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I walked into a pet store the other day to buy some seed for our wild bird feeders. I wasn’t anticipating seeing one of the salesmen with a snake wrapped around his arm. I’ve mentioned in past blogs and programs that I’m not enamored of snakes. This one caught me completely off guard and I jumped. The employee sensed my unease and put the creature back into its case. He then told me about a man who came into the store with the specific intention of getting over his fear of snakes. he bought one and took it home, and apparently man and snake are getting along just fine. I told him,”Thanks, but no thanks..”

Mice, heights, deep water, enclosed spaces–our fears are many, and some are legendary. I read sometime back that Alfred Hitchcock was afraid of ‘eggs’. Apparently he was actually revolted by them. And this from the film director who brought us one of the most frightening movies of all time–The Birds.

What are you afraid of?

“Fear may be the first serious enemy you have to face in our society. It is the most destructive emotional bogeyman there is. Panic, depression, cold feet and violence are all symptoms of fear–when it’s out of control. But this feeling, ironically, can also trigger courage, alertness, objectivity. You must learn not to try to rid yourself of this basic human emotion but to manipulate it for your own advantage. You cannot surrender to fear, but you can use it as a kind of fuel. Once you learn to control fear - to make it work for you - it will become one of your best friends.” - Jose Torres from Parade

The markets have made investors fearful over the past month. We’re all a little fearful of the way our economy is headed. I ran across what was written some years back. It was obviously written during better times…

“The enemy of creativity is fear. When we’re fearful, we freeze up - like a nine-year-old who won’t draw pictures for fear everybody will laugh. Creativity has a lot to do with a willingness to take risks. Think about how children play. They believe everything will be all right. They feel capable; they let go. Good businesspeople behave in a similar way: they lose $15 million, gain $20 million, lose $30 million and earn it back. If that isn’t playing, I don’t know what is!” - Faith Ringgold from Fast Company

One final thought about fear…

“There is a proverb that goes something like this: ‘Fear less, hope more; eat less; chew more; whine less, breathe more; talk less, say more; hate less, love more; and all good things will be yours.’ Notice in this proverb  ‘fear less’ heads the list of important things to do if all good things are to be yours. Courage is an absolute necessity in life.”  - Norman Vincent Peale

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Don Jackson

“We need to teach our children that they can’t cheat. There is no way to pull it off; you can’t lie to life. You may deceive life. What you haven’t learned leaves a hole that nothing but that learning can fill and no amount of covering over can disguise.” - The Reverend Edward R. Sims from Forward Day by Day, and featured in the Points to Ponder column of the September 1984 issue of the Reader’s Digest

There have been quite a few of our heroes who have worn masks. The list is almost too long to include in this blog, but here are a few of the more memorable ones: The Lone Ranger, Zorro, The Green Hornet, and of course, Batman. Superman was one of those heroes who didn’t wear a disguise when he fought for truth and justice, but his alter-ego did.

My son wears a mask; he’s a goalie in Rep hockey, and I’m thankful for that mask. It has blocked a few pucks that would have bounced right off his face. I don’t even want to think of the implications. I often wonder how some of the early greats of the sport even got away without wearing one. The most amazing transformation takes place when my son dons his helmet and face mask: for the three periods he’s on the ice, he becomes someone else, familiar and yet somehow different. I’ve sat in the stands and watched this amazing transformation in a young man who is still learning his sport. And yes, he does have ‘goalie eyes’. Even through the cage you can see how intently he watches the play before him. I often wonder how he sees a wild shot coming through the crowd of players in front of him.

One final thought on masks tonight….

“Nobody is one block of harmony. We are all afraid of something, or feel limited in something. We all need somebody to talk to. But maybe instead of going to a psychiatrist, it would be good if we talked to each other - not just pitter-patter, but really talk. We shouldn’t be so afraid, because most people really like this contact; that you show you are vulnerable makes them free to be vulnerable too. And then we don’t wear these masks. It’s so much easier to be together when we drop our masks.” - Liv Ullmann, on relationships, and featured in the Points to Ponder column on the November 1983 issue of the Reader’s Digest

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Don Jackson

This reminds us that there once was a time when “memory was something you lost with age…” Now-in this computer-driven world, it means something entirely different.
“An application was for employment/ A program was a TV show./ A cursor used profanity/ And a keyboard-was a piano…

“Compress was something you did to garbage/ Not something you did to a file./ And if you unzipped anything in public/ You’d be in jail for awhile.

