volunteer labour rewarded only with snide remarks? Ha! Welcome to my world.

***

I've only got three more days to raise money for the Muskoka Novel Marathon coming up next weekend. If you could see your way through to a small donation I would appreciate it! Also, don't forget, all generous benefactors will have a chance to win one of three Life on the Muskoka River mugs! If you would like to help me out, click here. THANK YOU!!

(I guess I won't be getting a donation from either of those letter writers... sigh....)

***

P.S. My e-mail account was hacked overnight so if you get a message from me with no subject line or a weird link of any kind, DON'T CLICK ON IT. I have changed my password so hopefully the problem is fixed. In the meantime, my apologies to anyone who might have opened the messages. Stupid hackers. Really, get a life, boys. Go write a letter to the editor or something....

Someone you can count on

Last weekend we were camping up at Algonquin Provincial Park. I took a nap one afternoon while everyone else in the family went over to a nearby river to play in the waterfall. Dave and Sam cycled and Angus and his girlfriend, Jaylene, walked. The walk was a little much for Jaylene, who had a sore foot so Angus asked Dave if he would mind getting the Jeep and driving back to pick up himself and the limping Jaylene.

"Sure," said Dave. He and Sam cycled back to our campsite and then drove back to the spot where he had told Angus and Jaylene to wait for him.

They weren't there. Dave waited for half an hour, worried sick about what could have happened to them. It turned out Angus had decided to walk back, through the forest trail instead of on the road.

I couldn't understand why he would have done that, when it was him who asked for the ride in the first place, so I asked and I asked and I couldn't get a straight answer. Finally he said, "I wasn't sure he'd be there."

So I told him, you can always count on Dave.

Always.

He will never let you down.

If he makes a promise to you, he will keep it.

Just lately he has proven that to me again. And again. He stands by me no matter what. He sticks up for me when it's necessary and even when it's not. He is my backbone, when I have none. He hugs me when I need a hug, wipes my tears, tells me it's all going to be fine.

We were out for a motorcycle ride the other night and I was hanging on to his strong back, enjoying the cool evening air rushing by, the soothing rumble of the engine and the verdant summer scenery and I felt such incredible trust in this man. Such safety.

I realized that if our bike broke down, he would fix it. That we would never be stranded. That the bills would always be paid. That he would always have my back. That he would always be my best friend, and that he would always love me.

Don't tell me I'm lucky. I know. I really, really know.

And those roses? He bought them for me last week. :)

For Clarence, for literacy

Clarence Brazier of Sprucedale, Ontario (just up the road from me) was 93 years old when he decided enough was enough. He would learn how to read.

By age 95, with help from the Muskoka Literacy Council, Mr. Brazier achieved his goal. 

He was 100 when he received the prestigious Canada Post National Literacy Award from the Governor General of Canada.

He died this spring, in his 106th amazing year, but his determination to overcome the seemingly insurmountable remains an inspiration to so many others. After all, if a 93-year-old deaf man can learn to read and write, well then anyone can, right? And if someone can do that, anything is possible.

The good work of the Muskoka Literacy Council continues through the adult literacy programs of the Simcoe-Muskoka YMCA and one of the main fundraising events for this important program is the annual Muskoka Novel Marathon. Once again this year, 30 writers will enclose themselves in one room (Club 55 in downtown Huntsville) for a long weekend of novel writing. To take part in this marathon of words, they must raise money for YMCA Literacy Services. 

It's not just for another program. It's for people like Clarence.

I'm participating this year and I'm trying my utmost to raise money for this important cause. Anything you can contribute is greatly appreciated. $5? Awesome. $10? Even more awesome. $25? Well that's just a big jar of Awesome Sauce! It doesn't have to be a king's ransom. 

Those who donate will be highly regarded by me forever, as well as being mentioned on my blog (ooh boy!). As well, contributors could win one of three Life on the Muskoka River mugs. 

If you could mention my efforts on your own blog, I will also throw your name into the hat for a mug. Just mention in the comments that you have and I'll be sure to include you in the draw. 

Thank you dear friends. And thank you, Clarence, for being such an inspiration.

To donate, click here.