Erin's Journals

Well, we’re back in Ontario I’d almost forgotten how cold April can get. Almost. We may have left our shovels here when we moved in late 2016, but at least I still have a good warm coat! The winds when we landed at Pearson were gusting up around 90 kilometres an hour. I could barely park my broom! 
 
Last night a bunch of us gathered at Peter’s Fine Dining in Markham. Recommended by locals (including man about town, our fabulous own Allan Bell) and reviews alike, the main reason we chose it was because we could request a private room downstairs – with its own bar – where our celebrations wouldn’t raise any eyebrows or disturb fellow diners! I know how much we laugh when we get together, especially with Mike and Debbie Cooper, who were a surprise element of our gathering, made so effortlessly wonderful by our host, co-owner Tom Columvakos and his carefully attentive staff.
 
A few others, like best pal Allan Bell and his mum Betty, our sweet CHFI promo host Jackie Gilgannon (with whom Rob and I feel a special closeness), midday goddess Michelle Butterly, former production buddy Chris Shapcotte and our dearest friends Ian and Anita MacArthur were also there. I didn’t invite everyone I’d worked with at CHFI – after all it was Rob’s birthday party – but another co-worker was there in spirit: the amazing Angela Morra, who has made special cakes for the big events in our little family’s life, from Lauren’s shower to Colin’s first birthday cake, came through in fine, fine form with this glorious Hofner bass cake (just like McCartney and Rob both play) plus the edible sheet music and lyrics to “When I’m 64” marking Rob’s Beatles Birthday!
 

 
Yes, that’s what we called his 64th. I know next year he’ll feel pretty cruddy about becoming a “senior” (while I plan on going into full-on denial about being married to one, LOL), but we recall that as ambivalent as he felt about turning 60, it was also that month that we learned Lauren was expecting, and that was our last full year with his girl. So we learn never, ever to begrudge a birthday.
 
I just felt that being in Toronto and near friends, it would be wonderful to have a reason to celebrate. We find we have to do that, otherwise things fall by the wayside and wither from neglect. A chance for joy is lost….
 

 
I had a meltdown on Easter Sunday when I was going to deliver a bag and basket of treats for my aunt, uncle, cousin and kids and realized when we were scurrying to leave them quickly and quietly at the door of my (then) ailing aunt’s house, I’d forgotten half of the goodies at home.
 
First I was angry, then I just started to full on bawl. “Nothing matters,” I sniffed. “I don’t know why I even try. Nothing even matters.” Rob said he wished he could console me, but this is how he feels so much of the time.
 
So I’ve decided now that my job – our job – is to make things matter. To turn ordinary days into special ones; to recognize the importance of friends and family who are there for you day in, day out – and even long distance. Because, damn it, life is TOO short. So we had cake on Tuesday and cake twice yesterday (once with our dearest friend Helen in the afternoon, our first stop after that bumpy landing). You watch – it’s been Rob’s birthday but guess who’ll gain the cake weight???
 
On that note, in the next eleven days or so we’ll mix a lot of business with pleasure, just as we did yesterday. I’ll share more with you here tomorrow and if there are any audio or journal glitches today, forgive me – my producer and partner was partying a bit last night (at my insistence). I mean…it was his birthday after all and you saw the picture of him and Cooper. And then I make him come back to the hotel room and record, edit and post this? Fingers crossed! 
 
Take good care and we’ll wrap up this week here tomorrow with a story of a very special man you may have just met yourself.
 

Hi there. Off we go to Victoria’s sweet, light-filled airport: today (as of 5 am – ugh – did I ever really get up this early, or earlier?) we fly to Toronto to begin nearly two weeks of meetings, socializing, combinations of the two and, yes, even some work! As luck would have it, I was hired to emcee a day of events for the Canadian Real Estate Association in Ottawa next Sunday. And so our travels will take us there, which just happens to be where a certain three-and-a-half year old boy is living with his folks. We cannot wait! For today, though, it’s flying, renting a car, visiting with good friends and celebrating Robbie.
 
