MORE THAN JUST THE WHITMORE

School.

Love it or hate it, most of us have 'been there, done that'.

In my hometown, the Whitmore School on 6th Ave SW felt like an extension of our home. With a shared toilet for 400.

It loomed large and foreboding across our narrow asphalt street my entire childhood, and I oft times felt it a portcullis to my Camelot-esque kingdom...but mostly it felt like a convenient extra room where we got to see our friends. It was approximately 6 car lengths from my front doorstep...or 2047 dill pickles laid end to end. This is a guess as we only had one car... and I hate pickles. 😉

I saw it in from the dining room table as I ate breakfast, lunch and supper. It was in my peripheral vision as I watched the black and white visages of The Beverley Hillbillies, Hockey Night In Canada and Linus Westberg in our living room. It greeted me every time I stepped outside, and when not inside it I was often running around it, using it as a jungle gym.

It wasn't just the grandiose backdrop on the stage of my world, it was my Adventureland.

                                  *The Whitmore from the front...way before our street was built.

*From the back; you can see its little sister a wee bit on the bottom behind it. If you jumped right over the small school, you'd land on my roof!

*Me: age 2. My 1st photograph. Running from the kiddie pool, crying, having suffered some terrible injustice!😆

 Over our white picket fence of domestic bliss are both schools.

The Whitmore was actually a double act. The beautiful old multi-story stone building was given a younger, modern sibling at one point, plunked down mere feet ahead of it, and it was a one level, plain-roofed building that looked like an elongated shoe box lined with windows, stretched to almost the full length of the block. The two structures could not have been more dissimilar. Stoic/Old Majestic Stone vs Geometric/New Modern Wood. My siblings and I lost so many tennis balls, baseballs, golf balls and frisbees on that damn flat roof that we could have easily opened a sports shop atop it and made a killing. Black's Cycle and Sporting Goods would have been nudged right out of business!

We had a ladder at the ready to clamber up to retrieve the latest football, birdie, boomerang or whatever...but after the older kids left home or started dating etc, it was up to me to play retriever. It was scary as hell going up, and dizzyingly impossible to get down. I did it exactly one time. That roof ate up a lot of my meager pocket money, replacing whatever got stranded.

Grades 1 to 3 were in the new school, and grades 4-6 were in the grand one that looked like a castle. I distinctly remember the butterfly-stomach thrill of knowing I was going to the Big School, as we'd dubbed her. How lucky was I to step up in the world like that! I must be a bit of alright! Even Princess-like should one's imagination drift...

But pride cometh before the fall.

One of my most distinct memories of going to school is the acquisition of my forehead scar. A hole-punch divot the size of an apple seed a inch or so above my left eye. (If only it had been lightning shaped, right? 🗲 Dammit!)

At recess, students had to play outside. In cowboy movies, herds of cattle frantically push their way through corral gates in a mad throng, smelling freedom in the air, and that was basically what happened after the recess bell sounded. I survived that just fine, but coming back in was another matter. At the sound of the bell, we all had to line up in orderly fashion at the front door steps. For whatever pre-teen reason, it was a BIG deal to be first in line. The quest for this coveted position saw students taking off from the playgrounds at breakneck speed, vying to be #1 in lineup. I was never fast enough. And I didn't have bribery money or a henchman to trip up any frontrunners.

But one day I devised an ingenious plan: I'd forgo any of the pleasures of recess and hover close to the front door steps, so at the first note of the bell, I'd be there to step smoothly into first place. And it worked! Dozens of kids had to stand behind ME! I peeked over my shoulder and basked in the blazing green heat of their jealousy as they strained to see who'd won. I was in my glory...until someone at the back of the line shoved someone in front of them and a domino effect rippled until it hit me and I went head first into the edge of the concrete steps.

Shocked and embarrassed, I quickly got up and told the teacher at the door I was just fine, but her face went pale and the look of horror on her face told me otherwise. I was sent upstairs to the principals office, thinking my short reign as Recess Queen, unscrupulously attained, had put my head in a guillotine. But a wet cloth was placed on my forehead instead, and as I held it in place, I found the cloth couldn't get near my face as it rested on a ridiculously long bump! It likely only protruded a couple of inches out, but it felt a banana was sticking out of my head. There wasn't much blood so I was sent home and sent to bed. In retrospect I should have been checked for a concussion and received stitches but I just slept... no doubt dreaming of how I'd one day regain my title and stand proud once more at the helm of the recess line. Wearing a football helmet.

Other memories are are vivid and almost tangible:

* pulling off your socks and shoes, climbing up the long steel tube that was the fire escape at the front of the school. The summer warm, metallic smell invading your nostrils as you climbed barefoot to the top; toes spread-eagled, fighting for purchase, fingertips grasping for the shallow riveted inner-seams that held it together. At the very top, sitting on the small wooden lip that protruded from the tiny locked door that fed from the building, I'd sit with a fist full of dirty, sweaty gravel and toss it down the tube, watching the rocks bounce madly about, rattling like a machine gun, deafening and brilliant! Then a quick slide down, only to turn around, shove more gravel in your pocket, and begin the slow crawl up again. Best to be alone, not having to suffer the pain of taking turns.

