Erin's Journals

Just a thought… Oh! I have breached the surly bonds of earth… put out my hand and touched the face of God. [John Gillespie Magee, “High Flight”]

Our sweet smiling dad took his final breath this morning. After a few days of steadily declining health, the man who taught me more about accepting what life sends us than anyone else ran his checklist one last time and ascended into whatever level of the stratosphere he’d set his altimeter for the other side.

Don Davis had much to be proud of in his life, although he often reminded us, if we got too full of ourselves, to “get off your ego trip.” A high-ranking military man to the core, fitting in was better than standing out, but if you tried to go above and beyond, you’d better be humble in the process.

He lived his life joyfully, seeing the world through his career, saving money and spending carefully. Wait – maybe that was Mom pinching pennies. Come to think of it, after she died in 2012, there was no one to tell him not to buy the latest Apple or Bose product, all the better to listen to his beloved barbershop music or the marches to which he would walk daily to maintain his fitness.

Although he dabbled in guitar in his youth, it wasn’t until he retired that Dad dove headlong into lessons for clarinet and saxophone. He bought whatever instrument caught his fancy, and even paid an exorbitant amount for a tiny soundproof studio for his retirement home unit so as not to disturb others. We kept asking, “Dad, WHEN IS THE GIG?”

My three sisters and I were surrounded by instruments and lessons as we grew up. Music was as much a part of this newer branch of the family tree as the ever-present moving vans: Dad served 26 years in the Canadian Armed Forces flying jets, 707s and later serving as Squadron Leader at CFB Trenton (C-130 Hercules).

When he was shuffled to desk duty, Dad checked with the tower (Mom), switched runways and flew commercially, achieving chief pilot status at Worldways and flying hulking L-1011 charter planes, where he quickly earned the respect and affection of “his girls” (yes, we corrected him on that – and often!) and the rest of the flight crew.

In fact, just last month I heard from a former flight attendant on Dad’s crew, confirming what we already knew: Dad was a much-loved and caring man. Still, it was nice to hear it from someone outside the family!

He laughed easily, sang often and parented as well as he could, given his frequent absences. How frequent? I was conceived on a visit home from his posting on the Defence Early Warning (DEW) Line up in the Arctic!

When he was home, he’d come up with ways to save on taxes like starting a hobby farm of sorts, buying dozens of rabbits and a few horses and goats…and then head off in his diesel Jetta to the airport for another flight, leaving Mom literally in the muck. God, it’s a wonder she didn’t drink, being in menopause with teenaged girls at home. Or maybe that’s why he flew so often?

His loving daughters like to think that Dad had much to be proud of in us, but there’s a “get off your ego trip” story Rob and I will laugh about for the rest of our lives.

In the early spring of 2015, Rogers invited some of their better known personalities and their dads to come to a ball game and be interviewed for pieces to run later, during the Father’s Day Blue Jays game telecast. But once Dad was mic’d up and ready to go, and they asked why he was proud of me, his response was that he was equally proud of all four of his girls. Silence.

I guess I didn’t warn him they’d ask about me and I doubt the video even made it onto the broadcast, but we DID have a wonderful time. And yes, was I humbled!

The last decade of Dad’s life was a hard one to witness (especially for younger sister Leslie who nursed him at her home for as long as she could) as his brilliant mind disappeared into the dense cloud of dementia.

On our final group visit to him in June, all four sisters celebrated his 92^nd birthday with singing, gifts and a cake. He seemed to enjoy us being there and knew our names (L-R Cindy, Erin, Leslie, Heather).

But we all left with a sense of wishing he would be allowed to go peacefully and soon. We also departed with a deepening determination to set some kind of pact or will that allows us to go before we reach the stage at which we found our dear ol’ Dad.

Today we all get our wish for Dad and he is dancing with the woman he knew when they were both pre-elementary school: the one he grew up with and, once she’d graduated nursing school and he from University of Alberta, eventually married. They got to raising a family right away, learning that the Catholic “rhythm” method of birth control was not exactly reliable. Eight years and four daughters later, they were done.

We all strove hard to make our mom and dad proud, all four of us sisters. Goodness knows, he made us proud. A loving father, husband, son, brother, dad, grandfather and great-grandfather, we are overwhelmed with gratitude beyond all measure to have had him steering our lives.

In a last exchange as he lay sleeping yesterday, my sister held up her phone and we told him gently the same words he said to us on the nights he was home to tuck us in: “Now, turn over and go to sleep.”

As he did this one last time, I love to imagine Dad and Mom – him in his military dress kit tuxedo and her in a gown she likely sewed herself – reunited in some celestial ball room. Mom’s father is leading the small dance band, and the last song of the night is “Now is the Hour,” Grandad’s signature closing number. They were always meant to be together in this and every other life, and it brings me joy that their wait has finally come to an end.

