Erin's Journals

In a world of instant information, how are we supposed to avoid spoilers? A couple of cases that I thought you might find interesting. 
 
FX channel aired a 10-part miniseries called Trust earlier this year. Based on the true story of the kidnapping of Getty Oil heir John Paul Getty III, it’s a drawn-out but captivating series that gives us a glimpse into a miser’s lavish life (Granddad had payphones installed in his mansion, Sutton Place, so as to avoid footing the bill for guests’ and residents’ long-distance calls) and the horrific events that led to his grandson’s loss of an ear in an attempt finally to get the old man’s attention and get serious about a ransom demand.
 
As we watched – at times binged – the episodes last week, I found myself looking up various facts about the era, the family members and the 1973 kidnapping itself. The precarious part was not learning more about the fates of the people whose lives were being played out by Oscar nominees Donald Sutherland and Hilary Swank (Paul Sr. and his daughter-in-law).
 
Not until we finished did we read the eventual fate of the red-haired and free-spirited grandson. We were very careful not to spoil things for ourselves, but grateful that the information was there, once we could stop tip-toeing through the internet to dive in and learn how this story ended.
 

 
Then we come to a fascinating documentary that was brought to our attention a few months ago, Three Identical Strangers, which we were delighted to learn was playing at our small local cinema in Sidney. If you haven’t heard of this story, you’ll want to watch the trailer below.
 
These are real people and actual events; you may even recall when three boys, who had been given up as triplets when they were babies, learned of each other’s existence. It was all over television, newspapers and magazines in 1980. It’s an incredible story and well worth the 90 minutes spent exploring their fates, the many ethical questions raised by the reasons behind their separation and the consequences those events had. You’ll be asking yourself again and again about the age-old argument surrounding nature versus nurture. 
 
What burned my biscuits about this whole experience (besides the story itself, of course) was a New York Times article that first brought it to our attention this summer. The newspaper story was just one big spoiler.
 
Sure, the premise and basis of the documentary were well worth explaining, but the article went on to tell us the fates of the three boys as men, thus not only eliminating any surprises the documentary might contain, but also basically stomping all over a moviegoer’s right to go along for the ride and experience the story from a newcomer’s standpoint. 
 
Just like with Trust, we were not completely ignorant of the story we were watching and some of its details. But in the case of Three Identical Strangers, the entire outcome of the documentary was laid out in black and white. And that wasn’t right. 
 
In 2018, it’s almost impossible to be in the dark about events. We have news fed to us at firehose velocity and, depending upon our willingness to let it in, we can be as informed or uninformed as we choose. I just wish the NYT, in reviewing an incredibly touching and enlightening documentary, hadn’t taken away our right to do just that.
 
See Three Identical Strangers. It will stay with you for days, and that’s one criterion by which I judge any experience as to its worth. Trust me. And here’s the trailer.
 
Talk to you here tomorrow!
 

I’m going to share with you a blog that my dear friend Lisa posted yesterday at her site voiceoflisabrandt.com. When I read the first few lines, I thought she and I had written the same thoughts on the same day; the theme of mine yesterday was “use the good dishes.”
 
I appreciate all of the feedback you sent. So many readers feel the same way about no longer putting off using things that have sentimental value, whether it’s a mother’s pillowcases or precious dishes that have long been “saved” for what, a visit from The Queen? Thank you for your notes.
 
Today I’m sharing Lisa’s journal because it extends that thought further with a message brought home by the death of a beloved co-worker, who died suddenly at home just before her weekend radio shift. She was in her early fifties. May it resonate with you as loudly as it did with me and many of Lisa’s loyal readers. Perhaps you’ll join their ranks after today. 

The Secret to Eternal Life
 
The title of today’s post reads like a clickbait solicitation for a cult, I know. Now you’re afraid that I’ve shaved my head (except for one thin patch down the middle) and quit my job so I can sell flowers at the airport. But that’s not what this story is about. When my paternal Grandma died in the mid-80s, we sorted through all of her stuff. She was a beloved nurse at Brantford General Hospital before her retirement. One of the drawers in a dresser packed with unopened Avon makeup, wrapping paper, rolls of tape and little gifts (Grandma was ready for any occasion) also contained stacks of cards and letters. They were written by patients, colleagues and younger nurses she’d encountered and taught over the years. Many offered thanks for her care, some for her mentorship in the nursing profession, heartfelt and sweet. They revealed a side to Grandma’s life that we never saw; respected professional with a wealth of knowledge she passed on to others.