Today, Rob’s having his “Beatles” birthday. Yes, my husband (who, I will point out is 9 years older than I) is going to be asking if I’ll still need him and will I still feed him now that he’s…a new age. He doesn’t take kindly to birthdays – despite being grateful for each one, as life teaches us to do – so this may be the last one we actually “celebrate.” I hope to have some pictures and stories to share with you later in the week or perhaps even next week when we catch our collective breath and are able to do journals that demand just a bit more time and work.
 
We’ll be staying in a few hotels, but mostly other people’s homes. Only one (my pal Lisa’s) has a studio, so I may borrow her facilities to do my audio journal. Or, heck, maybe she and I will do another one together!
 
While we’re in the air, we’ll be preparing for tomorrow’s first big meeting at HarperCollins. Of course, I’ve been in the caring and gentle hands of senior vice president Iris Tupholme since the start of this great adventure in December 2016. But we’ll be discussing layout, cover and, yes, the title. 
 
Here’s where I need your opinion and I will try not to sway you with what I think; I’ll try to give you a little background as we go, though.
 
In our home, the working title of this book due out next February, is Mourning Has Broken. A play on words, I’ve spelled mourning with a U for a particular reason: of course, it means that the sadness has come to an end. While that may still be blind optimism on some days, it is also meant to convey that the mourning can be broken; there can be hope and joy again. It’s what we’re living for and hopefully what the book is about, at its heart.
 
However, there’s discussion, too, of calling it Morning Has Broken like the Cat Stevens song of the 1970s. (If you aren’t familiar with it, it has a hymn-like feel to it and, yes, we sang it at Folk Mass in church when I was a teen. It fit perfectly.) Morning in this case could well refer to the thirty-plus years that I began my day – and if I’m lucky, yours too – and how that forged the connection that would one day be the source of support and wisdom and kindness that Rob and I would come to need desperately. It could also refer to my mornings having been broken to the point that I couldn’t keep doing the wakeup show that I loved so much. Hmmm. So many layers, right?
 
Before we choose a title (with the likely parenthetical title A Mother’s Journey Through Grief) I wanted to hear your thoughts. After all, this should be something easy to remember and that makes sense. And goodness knows you’ve been a part of so much of this entire process. If you could – since I’m having such email trials (which I mentioned here yesterday) – please use the Facebook page on which this question is posed. Again, here is the question: Mourning Has Broken or Morning Has Broken? And if you have a better title idea, fire away! 
 
Have a good day and thanks for coming by. We’ll be back with you here tomorrow and I will try to remember to change the “time zone” setting in my posts before then!
 

I hope you had a wonderful long weekend, that the Easter Bunny was good to you (or stayed away, if that’s what you were hoping for) and that the spirit of renewal and hope is in your heart.
 
We went light on chocolate (the bunnies in the backyard were warned beforehand) but had a peaceful and productive weekend, pairing pictures with book chapters and getting the book out to our editor/publisher before this week’s meetings in Toronto. I’m going to ask you a question on my Facebook page tomorrow and I want your honest opinion about an idea I have for the title. If you haven’t joined me there yet, here’s a link. It’s easy, no one will take your data (just don’t give them any) and you’ll be able to join the journal conversation, too. 
 
Speaking of conversations: I officially am no longer attached to my Rogers email account (the one at work) and I’m afraid that there’s been a bit of a glitch. If you have written to me there in the past few years (or weeks or days) you may not hear back from me. In moving my work emails into my home account, I was aghast to see some 25,000 (I initially thought 22,000 but the numbers kept rising) moved in. Most of them had been answered or deleted or both in the past year or two. But there they were again…and all I could do was watch with dread. 
 