“I’ll be looking at the moon, but I’ll be seeing you.”

Just a thought… Life is full of awe and grace and truth, mystery and wonder. I live in that atmosphere. [Dion DiMucci]

Well, for once I have a valid excuse if there are typos or any other oddities in today’s blog: on Thursday in Victoria I had a cataract removed and a new lens put in.

Now you or someone you know may have already had it done, and I hope you find this interesting. Let me share for you in my own words some of the experiences I had in light of the operation, and I’ll try to keep my puns to a minimum. We’ll see…(oops).

I didn’t think cataracts were a thing for me yet; at 62 and with glasses that served me well, I was surprised when our eye doctor told me that, not only was Rob a candidate (although not at the point that BC Health would cover the whole tab for either of us), I was too, thanks to two tiny ones that had shown up. We had the choice of waiting years until we needed to join the queue, but decided to do it now.

We started the process of appointments, dilations, tests and price lists. I was ready to back out last week during our last pre-surgical meeting; I just didn’t feel like spending $3850 (after the $1000 off from the govt.) when it wasn’t a necessity. Don’t forget we still have a house for sale. But Rob’s operation was: he plays in goal without his glasses and felt that he was losing his perspective, misjudging too many pucks and allowing too many goals. But somehow I got in on a cancellation and ended up going first.

If you haven’t had it done and are nervous about this surgery, let me please reassure you that it’s so much easier than you can imagine. Numbing drops do their thing, a pill to relax you does the rest and the doctors have done these hundreds and thousands of times. My procedure came in two steps: blasting the cataract and removing the tiny shards, a 20-minute rest (during which I slept, so relaxed was I) and then the insertion of the new lens. All you need is someone to get you there, take you home and tuck you in, and you’re fine.

To find out I was even eligible for any kind of sight improvement (having had an experimental Radial Keratotomy scalpel surgery 30 years ago before laser was so widespread) was a huge surprise, as I’d since been told by a Toronto clinic that they wouldn’t touch my scarred eyes with a ten-foot laser.

When I learned I could have cataract surgery after all, I was instantly disappointed to hear that I wasn’t going to have the sight I took for granted before puberty hit. I had to choose between lenses for far away or close up. So, as I type this and my right eye recovers, I’m wearing a contact lens in the other, no glasses, and still unable to read small print in front of me. It’ll all adjust and so will I. And in about three weeks, I do it all again and cannot wait!

Recovery is easy – I slept most of the afternoon Thursday and rested again Friday and Saturday. My step counter is very disappointed in me, but it’ll live! The most onerous part is putting three different drops in my eye, four minutes apart, four times daily, plus sleeping with an eye shield and a mask over top. No biggie.

I’m resting easy these days at having some improvement, while trying not to calculate how much my future expenditures on fancy readers are going to be. Mostly I’m just feeling extremely grateful that this tiny lens has made such a big difference already. Bring on number two – and thank you, science, once again!

Just a thought… Old age is an excellent time for outrage. My goal is to say or do at least one outrageous thing every week. [Maggie Kuhn]

It’s 7-7 – Ringo Starr’s 85^th birthday. Now that is old age – not you or I, my friend! In honour of one of the last two remaining Beatles, Ringo is asking that at noon today – wherever you are – you just raise your fingers in the peace sign, and say, “Peace and Love.” Why not, right? I mean, these days, can it hurt?

I don’t know how much help I’ve been in making our world a little better – at least here on Vancouver Island – but I’ve had my fighting pants on during the past week. Okay, maybe not pants as such, more like shorts. It’s nice and comfortable here with 20C days (sorry if you’re sweltering as you read this) and my rants aren’t long. So shorts seem appropriate.

I first pulled them on when we got an email with the local grocery chain’s specials for the week starting July 2. Fresh off a spectacular red, white and maple syrup-flavoured celebration of this wonderful country of ours, it felt like a slap in the face to see this:

Peaches or nectarines, product of California. I wrote to their website through their “contact us” link and expressed my disdain to see fruit from the country that is threatening to erase our sovereignty promoted in their flyer. Calling themselves “Proudly Canadian,” Thrifty’s is a chain exclusive to Vancouver Island (which most decidedly does not live up to its money-saving moniker) but they’re ours. And this is what they’re putting on sale!

I’m not naïve and realize that as shoppers we have the choice of not buying their US produce, regardless of whether the sneaky little signs say “US or Mexico.” Because, yeah, it’s usually US. I also know that people on a tight budget will buy what they can afford to feed their family well, and I won’t look in someone’s cart and judge them. I DO, however, judge Thrifty Foods for choosing to highlight products from the USA in their sale flyer.

Their response? A cut-and-paste email that said they offer all produce, blah blah blah. I’m doubtful any human eyes even saw my note. But if their produce is as soft and rotten as their morals, I’ll pass, thanks. Keep your stupid peaches. We have the Okanagan.