“Log on, was adding wood to a fire/ Hard drive, was a long trip on the road./ A mouse pad was where a mouse lived,/ And a backup happened to your commode.

“Cut-you did with a pocket knife,/ Paste you did with glue,/ A web was a spider’s home,/ And a virus was the flu!

“I guess I’ll stick to my pad and paper/ And the memory in my head,/ I hear nobody’s been killed in a computer crash,/ But when it happens-they wish they were dead!” -Life Before the Computer -author unknown. If you ever find out who wrote this, please let me know so that I can give credit where credit is due.

The program tonight initially deals with your dreams and how television may have coloured your dreams for the rest of your life-or left them in black-and-white. If what the research says is true, the dreams my children have in their sleep will always be in color, while mine will always be in black-and-white.

The program is also nostalgic, remembering a simpler time..

This poem was sent to me by a listener in Quebec some years back. If you’re nostalgic for an earlier time, then you should appreciate these wonderful sentiments.

It’s by Beverly J. Anderson and is called, The Simple Joys, and I quote,
“They miss so much who do not know/ The simple joys of long ago./ When life was lived with easy pace,/ And thankful hearts said table grace./ When folks took time to be a friend,/ -A helping hand, so quick to lend.

“When houses had a front porch swing,/ (Oh, how we loved that creaky thing!)/ On summer evenings friends would call/ And they were welcome-one and all,/ And mom would serve homemade ice cream/ As laughter from the porch would stream…

“And vendors came to sell their wares;/ The fun-filled trips to county fairs./ The concerts at the old bandstand/ When music was so very grand./ They miss so much, who never knew-/ Old fashioned joys, such as I do.

“The village church so gleaming white,/ Its steeple bells that rang each night./ The solace that we all found there,/ As we met for a time of prayer./ Our values were quite different then,/ Oh, time, can’t I go back again?

“We were not rich in days of yore,/ But we had blessings by the score./ Our wealth was found in many things/ From which the soul’s contentment springs./ Our homes were filled with so much love,/ deep faith was ours-in God above.

“How much they miss who do not know/ The lovely joys found long ago./ I wish that they could share with me,/ My pleasant trip in memory,/ Back to the good old-fashioned days,/ When life was lived in simple ways…”

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Don Jackson

“I think that cars today are almost the exact equivalent of the great Gothic cathedrals; I mean the supreme creation of an era, conceived with passion by unknown artists, and consumed in image if not in usage by a whole population which appropriates them as a purely magical object.” -Roland Barthes in Mythologies: The New Citroen published in 1972 and translated by Annette Lewis.

Our monuments today are not only made form stone but also from steel, glass, and even composite material, like what they use to build automobiles. Our automobiles used to be built exclusively of metal and steel. Now parts of the body are made from materials like plastic and fibreglass to make them lighter and speedier. In some of the luxury models, you will sometimes find fine wood and leather interiors.

How often we see a church that once seemed to tower so high above the populace, now hemmed in on all sides by skyscrapers that literally reach for the clouds. “Architecture is the alphabet of giants; it is the largest set of symbols ever made to meet the eyes of men.”-G.K. Chesterton and featured in the Points to Ponder column of the May 1996 issue of the Reader’s Digest.

Throughout history, humankind has tried to copy the idea of cathedral-building…

“These clipper ships of the early 1850’s were built of wood in shipyards from Rockland in Maine to Baltimore. These architects, like poets who transmute nature’s message into song, obeyed what wind and wave had taught them, to create the noblest of all sailing vessels, and the most beautiful creations of man in America. With no extraneous ornament except a figurehead, a bit of carving and a few lines of gold leaf, their sole purpose of speed over the great ocean routes was achieved by a perfect balance of spars and sails to the curving lines of the smooth black hull; and this harmony of mass, form, and colour was practiced to the music of dancing waves and of brave winds whistling in the rigging. These were our Gothic cathedrals, our Parthenon; but monuments carved from snow. For a few brief years they flashed their splendor around the world, then disappeared with the finality of the wild pigeon.”-Samuel Eliot Morrison.