By Saturday, I had cut them down to 2,000 and feel a lot more in control. But here’s the thing: the reason I wanted to hold on to these is not for some last vestige of my old life, but because I felt that I owed a response to those who wrote to me when they heard of my resignation or upon my leaving. Upon trying to answer a few during the down time between book edits in the past few months, I discovered emails that had deeply personal comments and such beautiful remembrances that I couldn’t just leave them unanswered! However, that may be where we find ourselves now.
 
I just don’t know how I’m going to tell the ones I’ve answered already from the ones I have not, and sending yet another “Hey, I’ve moved and here’s where you can find me” email to people who have already received one is just not kosher. So…I’m between a rock and a hard place.
 
Granted, the common response among those to whom I sent notes in the past year was that they didn’t expect to hear back from me. And I know it’s foolish, but I have always lived by the rule that if someone writes, you write back; if someone gives you a gift, you send a thank-you. They’re interlaced, in my books. I never, ever took your kindness for granted. And it’s another reason I’m urging people to start communicating with me through the FB page rather than emails; even if it’s just a “like” I can let you know I’ve read and am grateful for the feedback and the visit.
 
I don’t know what to do. But this time I may just have to, as the song goes, “Let it Go.” Those who want to stay in touch with the journal have – I hope – found me by now. It’s easy to find with a simple Google of my name. 
 
Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some packing to do. We fly out tomorrow and there’s a two week trip with a sweet little boy waiting on the end half. I will be journalling while we’re away, too. Should be lots of fun and I hope you’ll come along for the ride!
 

Here we are on the edge of the Easter weekend. It’s a holiday signifying a rebirth, a time of hope and renewal, a period when we’re reminded that life goes on and even begins again. I’d like to share with you a story that brought that home to me once again this week.
 
One month ago yesterday, Luisa lost her son; Anna lost her husband. Anthony succumbed to his mental illness after fighting many deep bouts of depression. Having grown up with a father who dealt with his own troubles, 41-year-old Anthony knew the toll this could take on his family and did everything he could think of to beat it.
 
Anthony, with whom we’d worked at Rogers and who was respected and well-liked, had been in therapy for many years and was working hard to get better, but it wasn’t enough. Here is the piece he wrote while trying to cope with his illness.

Pardon Me
 
Pardon me, for I am human.
Forgive me, for I have erred.
Help me, so that I may regain my stance.
Teach me, so that I may learn.
Support me, so that I may grow.
Love me, so that I may feel special.
Let me do all these for you,
So that I may know that I am not alone.

Right now I’m betting you’re wondering what this story has to do with life renewing itself, with hope and faith. I’ll tell you.
 
Last week Luisa reached out and asked if we could talk. When we spoke, she told me of her son’s deep pain and of his sweet and loving nature. I was able to tell her that her son often entered the studio with a furrowed brow, as when an engineer was called, it meant there was a problem. And his job was to find and solve it.
 
His passion for his job was evident, but he could laugh with us while troubleshooting. He warmed quickly to you once he knew he was in a safe space and we always appreciated seeing him come through the door, even if it meant something had gone wrong!
 
His coworkers were gutted at the news of Anthony’s death. He was a doting father, a devoted son and a talented musician. In fact, he wrote this song when he was in his teens, but just added the desperate, painful lyrics lately. Anthony sings/shouts backup and plays drums in this piece. His mother would love for you to share it if there’s anyone you think it might help.
 
As we were wrapping up our phone call last week and sent each other hugs, I asked Luisa if she’d seen any signs. She talked about spotting doves but said, “Anthony, I don’t want birds – I want you!” 
 
I asked if perhaps it meant the doves – a common sign for peace – were telling his beloved mother that her son’s soul was finally no longer in torment. That he’d been let out to play, as the lyrics of his song demand.
 
I told her about my heart-shaped dish of dimes (and a few quarters) that Rob and I have found when we’ve needed a message from Loo. Luisa said she hadn’t heard of that, and would keep an eye out. 
 