Then there’s the flag flap in our bucolic little tourist town of Sidney, BC. Since the summer season began, there have been stars and stripes flying aside the flags of Canada and BC along our pristine and perfect waterfront, and at certain hotels. It was a decision taken after a 4-3 vote at town council, which was influenced by the number of Americans who own businesses here. Gotta keep them happy, right? They also say it’s in the interests of tourism. Well, having been fortunate to travel many countries of the world, I never once checked to see if our maple leaf was flying there before I felt welcome. It’s just a flag – until it’s someone else’s. Can’t imagine the Russian flag flies in many places in Ukraine, can you?

It’s infuriating to see that flag anywhere near our own. It does not belong here. Being literal minutes from the US border, we welcome our share of American tourists here. Yesterday I saw a woman wearing a Memphis t-shirt; a man in an Ohio State pullover was at a table adjacent to us on Saturday evening. On Canada Day I saw tone-deaf Brooklyn, NY and Palm Springs Ts being worn. Wear what you want (except for that red hat, an anagram of “hatred” that might as well be a swastika at this point). But the American flag should not be flying over our town.

I wrote to town council Friday and am awaiting a response. I told them that it’s only the first week of July and it’s not too late to replace that symbol of greed, injustice and anything but freedom with a Pride flag or an Indigenous Canadian flag (which is what we’ve hung from our balcony this month). If I get anything but a namby pamby “there there” from our mayor and his council, I’ll share it with you next week.

Maybe our Queenager years are when we step into our loud voices; when we are the change we want to see in the world. When muttering under our breath or tapping angrily online becomes writing, and even attending marches and protests. Logistical difficulties prevented Rob and me from marching in Victoria’s Pride parade yesterday under the Liberal party banner, but I had already tried to figure out how to combine red with rainbows. Next year!

Call me woke if you want – I wear that badge proudly. Just don’t ask me to approve of the flag of a country that is still lying about us (claiming yesterday that we steal their fish?????? WHAT?????) and stirring up ill feelings about a land so many of their people never even paid attention to unless it was to add an unhumorous “eh?” to their posts about hockey, baseball or whatever.

I’m done sitting quietly. Raging Grannies, Unite! And bring your guys with you. Somebody has to speak up and I’m fed up with “Boomer” being used online in an attempt to insult us. We put up with a lot of misogynistic BS and inequity in our careers and lives and fought quietly for rights (“not too loud, now, or you’ll upset the apple cart!”).

Well that cart – that ship – has sailed. We’re going to continue to fight.

You know, maybe if we stop throwing names and start calling out, we’ll get farther – together. Who’s with me?

Just a thought… When dealing with the insane, the best method is to pretend to be sane. [Hermann Hesse]

In one week I’ll mark six years of sobriety. We call it a “birthday” and it means that I’m past the halfway point of the longest period of not drinking that I accomplished (10 years) before I dove right back in upon retirement. Thankfully in 2019 I found my way into the arms of supportive and loving people who’ve been at this far longer than I. So it’s with that in mind that I wrote to my sister Leslie yesterday: “When do we know if this really is WWIII? Because I’d like to start chilling the gin.”

It was a joke. And we all have our crutches to help us get through the most anxious of times. Another, of course, is falling back on belief systems that have carried us in the past. Most of us haven’t been through periods like these; few remember the “duck and cover” exercises that we’ve seen in grainy reels from the days of the Cuban Missile Crisis and the existential threats of nuclear war that existed even then. We’ve lived blessedly peaceful lives, most of us; others escaped from war-torn countries to find this cushion of tranquility inside our borders and were welcomed here.

Now we look within, and it’s from that place of gentle wisdom accrued over millennia that I share a little today.

Thank you to my podcast partner and longtime friend Lisa Brandt for introducing me to stoicism, as she’s talked me off a ledge more than once when I was anxious about issues over which I had no control (and only thought I did). It’s also one of the best things I learned in rehab six years ago: you were CEO of your life and you effed that up, so it’s time to hand it over to a higher power.

I’m not going into the whole HP thing here; you do whatever gets you through the night.

So I’m sharing with you a good post gleaned from the stoics – a group of men whose names you’ve probably heard who lived many centuries ago, some of whom were rich leaders, others who were enslaved – from @dailystoic Ryan Holiday who is an excellent follow on social media.

Many of these also bring me to Mel Robbins’ massively popular bestseller The Let Them Theory. I read and listened to it over the winter and it fundamentally shifted the way I was looking at my life: it lessened my suffering over circumstances that had not turned out the way I’d hoped. And not just the BIG things like death, but the little things, too.

