Erin's Journals

I have saved one of my favourite travel – or life – stories EVER for today’s journal. I hope that you get a chance to listen to it, as I’m straining to put into words here what excitement and awe this chance encounter brought to Rob and to me. So give it a click. 
 
I hadn’t mentioned where Rob and I went on our vacation last week, not because of privacy issues or anything like that; we flew to the US southwest and, because we spent some time in Las Vegas, I kept it to myself. The reasons have not to do with you, but me: I feel more than a bit of guilt spending time and money (albeit in nickels, as you’ll see) as I know there’s just so much judgment about Vegas in general and gambling in particular.
 
All I can tell you is that Rob and I enjoy the ride and the mindlessness. We have never made enough to cover a trip, but we’ve also never spent more than we felt we should. We love the ever-present possibility that something wild and wonderful will happen. And it did, but not at all in the way that you might think.
 
There we were at a casino in Summerlin, a neighbourhood northwest of Las Vegas. The last two trips we’ve rented a car and gotten a condo away from the hustle – in every sense of the word – of the LV strip: that way, if we choose to spend a few hours where the limits on the video poker machines are a little too high for our blood, we can go for a quick visit, but we’re not trapped amid the yard-long booze cups toted by loud drunks, and those painfully wobbling stilettos that doubtless provide one of about five major regrets for their wearers the next day. 
 
At this casino in Summerlin, Rob and I were sipping our free coffees and hoping that, with a well-paying hand, a wheel above would be activated and we’d add to our credits. Next to us sat a neatly dressed woman who looked to be on autopilot as she also hit the MAX button, except that she was playing with a lot more determination, speed and money. She was spending dollars – 21 of them per hand – something I spotted and then silently nudged Rob and nodded in her direction so he might take notice, too.
 
As I glanced furtively every few minutes, I could see her bankroll rising up, up, up: its highest point (that I saw) nearing 1,000 dollars. I kid you not when I say the next time I looked, it had plummeted to 145 dollars. That’s how fast the Triple Wheel can be: if you don’t get into the wheel bonus and then hit something better than its lowest offerings (which, of course, happens most often) you sink faster than the Titanic dishes on display at the Luxor back on the strip.
 
So, things are not looking good at the Sun Coast, where this woman now holds a little piece of paper and a ten dollar bill in her hand. She was just about ready to cut her losses and retrieve her car from the valet; that is what she told us later. Just then, something big catches our attention. As she raises her hands in delight, three hands all deal 2’s, with a “kicker” (a special smaller card that can quadruple the winnings and more). She had just won SIX THOUSAND DOLLARS!
 
Suddenly, that serious demeanor changed and she was – while not jumping out of her skin – very happy. But then Rob shouted, “You still spin the wheel!” Sure enough, her big four-of-a-kind deal guaranteed her a shot at the gold wheel, the highest-paying of three wheels of fortune that the game offered. With Rob and me standing behind her, she made invisible circles with the pads of her hand on the tabled video game screen, and the gold wheel began to spin.
 
As it slowed and came to a stop, we saw what any of us who has ever played that “bonus” kind of game dreams of: she hit the highest amount that the wheel offered: ten thousand dollars! Rob and I screamed and leapt in the air – yes, finally, we were those people in the casino who yell and cheer (something that playing nickels just does not provide, I’m afraid) – and she jumped up and hugged us. We were all laughing and yelling, and two other women across the aisle came to look as the machine began its crescendo of digital music excitement, filling our small part of the sprawling casino with the happiest of noises. 
 

 
We laughed as she said she was just about to leave when it hit and then, while we waited for what seemed like forever for the hand pay attendant to come and give her that $16,000, I peppered her with questions, including, what about the IRS? She gets a slip of paper and reports it on her taxes against losses at the end of the year. (I don’t know who keeps track of their losses, but I suppose some say they do.) Does she get her picture taken for casino publicity? She could, but she says “no” – another sign this was not this woman’s first trip to the Winners’ Circle.
 
Then, the most unexpected thing of all happened. After the pay attendants came and she handed them both money as a tip, the woman smoothed her blouse and got ready to go. Then she reached over and gave Rob three $100 bills, and gave me three more, handing still more bills to the two people across the aisle who’d also been cheering on this middle-aged black woman. 
 
“Wait, no,” I said, “We can’t take this!” But she was insistent. 
 
“You just enjoy it. Spend it however you like. It’s yours.” 
 
“Can you tell me your first name?” I asked her.
 
“It’s Evelyn.”
 
“Well, Evelyn, we are going to enjoy this and think of you every minute.” And we did.
 
She left the casino (after we asked if she needed an escort) and it seemed lots of the staff knew her well. I noticed that the zippered black banker’s bag I saw at the side of her machine wasn’t something a slot attendant had left behind, but her own “purse.” This is what Evelyn does – or at least has as a very successful hobby. Or, it sure was that day. 
 