Just a few days ago, Luisa (often called “Lou”) wrote again to tell me that her granddaughters – Anthony’s beautiful trio of children – found a stuffed animal, a sloth, near a children’s swing just after their father’s passing.
 

 
Their Nonna took this filthy, long abandoned toy from their home to hers and washed it several times, heavy on the fabric softener (“it smells like poo” they had complained when they handed it over) and this is what Lou wrote: 

When I returned it to the girls, I explained that going forward to have an open mind and be aware of subtle things and connect the dots. The middle one said, dad would know that if they found a stuffed animal, the would surely bring it home! I told them this thing had a big belly like daddy and wide enough arms to hug them as if it was daddy and this ugly stuffed animal deserved a special place in the house where they can feel close to Dad. 

Luisa thanked me for helping to make a connection they could relate to on their level, but honestly, all it takes is having open eyes and – most of all – an open heart. And just believing that love never, ever dies.
 
Happy Easter. I’ll be back with you on Tuesday. May your heart be at peace.
 
And here is Anthony’s obituary if you want to know a little more about this sweet man.
 

I’m in a small boat now and I’m ready to rant.
  
If I could wave a magic wand, I’d do a lot of things. (Hmm – maybe I should’ve written this as a poem….) But somewhere on that list – probably way down – would be finding a way for companies to share their resources with other parts of the same body. I have a couple of good examples and, since this is my area of a lifetime of knowledge, I’ll focus on radio.
 
Since dipping my toes into the world of freelance voicework, I have had the opportunity to audition for jobs that were posted by media conglomerates and while I’ve leapt at the chance to make some extra cash, I’ve been puzzled at the sheer ridiculousness and redundancy of it all. You have a company filled with people who use their voices for a living – and you’re already paying them – and yet a job was farmed out to an agency (which would be paid) to hire someone else who would be paid as well.
 
I recall a decade or so ago, a former co-worker, who’d been let go for not playing well with others, showing up in a print ad for a brand of our company’s services. Really? You couldn’t have used someone who didn’t make a point of dissing the radio station and the company every time he got a chance? Okay then. Talk about the right and left hand not knowing what they’re doing! 
 
What brought this to mind was being on hold yesterday waiting for information about Blue Jays tickets. Eventually, a lovely young woman named Catherine proved extremely helpful, but before that happened, I was subjected to no less than ten minutes of really torturous and whiny Kenny G-like music that ran on a one minute loop again and again and again. Never mind waterboarding – I’m pretty sure that hearing that soprano sax on never-ending repeat would get even Donald Trump to tell the truth. 
 
Here’s my question. Rogers is owner to no fewer than four outstanding Toronto radio stations. Why not use that interminable waiting period (okay, it did terminate, but Lenny B or Kenny C or whoever they had blowing his horn through the tiny speaker on my phone made the time seem longer) to promote your own product?
 
Run a few minutes of prompts talking about your sports programming on radio or television! Tell me when Bob McCown’s show is on Sportsnet 590 The Fan or introduce me to the broadcast team for Blue Jays games this year. Let me hear the best of Roz and Mocha on KiSS or do some promotion for CHFI or 680 News. Why would you not? 
 
Any time I’ve talked with people from other companies or industries, I’ve heard similar stories. World-famous celebrities in one studio who aren’t even brought down the hall to be guests on a sister station: lost promotion opportunities because someone didn’t take one more mental step, couldn’t be bothered or just wouldn’t share. Shame on them.
 
A rising tide lifts all boats, and all that. Or would you rather be left with all of those boats just dug into the sludge and muck, never to set sail again? Plenty of stations are in just that predicament right now. It’s been a week of more firings and layoffs in radio (not Rogers) but as the workplace contracts and more jobs are on the line in almost every facet of every industry, it really is time more people started thinking outside the box – before they find themselves out on the street wondering: what happened? I was just listening to Kenny G….