As we moved through a long line at a Lambeth funeral home on Friday afternoon, those of us who knew and loved Jodi (Orr) Taylor were like living cards, letters and notes. One by one, we told her family about Jodi’s effect on us. From her peers, like me, to young broadcasters she took under her wing, to everyone else whose lives she made better, we cried, laughed and told stories. Despite the somber occasion, I found myself doing an imitation of Jodi for her husband, telling him something funny she had said the last time I talked to her. When he threw his head back and laughed I thought, yeah, she would love that. All of her worlds coming together, appreciating her for the sweet being that touched all of our lives.

We aimed to have her family feel the full weight of our affection for her. As my News Director said, the funeral home looked like a broadcasting convention. Now we have to do what she would want us to: get on with things. But I promise you that radio in London will never be the same. Our little community is shaken and an important part of its foundation is missing. We hugged and cried more tears, then smiled at the sight of her urn: bright red with headphones placed on it, so she could dial us all in. Perfection. 

Jodi set an excellent example for interpersonal relationships. Be a good listener. Always say something positive. Be quick with a compliment. Err on the side of kindness. These are things I always aim to do – most of us do, I think – but would like to do more consistently. I started with an apology on Friday to someone who deserved to hear it, and I meant it, even if it came out awkwardly, which it did. The awkward part is totally my style.

In one of our last discussions, Jodi and I joked about becoming old ladies. She had just had her hair done. Jodi had thick, wavy, crazy-beautiful, almost out-of-control hair, and our talk turned to going grey. She said she looked forward to growing old and being surrounded by her “grand-babies”. No one imagined that she wouldn’t get that opportunity. If I am fortunate enough to reach old lady status, I’ll carry Jodi (as well as my dear friends Kerry Weaver and Lauren Davis Shirakawa) in my heart with me. I promise I won’t squander my chance or take it for granted. And I’ll do my best to be a positive influence on others. If I succeed, perhaps someone will want to hold my memory in their heart. That, my friends, is the secret to eternal life.

Thank you, Lisa, for allowing me to share this here. And a special hug for remembering our Lauren. xox
 

Just when you hoped a weekend might clear your mind from awful news…. John McCain passes away. A mass shooting at a gaming tournament in Florida. A great American playwright, Neil Simon, steps off life’s stage at 91. One was expected, the second, another gun-related tragedy and the third, the end of a full and fruitful life.
 
The randomness of life itself drives home the reason behind something I’ve started doing since dismantling our comfortable existence in Ontario and inventing a new one here on beautiful Vancouver Island: use the good dishes!
 
Back when I did a nightly show on Rogers TV in Toronto (on channel 10 before the million-channel universe and I’d joke that you had to go past us to get to something better) I interviewed a woman who wrote a book by that title. Chiropractor, author and keynote speaker Elaine Dembe came on to talk about Use the Good Dishes: Finding Joy in Every Day Life and although the contents of our discussion have long faded away, that title – that theme – has always stayed with me. And no more so than in the past few months.
 
When my Mom died six years ago, she left behind a set of white china. It’s white with silver swirls and I’m happy to say that I believe she chose a pattern that has aged well since she received her first pieces as a bride in 1956. None of my other three sisters had need or want of these place settings, so I happily agreed to give them a home, envisioning big joyous gatherings at our cottage where mom’s dishes could have a second life.
 
Of course, our own lives would unfold – or unravel – in such a way that celebratory meals became a thing that I doubted would ever happen again. Still, we moved the dishes with us to BC and put them in a room off the kitchen, stacked and untouched.
 
Mom also collected silver, as brides did back in the day and perhaps still do, for all I know. I didn’t and neither did Lauren; neither of us thought we had the kind of lives that real silver would fit into, you know?
 
I asked my sister, a jewelry appraiser, to suggest what she thought Mom’s set was worth and then wrote my sisters cheques and gave the silver a home. There are four of some pieces and twelve of others, but I added to the unusual count when I found the same pattern online. Someone was selling silver and a chest and I bought all of what they were offering. That mishmash of flatware, some of it black with tarnish, also moved into that room off the kitchen. Unused and ignored.
 