“In a cathedral it is always night. The warmth of the day turns to damp coolness. The traffic is silenced behind thick granite walls. No number of candelabra can illuminate the vast darkness overhead. Shadows fall everywhere. There’s only stained glass, high above, filtering the ugliness of the outside world into rays of muted reds and blues.”-Excerpt from Digital Fortress by Dan Brown, published in 1998 by St. Martin’s press (Pg 323).

We dealt with mortar and brick, steel and stone tonight. In the past, some of these materials went into the building of great cathedrals, monumental skyscrapers, and our homes. In the building, we may have even found something akin to the soul. We still use the basic principles today. They even can be important in building the other crucial parts of your life: The mind and spirit housed within the temple of your body..

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Don Jackson

One very simple thought in tonight’s blog…

“Tow men were walking down a country lane, deep in discussion. They decided to take a short cut through a field of cattle–and they forgot to shut the gate. Luckily, no harm was done because one of them remembered and ran back to close it before any of the animals could escape. He said he had recalled what an old gentleman had said to him many years before: ‘As you travel down life’s pathway, remember to close the gates behind you.’ What he meant, of course, is that life is never straightforward. We make mistakes and experience problems and heartache, and we’re bound to meet those who seem intent on making life difficult for us, but we shouldn’t allow these things to master us. Once we have done all we can do to put things right, we should close the gate on it and put the incident behind us. It was Socrates who said: ‘Remember that no human condition is ever permanent. Thus you will not be overjoyed in good fortune, nor too sorrowful in misfortune.’”–Excerpt from the 1990 edition of The Friendship Book of Francis Gay published by D. C. Thomson and Company.

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Don Jackson

“Leaves are like ideas in the mind. They come when needed. They flourish and give life, light and wisdom.

“When ideas have served their purpose, they need to be swept away. We must constantly sweep out the old to make way for the new.”–Jan McKeithen from The Camden County, Georgia, Tribune. That quote was also featured in the Points To Ponder column of the September 1983 issue of the Reader’s Digest magazine.

We have a beautiful purple ash on our boulevard that was absolutely spectacular this autumn. Look for blog posted on Thanksgiving Monday and you will see a photograph of sunlight through the leaves. It’s been dropping a few leaves here and there in wind gusts, but for the most part it’s been one of the few city trees on our street to retain the bulk of its leaves. It’s been a beautiful sight out our front windows in the morning. Even though it has been holding onto its fall treasure, most of the other trees have dropped most of their leaves already. And so I was out again, trying to rake them up earlier today.

Late this morning, the tree dropped almost every single leaf all at once. Arborists call it “leaf fall.” Rather than one or two leaves dropping every day until the tree is eventually bare, the drop happens all at once. I was out to the hardware store early in the day to buy a new cartridge for a leaky faucet. When I left, the tree was still filled with its brightly colored leaves. Upon my return, not half an hour later, they were all down on the ground. All, except for a few lone souls, clinging desperately to a few branches. I’ve been wondering if “leaf fall” would take place this year. It was part of the reason I’ve been out every day, not wanting to miss this shower of spent leaves. Forget about running through piles of leaves in front of you, I thought it would be incredible to be under the branches of the tree at the exact moment when all the leaves fell to the ground. …I will have to wait till next year.

I wonder about those few lone souls still attached to their branches.

“Yet in the end, defeated too, worn out and ready to fall, / Hangs from the drowsy tree with cramped and desperate stem above the ditch the last leaf of all.

“There is something to be learned, I guess, from looking at the dead leave sunder the living tree; / Something to be set to a lusty tune and learned and sung, it well might be; / Something to be learned–though I was ever a ten o’clock scholar at this school– / Even perhaps by me.

