There’s a provocative commercial making the rounds lately. It’s an AT&T advert, but it’s the music that evokes this one permeating memory. It comes on so strong now, so forceful and bullying. Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory’s; Imagination. The voice over asks; “Remember when you were five, and anything seemed possible?”

No. Not really. I have threadbare recollections of my 5th year on planet Earth. But I DO recall year 12, in North Vancouver, when my friends and me were ushered out of doors until at least dinner time. North Van’s geography includes Grouse Mountain. Grouse Mountain includes sprawling evergreens and giant-ass hills. We lived halfway to the summit on Montroyal Blvd. My friends Susanne and Jason Sumpton lived two steep blocks up and four over on Blueridge Rd. We all had fabulous backdrops for childhood. The bike ride or skateboard ride down to Hardy’s, the corner store, filled with scrumptious penny candies was magnificent! 80 degrees steep. The pedal home was treacherous, even then. Even for my young and healthy lungs. Yes, I was 12 that year and was the boastful and teary recipient of a second-hand bicycle. I loved it. Green and sparkly with a banana seat to boot! I rode the shit outta that bike. My brother and father taught me to ride. I rode to Jason and Susanne’s house a lot. One spring day, Susanne and I imagineered a grandiose-but tangible-plan.

The dirt coaster.

Susanne had a cool yard. It angled downward for half a block, sporadically laced with majestic evergreens and thick juniper bushes. But there was this one path, this one path that we saw clearly as the answer to our boredom. We both envisioned a theme park ride. (We’d both only ever been to one theme park in our lives-the PNE). A ride that would go super fast down the trail and eventually slow down into lovers lane. We both had crushes on boys just then, and perhaps this was the REAL purpose behind our plotting…

We had everything SO figured out. The size and shape of the cars that folks would ride in, the speed and thrill everyone would enjoy. We never even thought of charging for our ride, it was enough of a thrill for us to thrill us. And you.

We saw our vision metabolizing in real time and we never questioned whether or not this was a fantasy. It was real. It really was.

I suppose that’s why I can still be stirred to remember it. Even now. Even after a hundred lifetimes.

I still dream in dirt coasters. I sometimes believe I can make things happen just by my own sheer will. I still can see with pristine clarity, our vision for that fantastic ride.

Unfortunately, our dirt coaster never came to fruition. I think Susanne and Jason followed the straighter and narrow trail as I was called to travel down the nefarious path…

Ah, but such as this life. A dirt coaster at every twisty turn…

Who would’ve guessed that some dumb commercial could bring me back to the realism that I once believed in?

The dirt coaster.

I bet it would’ve been so freakin’ fantastic!

Been awhile since I’ve written, eh?

Things (What, exactly, are things?) have been going so very well and I haven’t wanted to jinx them with some melancholy post that usually shows up in my blog.

Work is good. New staff for the new year has carried in their pockets renewed hope.

Family is great. Sis and nieces came for a visit over Christmas, Helen has placed another sibling in the doghouse and I’ve made a connection with my brand new sister in law.

Friends are wonderful. Meeting up with old pals next week, reconnecting with long lost school mates via Facebook and keeping myself aligned with the equilibrium of the necessary rules of such relationships.

Girls are…Girls are…well, girls still haven’t figured much into my daily schemes.

But all in all, I’ll not trade any of my plusses for the inevitable minus.

Girls will simply have to wait their turn…

They place a black stocking over their head and act the fool. Or, at least that’s what my Grandmother used to say. Vern, you’re my chosen Dad. Stop acting like a goon and forcing me and Lu to walk two paces ahead o’ you at all times…showin’ up on the ten o’ clock news ‘n shit…Love you. Dork and all.

Ok so here’s the 411 on the Times-Union fakery…

So a couple years ago, during a convention that required our full names to be submitted for admission to said convention…Vern goes ahead and writes our names on the form and mails it in. All is good until the admissions lady can’t find Dee Fortin anywhere in the registrar. What? It’s there. I know it’s there. My (completely whacko) parental unit mailed it in for me.

No ma’am. But we DO have a Doe Fostin. Doe Fostin. Great. I shoulda remembered and hence prohibited Vern from attempting anything like perfect adherance to the principles of our written english language. You know the folks who deciphered the Rossetta Stone? Not brilliant enough to decipher Vern Weiss’s handwriting. I use the term; “handwriting,” loosely.

Hardy har har. A good laugh was had by all except me who had to walk around with some freakish scroll on her nametag and folks glancing from namebadge to face and face to namebadge, muttering ; “What an odd name, Harriet.”  “Yes, I agree Hortence, kids these days…”

There went the tale of Doe Fostin. Thanks Vern, for never forgetting and for beating THAT horse waaaay past dead.

 On to the A. Bourbon hilarity…Not her real name, by the way.

So about 6 or 7 years ago I had this thing called a girlfriend. I know, I KNOW! Hard to believe. On my birthday, Sept.4th, (for anyone who hasn’t written this in magic marker on calendars from here to eternity) I called her up to ask why she was so late for my birthday party at Lu and Vern’s.

Cue the heavy Cuban accent;

“Hey Babe…. Que? Today? Oh no Babe, today ees not your birthday. Eet’s tomorrow.”

{Groan}

Vern and Lu never liked that one. She remains my friend, but golly, she can be OUT THERE to this day. Not my freakin’ birthday? WHAT?

Girlfriends are long gone from my plans. (Any girl would be DOOMED to suffer thru Vern’s antics and I haven’t enough money to pay for the hazards of the job.)

Oh well. It’s all good and all lighthearted.

And it’s so good to laugh in this here life. It’s the best thing ever.

So thanks, clown feet, for making my day.

(editors note* see below. )

*Clown feet, clown feet. You haaaaaave clown feet.

The day we commemorate our Dads. In retail, it’s a significantly lesser holiday than even President’s Day, or Memorial Day. But have you ever forgotten Mother’s Day? Doubtful.
Why then, is Father’s Day such a diminutive occasion? Why did poets say that if it were natural for men to be good fathers, there wouldn’t be so many laws commanding them to do so?
Sis and I conference called our dad this morning at 5am. We sang and read a poem and made him open his gift whilst on the phone with us. I can count on just one hand the number of people I know whose parents are still married. Times have been altered, hence my disbelief in true love. In fact, most people I know find father’s day to be just another mark on the calendar.
I’ve been blessed, I suppose. I’ve crossed paths with a few men who were worthy enough to shoulder that responsibility with grace.
My own father at first, then Ed. Now Vern.
One does not exceed or surmount the other. They’re just different in their approach. My father, the strong, silent sentinel. Ed, the gregarious, affectionate Marine. Vern, the calm and steady hand that stills my rocky waters.
I needed them all. At various times. Men worthy of my adoration. There have been few, compared with all those women sages in my life, that have measured up to my steep criteria. But today I honor them.
I give thanks for their emphasis and impact on my life. Three men. Three men who burrowed their way, through thought and action, into my heart. I love you. Thanks for your force and presence in my life. I need you now, will need you always.
Happy, happy Father’s Day.

Here it is. Straight from my guts.

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You can stand outside any given house on any given block on any given Saturday and speculate on the goings-on inside. The moon may be waxing or waning, the air may be cool or stifling. No matter. It is only when you are invited in that the thoughts that are mere silhouettes in your mind begin to form more solid shapes…

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