This past week, everything moved into a kitchen cupboard when I made a conscious decision to start using mom’s china on a more regular basis. In fact, we used it twice in the past five days. Yes, it means hand washing dishes and cutlery after a dinner gathering, but it’s worth it. Every time I set the table with her dishes and silver, I think of how thrilled she’d be that it’s being used again.
 
We’ve had dinners with six or eight people and, more often than not, that china has made an appearance. And I feel a connection with my mom that adds a layer of peace, an air of joy to each table setting. It’s a way of honouring her and our shared past, while showing guests that they’re special enough to bring out the “good” dishes.
 
When we left Ontario, I gave away a box of champagne glasses bought for wedding celebrations for our daughter. I thought I would never again have a reason to raise a glass or join in a joyful shared moment with friends or family. But time has proven me wrong. Don’t give away the champagne glasses. Life has a way of giving you reasons to smile and to toast again.
 
And for heaven’s sake, use the good dishes! I don’t know who is going to want these pretty white pieces when I’m gone, but for now, rather than worry that something could break or chip or that cleanup might take a bit too long, I linger in the moment and appreciate the happiness that comes when friends and family gather, the clouds part and a broken heart once again feels the warmth of life’s sunny days.
 
I hope yours is a good one. Thank you for coming by. And here’s a link to Elaine’s website if you think you’d like to know more about this woman and her work. 
 

Well, I was thinking of wrapping up the week, as I have the past few, with a recipe, but the little voice in my head asks, is that what people come here for? So I’ll listen to that voice and just post a link to the most fantastic summery salad – three ingredients and a super easy dressing – that I had great success with this week. If asparagus, tomatoes and avocados sound good to you (in a light Dijon/olive oil dressing) – this is your go-to! The link is below.
 
This week has been like a year’s worth of news. Yesterday’s drama on the eve of the CPC convention, Maxime Bernier’s defection to start his own party, was like the icing on the cake and came just when I thought I couldn’t take one more bite. What a week!
 
As I was prepping that salad I mentioned for a small dinner party, I had CNN blasting away with the Tuesday news bombs of both Paul Manafort’s and Michael Cohen’s legal takedowns. While I’m anxiously awaiting developments that will see this nightmare below us come to an end, there are so many other intangibles that you almost feel as if you have to duck and cover. Like, what if Mike Pence moved up into the big chair? Why did Paul Manafort insist on Pence being VP to Trump’s P? That’s just one of the questions that swirl through my head.
 
Then there’s Trump’s telling comment on Faux News yesterday that flipping should be, like, illegal. (He’s not talking about buying places and selling them at a profit; I’m pretty sure he thinks that’s one of the Ten Commandments, if he knew them.) No, he was saying that turning from ally, to witness against him, should be a crime. Doesn’t that sound like something Tony Soprano would say?
 
Yes, I’m a Canadian through and through and I follow what’s happening here, of course, but I can’t help watching what’s going on south of the border and some of it has to do with the fact that I hate a liar. More than anything, I hate a liar. And that’s what Trump has been from Day One. The frequency and audacity of his lies have increased exponentially from the day he was sworn in and it seems that everyone in his party – save for a few who are leaving soon anyway – is turning a blind eye so that they can get all of their policies and wishes in place before the supposed Blue Wave that is coming in November. 
 
I reached out to author Linwood Barclay on Twitter this week (his book A Noise Downstairs is a great summer read) after he commented on the goings on in DC and asked him, “What do you say when people tell you to mind your own business as a Canadian?” and he responded simply: “I ignore them.” I’ve had just a few tweets directed at me with that tone, most of them without punctuation but lots of MAGA in their bios, and I just block the senders right away.
 
When someone called me cowardly for blocking instead of engaging, I simply thought to myself, Why would you argue with someone who gets their “facts” from Fox? There’s no reasoning with a person (or bot, for that matter) who refuses even to consider the truth.
 
And as for someone who posted on my FB page a while back when I made a comment about Trump and Alcatraz that I used to be so careful not to offend any listeners during my CHFI days, and wondered what had come over me, I say this: for many years, I was given the honour of using a public platform that was not my own. I treated that responsibility with care and respect; my aim was never to lose a listener.
 