“But my heart goes out to the oak-leaves that are the last to sigh / ‘Enough,’ and loose their hold; /They have boasted to the nudging frost and to the two-and-thirty winds that they would never die- /Never even grow old. /(These are those russet leaves that cling /All winter-even into the spring, /To the dormant bough, in the wood knee-deep in snow /The only colored thing.” The Oak Leaves by Edna St. Vincent Millay, from Collected Lyrics published by Harper and Row

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Don Jackson

Tonight on the radio show, an original…

I’ve always liked this writing by an unknown author. If you ever do find out who wrote this please let me know so that I can give credit where credit is due.

“A water bearer in India had two large pots, each hung on the end of a pole which he carried across his neck. One of the pots was perfectly made and never leaked. The other pot had a crack in it, and by the time the water bearer reached his master’s house, it had leaked much of its water and was only half full.. For a full two years this went on daily, with the bearer delivering only one-and-a-half pots full of water to his master’s house. Of course, the perfect pot was proud of its accomplishments. But the poor cracked pot was ashamed of its own imperfection, and miserable that it was able to accomplish only half of what it had been made to do. After two years of what it perceived to be a bitter failure, it spoke to the water bearer one day by the stream. ‘I am ashamed of myself, and I want to apologize to you.’ ‘Why?’ asked the bearer. ‘What are you ashamed of?’ ‘I have been able for these past two years to deliver only half my load because the crack in my side causes water to leak out all the way back to your master’s house. Because of my flaws, you have to do all of this work and you don’t get full value from your efforts,’ the pot said. The water bearer felt sorry for the cracked pot, and in his compassion, he said, ‘As we return to the master’s house, I want you to notice the beautiful flowers along the path.’ Indeed, as they went up the hill, the old cracked pot took notice of the sun warming the beautiful wild flowers on the side of the path-and this cheered it some. But at the end of the trail, it still felt bad because it had leaked out half its load, and so, again, the pot apologized to the bearer for its failure. The bearer said to the pot, ‘Did you notice that there were flowers on your side of the path, but not on the other pot’s side? That’s because I have always known of your flaw, and I took advantage of it. I planted flower seeds on your side of the path, and every day, while we walk back from the stream-you’ve watered them. For two years I have been able to pick these beautiful flowers to decorate my master’s table. Without being just the way you are, he would not have this beauty to grace his house.’

“Each of us has our own unique flaws. We’re all cracked pots. But-if we allow it-God will use our flaws to grace his table. In God’s great economy, nothing goes to waste. Don’t be afraid of your flaws. Acknowledge them, and you too can be the case of beauty. Know that in our weakness, we find our strength.”
-Author unknown.

And finally, this writing by Nan Terrell Reed.

“Two vases stood on the shelf of life/ As love came by to look,/ One was of priceless cloisonne,/ The other of solid common clay./ Which do you think love took?

“He took them both from the shelf of life,/ He took them both with a smile;/ He clasped them both with his finger tips,/ And touched them both with caressing lips,/ And held them both for a while.

“From tired hands love let them fall,/ And never a word was spoken./ One was of priceless cloisonne,/ The other stood solid common clay./ Which do you think was broken?”

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Don Jackson

“Ghosts and apparitions arise from unconscious psychological disturbances. This does not explain them away, but it does put them on a rather different footing than pretending that they come from the grave of something of that sort.” -Robertson Davies quoted in the Social Studies column of the Thursday October 31st, 2002 issue of The Globe and Mail.

As far as I’m concerned the jury is still out on the subject of ghosts. And yet I’ve witnessed some strange occurrences in my life that tend to suggest that maybe there is something that simply can’t be explained.

We’ve all paid to be scared in the haunted houses that travel with carnivals. In this day and age of high technology, you take a chance of paying to enter one of the modern haunted houses. The effects can be so lifelike as to give you a really good scare.

I’ve often wondered about the house featured in the Amity films. The windows up top certainly look like eyes. I was on a walking tour in the Garden District of New Orleans and passed by some homes that looked to be good candidates for a haunting. One of the homes we passed belonged to horror novelist Anne Rice, who wrote a series of books about vampires and witches. There was something about that house. Maybe it had a lot to do with who the owner was and what kind of stories she wrote. On the upper balcony facing the quiet street, there was the statue of a huge black dog. It definitely was one of the highlights on that walking tour.