Later in the week, when I had my own lucky day (I won $400 on one multiple hand that gave me two Royal Flushes), I found the lady who had been wiping games and emptying ashtrays around us. I asked her if she could take money from me and handed her a $20 bill. I think she wondered if I wanted her to make change. But Mariela soon caught on when I told her that I’d just won and wanted to share it, and she was delighted. On her next trip around the machines, she thanked me again.
 
Her happiness was nothing compared to what I felt: just a bit of an echo of Evelyn and the impression she made on Rob and me that no Royal Flush or Four Deuces could ever leave.
 

Today Twitter is 12 years old. I’m still amazed at the number of people who aren’t on this social media platform, although I don’t blame or judge (why would I?). What I don’t understand is people who kind of sneer and say “I don’t use Twitter” (or, more often, “I don’t Twit” or something vaguely off) when they don’t know what they’re missing.
 
First: let’s look at the cons. Twitter has more than its share of idiots; so does the city bus that just drove by. It’s just the law of averages. Unfortunately, there are plenty of people willing to hide behind the walls of anonymity who will use their Twitter accounts to berate, to lie and to troll.
 
A few weeks ago, when a department of the US government said that it was going to lift the ban on the import of elephant parts for trophies, I retweeted Chelsea Clinton on the topic. As you would expect, her tone was one of surprise (Trump had backed down from a previous effort to raise the ban, due to a firestorm of reaction from people against the horrific move) and disappointment, as well as disgust. 
 
It took only a matter of moments for a few tweets to come in, calling me names and telling me that it was “fake news” (how I hate those two words for anything someone doesn’t choose to believe is true). Of course, it was not fake news; it just hadn’t been widely circulated because that very day – probably not by coincidence – the news cycle was being dominated by Sam Nunberg, the former Trump staffer who went on every channel except the Weather Network to say he was not going to answer Robert Mueller’s questions. 
 
So, that’s the worst of Twitter: you can be inundated with flat-out falsehoods, name-calling and the worst that humanity (or bots) have to offer.
 
But on the positive side, information! YOU choose who you follow, and my favourites are the Washington Post, Toronto Star, Victoria News and other informative and reliable sites. Of course, I follow entertainers I want to keep up with, as well as inspiring people and sites that give me more to think about than just the day’s headlines. Like the Parkland, Florida school shooting survivors, for example. I happily follow Emma Gonzalez, David Hogg and Cameron Kasky. Their words are wise, their hearts are true and their vision is strong. I support them in every way, especially with this Saturday’s March For Our Lives.
 
Twitter (where you can find me @erindavis) is whatever you want it to be. When someone is obnoxious, you simply block them (or if you think they might change, mute them). You follow who you want and you can Tweet if and when you want – or not at all. 
 
I’d give it up in a heartbeat if it meant that one @realDonaldTrump stopped Tweeting, but that bird has flown. Now, all we can do is use our voices to keep spreading truth and hope instead of lies and hate. And if we can do that in 280 characters, so much the better. Happy Birthday, Twitter. Now do more to use your powers for good, would you?
 

Well, spring has just about sprung. It happens at 12:15 pm EDT and I know that if you are one of the people who read this journal from an Ontario postal code, you cannot wait. We have watched the weather from here on the west coast and just shuddered at how relentless it was for so very long this winter. We couldn’t be happier on everyone’s behalf that the vernal equinox is upon us.
 
Spring, of course, is known as a time of new beginnings. And so, it is not just a coincidence but extremely timely that I go back in time to this day in 2003. What was I doing? (That is exactly the question that Rob asked me when the blog had exactly 30 readers at the outset.)
 
As I sat on a chaise in our bedroom typing away for an hour every night, I had decided I wanted another way to connect with CHFI listeners. I was a big fan of Jann Arden’s blogs, so frank and funny were they at the time. Now she’s a brilliant follow on Twitter or Instagram who shares the highs and deep lows of her life so honestly and with such touching humour that it’s an honour to be let into her life. Jann also turned those musings into a few books, but her latest, Feeding My Mother, has been about her mom’s descent into the depths of Alzheimer’s, as her loving daughter helps where she can and mourns where she cannot.
 
Jann inspired my first journal written on this very day in 2003. And so, with great humility and thanks to you for being with me some, many or all of the days since that first one, I thank you. I’ll keep writing as long as you keep coming here – I do say that fairly often and I mean it – and I hope we’ll never tire of spending time together.
 
This journal has been a lifeline for me in so many ways: when I was let go later that year, 2003, people suddenly knew where to find me. When I came back to radio and later back to CHFI, they knew that too – thanks to this space. When Lauren passed away, you knew I’d tell you all I could right here. And you’ve helped Rob and me in so very many ways as we’ve navigated the choppy waters of mourning and set sail for safer, peaceful harbours out here on the Pacific Ocean.
 
Enjoy this step into the past and I’ll be back with you here tomorrow. And again, thank you.