Now some have called out Mel’s writing, asking if it came from someone else’s work. I have considered that dilemma greatly over the past few months and my response to my own question of whether I can trust her writing and my instincts is that most of these ideas came from stoicism, Buddhism, Biblical scholars, etc.. The fact that she was able to compile these messages, this wisdom, into something easily accessible and digestible for our turbulent times still makes it well worthwhile.

Do what you need to to get through what’s happening and what’s ahead. Take gratitude in knowing that our country is helmed by a calm, intelligent and worldly individual who has our best interests at heart. Know that being Canadian is an enviable position for many in this world today. And please, take it easy on yourself.

Don’t argue online when you don’t know who’s on the other end; you can’t change minds, especially when they’re just bots with zero followers. Shut off the news when you need to. Quiet the discourse. Don’t self-medicate. Go inside (literally and figuratively) when you can. Find a good meditation app and listen to it. It can be for five minutes a day and you don’t have to hang upside down in the dark. Just do what’s best to keep your sanity, helping those around you with theirs.

Control what you can and let go of the rest…or at least try, my friend.

Just a thought… …all plans, safeguards, policing, and coercion are fruitless. We find that after years of struggle that we do not take a trip; a trip takes us. [John Steinbeck]

Boy, it can be hard to leave Vancouver Island. But not for the reasons you think!

Last Wednesday, for the second time in a month, I said good-bye to a sister who visited us here on Vancouver Island. And also for the second time, the travel gods conspired to make it as challenging as possible for her to leave. And it wasn’t even the same airline! So settle in, grab a cup of something, and I’ll tell you our stories, grateful that both ended well, especially in light of last week’s Air India tragedy. These tales are trivial in comparison, I know. But they’re the light adventures I’m here to tell you about today.

I’ll start three weeks ago when my sister Les and her husband came to Victoria for a brief visit. We had a super time until the night they were to leave: Leslie’s phone dinged and we assumed it was a reminder that their flight was due to leave in a few hours. As Rob and I prepared to chauffeur them to the airport, only a 15-minute drive away, Leslie read aloud from her phone: their WestJet flight to Kelowna had changed. Instead of going to Vancouver with a brief stop and then on to Kelowna that evening, the airline was sending them much later to Calgary, where they would spend six hours overnight in the airport and fly out the next morning to Kelowna.

After a lot of panic, we decided to take a long shot: call the airline and hope to speak to a person. Miracle of miracles, Les got through to a helpful agent who agreed when she said that we’d found a different, later flight to Vancouver that would eventually get them home the same night. After numerous checks and double-checks, we were able to ensure our guests were on a flight and headed back to mainland BC instead of spending a night lying in the Calgary airport.

So that’s the first story. But there’s an earlier part I’ve skipped over: on the way here their flight to Vancouver was scrapped (Leslie told them it was because the plane wasn’t full so they would have to take one four hours later, and it wasn’t denied.) That erased an entire day’s plans in Victoria, including a special reservation to celebrate Leslie’s 60^th with High Tea at the Fairmont. A whole day blown, they finally arrived in the evening for a three-day stay. Thankfully, Leslie has recently discovered and taken to heart the “Serenity Prayer” and the dogs didn’t learn any words they hadn’t already heard!

Then we come to last week’s second (or is that third?) travel debacle.

After flying home to the island, accompanied by my sister Cindy who lives in Mexico, we spent five days together.

On Wednesday she had packed and repacked her bag to fit in her shopping finds, and was ready to go. Then it happened again: the dreaded ‘ding.’ The message said that her Air Canada flight to Vancouver was delayed due to air traffic control problems at YVR. Okay, we thought, you’ll make your 11 pm Aero Mexico flight home. About half an hour passed and there’s another ding. It’s delayed another hour. That’s when Rob said, “Your flight is going to be cancelled – you watch.”

Cindy didn’t think that was likely, but Rob went online and checked the FERRY schedule. To make a long story shorter, Cindy finally relented and we ended up getting her, not on her planned 7 pm flight, but to the nearby ferry terminal to catch the sailing to south Vancouver. She took an Uber to the airport, got through security and was seated in the lounge by about 9:45 pm. She made her Aero Mexico flight to Mexico City, spent six hours there overnight, and flew on to Guadalajara, then took an hour-long car service home. Mio Dios!

Oh, and that Air Canada flight to Vancouver? Rob was right. It was cancelled.

Victoria’s a glorious place to visit, but beware: if you’re taking a short flight to or from Vancouver, you might want to plan on being a walk-on passenger on the ferry. Never mind Planes, Trains and Automobiles – our family story seems to be Planes, Boats and Automobiles. Once again we’re counting our lucky stars that Porter Airlines is providing direct flights out of here to Toronto and (at least for now) to Ottawa. There are a lot of things we lucky Canadians take for granted, but flights that go when they’re supposed to, and land on time? Not anymore. Flyer beware.