I wouldn’t call the house I grew up in haunted, but it saw a lot of life pass through its doors over the century that it stood. After my father died, my mother finally decided it was time to move on. She sold the house to a developer who was going to build a large supermarket on the property. The store was part of a chain that would be familiar to you. Sometime after it was built and opened, I did my grocery shopping there. It was strange walking up and down the aisles where once my home stood. In the produce area, I got the feeling I was being watched. When I turned, there was no one there. An overactive imagination? Quite possibly, but it left me with a strange feeling. I can’t help but wonder if something of the energy that a family produces over the years remains. We often hear of people walking through their familiar haunts from childhood and reliving so many fond memories, like floodgates being opened. As long as those memories are happy ones, that’s the kind of haunting we would all readily welcome.

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Don Jackson

I was trying to rake the fallen leaves today, but the wind decided to play with them instead. A neighbor passed by walking his dog. I was trying to pick up a small mound to put into a leaf bag. No sooner did I scoop them up then the wind carried most of them away. My neighbor told me that it was a never-ending job right about now. Quite a few of my neighbors have decided to wait until all the trees are bare before beginning the job of clearing up what the wind has tired of playing with…

There’s another hurricane brewing in the Atlantic tonight. One can just imagine what our fallen leaves would look like in that maelstrom. The images of signs and roofs being ripped right off buildings and tossed about, as these storms come ashore, are imprinted on our minds. The debris left behind by those winds makes our fallen leaves seem a breeze to clear away.

Longfellow wrote: “For I fear a hurricane / Last night, the moon had a golden ring, / And tonight, no moon we see!” Where will it make landfall, will it lose some of its power, how strong will it be when it finally comes ashore? These are all questions that we wish we could definitively answer when hurricanes brew in the Atlantic and typhoons churn in the warm waters of the Pacific. We rarely, if ever, have to worry about hurricanes in this country, except along the shores of Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island and Newfoundland. It’s not uncommon for a storm to churn its way up the east coast and find a way into Canadian waters. All you have to do is think of the film The Perfect Storm based on the book by Sebastian Junger to know that even in October these storms can make their way north.

There was a time, though, when one of these storms made it right to our doorsteps. It’s name? “Hazel.”

It came as far inland as Lake Ontario and right into the heart of Toronto on October 16th, 1954. Even though it had travelled so far overland, and well away from its fuel source of warm ocean waters, the winds were still damaging. But it was the flooding that caused Toronto so many problems.

My parents remembered its path of destruction. They remembered sitting in their living room listening to the storm howl and rage against the side of their house. The power was down and the candles provided very little illumination. I was in my mother’s arms that night, not yet a year old. I have no conscious memory of that night, but it may explain my interest in storms.

It hit the Carolinas as a category four storm. It wouldn’t be long before it found its way to our city. Let’s hope it didn’t leave a trail of fallen leaves for another to follow…

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Don Jackson

Samuel Butler said: “Life is like playing a violin solo in public and learning the instrument as one goes on.”

The second hour of the radio show tonight is devoted to an “Autumn Symphony.” There is something about the season that leaves me with this impression. It may have a lot to do with its gentle beginning followed by a flourish of color. Here are a few more thoughts on a different kind of symphony; the symphony of life…

“To live content with small means; to seek elegance rather than luxury, and refinement rather than fashion; to be worthy, not respectable, and wealthy, not rich; to study hard, think quietly, talk gently, act frankly; to listen to the stars and birds, to babes and sages with open heart; to bear all cheerfully, do all bravely, await occasions, hurry never. In a word, to let the spiritual, unbidden and unconscious, grow up through the common. This is to be my symphony.”–My Symphony by William Ellery Channing.

“Winter is on my head but eternal spring is in my heart. The nearer I approach the end, the plainer I hear around me the immortal symphonies of the world to come. For half a century I have been writing my thoughts in prose and verse; but I feel that I have not said one-thousandth part of what is in me. When I have gone down to the grave I shall have ended my day’s work; but another day will begin the next morning. Life closes in the twilight … but opens with the dawn.”–Immortal Symphonies by Victor Hugo.

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Don Jackson