Thursday March 20, 2003
 
“Little Darlin’…it’s been a long cold lonely winter…it feels like years since it’s been clear…Here Comes the Sun…and I say – it’s all right….” The first day of Spring (even though it doesn’t arrive until tonight) always has me humming that song, and hearing George Harrison’s sweet guitar. I heard he wrote “Here Comes The Sun” while sitting in Eric Clapton’s garden. I always wonder if Eric was off kissing Patti while George was strumming on a bench. Did they canoodle while George just noodled? And what the heck is canoodling, anyway? Whatever it is ~ I can probably use some. Super-size it.
 
Oh, by George, it has been a long winter. Of course, we’ve been spoiled in years past, but when the ceiling at the cottage sprang a leak two weeks ago, and here we’d made it into bloomin’ March without one leak – well, hell (as my mom says) that’s just not fair.
 
But we’ve made it to Spring. This is the day when there are equal hours light and darkness. Only happens twice a year…now and in the fall. Ew. Fall. The f-word. Don’t get me wrong, I love the season! But I don’t want to even think about it right now after the snowy, windy, wet, cold, cold, cold winter we’ve just seen. Bring on summer. Bring on Spring!
 
Spring. Little crocuses popping up their heads like prairie dogs on a Calgary golf course. Little doggie surprises in your backyard of a not-so-fragrant variety! Trees all reaching out their arms filled with promises of fluttering gifts and blossoming wonders. Our hearts swell with the enormous, delicious freshness of it all – as Mother Earth begrudgingly grants pardon for the frigid bleakness thrust upon her for so very, very long. We’re so sorry. That ain’t no way to treat a lady.
 
Spring has arrived, with her basket of forgiveness and rejuvenation. Promise and hope. “What the world needs now…” love, forgiveness, rejuvenation, promise. Hope Springs Eternal. Spring springs eternal. Happy Vernal Equinox! Run around naked. Make love, Not war. And for Heaven’s sake, put on a sweater.
 

Welcome back to the journal. As you may know, Rob and I took a week away from this page to do a little traveling, have some fun and speed up March so that we can get to April a little faster and see our sweet grandbaby in Ottawa. Nothing like a few days away to do just that!
 
Our other sweet baby, of course, is Molly, who is the poster child for “Life is Good” (literally). This picture was taken one morning when we got up before Molly did and Rob had to carry her outside to take her first piddle of the morning. Tough life, huh? That’s when she isn’t getting her own demitasse of cappuccino froth (or “fluffy milk” as I call it) since she’s always trying to lick mine. (Although some dogs can’t tolerate milk, this is lactose-free and she does just great.) I know, as Rob says, “This place is nuts.”
 

 
She’s such a sweet girl that I hate to leave her, but – as was the case last week and will be the case in April – it’s not exactly practical to take her with us. She’ll join us for a trip to Kelowna, where I’m a keynote speaker for BC broadcasters in May, but not all of our road trips are going to be as dog-friendly.
 
You may recall that last year we used an app to find someone in our price range (preferably about $25 a day) to take Molly into their home and let her sleep with them and be pampered while we’re away. At 13 years old, she’s not exactly high maintenance; all she wants is her Caru for breakfast and supper, one substantial walk and a few trips outside during the day and late evening. I mean, she’s so sweet, you’d think people would pay US to take her, right? (I’m kidding. Sort of.)
 
But I understand why we are paying; after all, people who join pet sitting services like the one we have now signed up with, Go Fetch, have expenses too, I’m sure. Our last sitter fell through when she fell in love with having Molly and bought a dog of her own! So much for that plan. So on we went. The lady we found to take Molly most recently has a small apartment about 20 minutes from where we live (which, as I said a few weeks back, nearly everything seems to be) and she works shifts. So Molly will enjoy having someone to nap with during the day. 
 
But here’s the thing: as great as Francine was – and they seemed to get along famously – she’s going away for several months this summer to take on a job at a lodge. We found that out when we went to meet her before Molly’s visit. We were like, “What? Nooooo!” Just disappointed that our little girl has to get used to one more person.
 
Now, don’t get me wrong; Molly’s chill and loves all people. But as she ages, we know her sight and other senses will begin to fail and familiarity will become more and more important. That’s when we’re going to have to find someone we trust totally who will come in to take care of her. After all, we don’t want to live without our dear Molly, but we do want to have time to travel.
 
A friend up island, who has also sat for Molly and hosted her in her home, happens to be awaiting the arrival of a grandbaby in Seattle at the end of this month, so she was unavailable while we were gone. She’s newly widowed and is even considering getting her own dog. We suggested that down the road we could even find a way maybe to “time share.” Let Molly stay with someone who needs company and who loves her as we do (which seems to be everyone).
 
We’re good pet parents, I swear. But I don’t believe that having a dog – no matter how much you love them – should anchor you during the years you’re meant to be exploring. We’ll take her with us when we can and figure out the rest as we g0. As long as she’s got her food, her treats and her heating pad – oh, plus a warm spot on her person’s bed – she’s good. No, she’s great.
 
Have a good day and we’ll be back with you here tomorrow.