Another person said, “Why don’t you worry about Trudeau?” I told her that I have a mind wide enough to take in more than one story and more than one situation and consider them simultaneously. Imagine! And then I asked who poses more of a risk to the world right now, anyway? Someone else posted that she hoped there was room at Alcatraz for the prime minister. I asked what crimes he had committed. She said, “How he treats Canadians.” Oh, okay. That seems solid.
 
What I’m getting to is this: here – in my journal, on Facebook, Twitter and Instagram – I am allowed to be who I am and share with whomever cares to visit what I feel about something that’s going on. Whether it’s a baby’s sound machine or Baby Boss in the Oval Office. Right now I’m furious – have been since the day he was elected. What’s happening to our very close neighbo(u)rs is unprecedented in their history and if you’re not concerned, you’re not paying attention.
 
That’s entirely your right! After a lifetime of trying to keep up with everything going on, so as to digest events with accuracy for listeners, it’s impossible to unplug. And I wouldn’t miss the takedown of this cheating liar for the world. 
 
So now I’m going to go out and walk along the ocean, peering across to where our neighbouring American islands are, and hoping that a clear horizon emerges from our steady blanket of smoke over the past few weeks. A metaphor for what I anticipate is happening as that long red tie continues to get caught up in the slow turning wheels of justice? Perhaps. 
 
I wish you a lovely summer weekend and here’s that recipe I mentioned above.
 

As someone who hasn’t been the parent of a toddler for more years than I care to count, being around little people reminds me of just how exhausting raising them can be. I’ll give you an example: the sound machine. Not Miami Sound Machine, a child’s precious sound machine, like this….
 

 

 
I was staying yesterday with a friend’s little daughter, giving Mom a much-deserved day out. I had tucked the toddler in, had the baby monitor at my side, had poured myself a nice, rich coffee and was getting set to watch a ball game. That’s when the noise upstairs began. The dull drumming of little feet on the floor as she hopped around told me that a nap might not be in the cards, nor would my anticipated quiet time.
 
Putting the game on pause (whatever did we do before stopping live TV?), I went up to tuck the little sweetie back into bed, promising we’d go to the park if she had a nap. Then she told me she needed her pants changed. She did, so I put her in a fresh diaper and tucked her in again. After a brief negotiation about a room light being left on (she won; not my battle to fight) I backed out of the room with a quiet sigh and headed downstairs.
 
Fast forward 15 minutes: I’d finally had some time to put four coats (one basecoat, two polish and one quick-dry top coat) on my nails. And then…crying.
 
No, it wasn’t me having just notched a nail by picking up my phone, as I am wont to do. It was the sounds of the tot above starting to cry. Up I went, once again.
 
She was able to explain that the sound machine she plays – waves and nice ambient noise – wasn’t working. I looked at it and, horror of horrors, the battery light was on. This was going to be a challenge.
 
I promised her I’d fix it (which may or may not have been the truth) and backed out of the room again, pledging to be right back.
 
First, to find batteries. I found two Cs before digging deep into the kitchen utility drawer to find (wonder of wonders) two more. Phew. Now, how to get into this thing? I think the Russians had an easier time hacking the US election.
 
I tried YouTube in hopes that some harried parent had taken two minutes of time they didn’t have to post a video of them changing the batteries. No such luck. So I grabbed a screwdriver and started to turn anything that would move. Eventually my ploy worked: two screws came out, a panel that had locked in the battery compartment magically slid off, and voilà! Four batteries ready for replacement. Using a knife (which is probably wrong) I pried the dead ones out and popped in the four new ones. 
 
I took the stairs two at a time, as though I’d just broken a code to save the war effort, and quietly entered my little charge’s room. She was lying there looking at me like a kid seeing Santa on Christmas Eve; she had believed me when I said I’d return with a repaired sound machine, and by gosh, I did! I turned on the sound, gave her a kiss and backed out quietly one more time.
 
It worked. She slept, the Jays won and the day was SAVED.
 
My nails? Just one little divot in fresh polish on a thumb. I figure that with digging in a drawer, prying open a battery package, working my way into a sound player and then closing it all up again, that was a tiny casualty in the battle to get a child to take her nap as I’d promised her mom.
 
I’ll say it again: I don’t know how parents do it, or I’ve forgotten how we did. Everything is a race against time, silent prayers and sighs, compensation, frustration and elation.
 
Hang in there. It’s worth every moment. Talk to you here tomorrow.