* being so excited for the elective music class where, having chosen a smaller version of the violin my dad had, I sat in the front row of the Grade 3 assembly and waited breathlessly for instruction. I never told my father I was going to learn to play. It was to be a surprise, with me dazzling him with my virtuoso performance someday! The teacher called out our names, and upon reading mine, looked at me and said loudly "Your sister couldn't play...you won't be any better. " I felt my face grow tight and hot, and I froze on the spot. Then, ashamed, I got up and left. 50 years later, it still hurts.

* Grade 6 gave us a new young teacher, Miss Prokopchuk. Her not being a 'Mrs', it was hard to remember to call her Miss. And OH! was she not indeed Barbie pretty! Teachers thus far had been the standard older, married, thickening women with short, over-permed hair and black rimmed glasses, with hemlines below the (apparently) lust-inducing knee and necklines modestly covering anything that even remotely makes women female. But now we had a young, slim, casually dressed lady with a bright smile and knees we could see. She had a loose, stylish head of soft blonde, sunny hair and one just knew she must drive a baby blue convertible that matched her fashionable V-neck dresses! I adored her and debated failing that grade to do a repeat... but then thought better of it. I had a crush to stalk!

                                                  The lovely Miss Prokopchuk

* Halloween was the best time of year at school because we got to wear our costumes to class and have a party. My go-to costume was being a hobo, complete with 5 o'clock shadow, and lunch packed in a hanky hanging from a stick that I carried over my shoulder. Once, instead of walking home, I decided to show off my great outfit and stand in front of the kids waiting in lines for the bus. I pretended to be looking for someone ...enjoying the attention, kids pointing at me and smiling in what I thought of as 'wonder and awe'. However, the smiling turned to outright laughing, and perplexed, I looked around to see what was SO funny. And looking down, I discovered the source of all the merriment: my hobo pants, miles too big for my skinny frame, had shed it's poorly knotted rope-belt and had fallen shamelessly down to my ankles. I was standing in front to busloads of kids with my faded, hand-me-down undies in full view. I hadn't felt the breeze on my legs, likely due to my being warmed by misguided hubris. I picked up the treacherous pants and Usain Bolt-ed it home, all the wiser to the hazards of ego.

All in all, the Old Whitmore was, more than anything, my Garden. My Greenhouse Nursery, if you will. The seeds for my love for writing were first planted there; the first sting of that thing called love were nettles grown there, and I began to learn that like a garden, a school was populated by strange, surprisingly different living things that were in themselves fascinating, but together made up a special place to grow. Being a common flower that is also a weed, I think it's safe to say I was the daisy of the Whitmore School! *shrug* It's also safe to say that if Miss Prokopchuk was the beautiful rose in my garden, my malevolent elementary school music "teacher" was definitely Western Skunk Cabbage...😒

I have very few, dull recollections of the demolition of the Big School, but no doubt life-altering things like watching Get Smart, parading up and down main street with Marianne Kereliuk or riding my bike down to Bum's Jungle took precedence over the felling of my mountain. 

*sigh*

Sadly, we tend to value many things in our lives much more once we leapfrog 50. Or if we've just been released from prison. Either way, George Bernard Shaw said it best: youth is wasted on the young.

Waves of nostalgia wash over me at the site of old photos of The Whitmore and I'm left to wonder... why didn't I have shorts underneath those hobo pants? *smile*

SWEATY SOCKS, GOLF BALLS AND FISH LIPS: My Formative Middle School Years

Being a part of a hometown Facebook group can be an adventure.

I've recently been seeing oldy mouldy yearbook pages from the 70's being posted on a FB group I'm in that's all about my small, Prairie hometown. Now I know exactly what the word bittersweet really means.

Looking through those pages of students from my age group, I am overwhelmed with nostalgia, and a desire to never look in a mirror again. Those were 'one chin and a discernable waistline' days of happy, clueless innocence.

Time has not only been cruel, it's been a jackass. I mean really...was it necessary to have me develop a keen interest in literature a decade AFTER graduation?

Ah well.

I see so many faces that have strong, almost visceral feelings attached to them, both good and bad. But I'll focus on the good, mainly because I assume some classmates did well enough over the years to be able to afford really good lawyers. Its been almost 50 years but despite not recalling their names completely, I know them instantly. Like a vague recurring dream you recognize, but not clearly.

Back in the day when you could discipline students with corporal punishment, Mr. Belinsky was The Ultimate Ruler. I have distinct memories of body-shaped cracks in the walls, like Wile E. Coyote used to make on The Road Runner Bugs Bunny Show, that were a direct result of boys getting punished for some serious mouthing off. I was in Grade 7, new to the Mackenzie Jr High and in awe of absolutely everything I saw. A true Bambi-esque, deer-caught-in-the-headlights kid. I was both mesmerized by the horrific strength and intensity of the man ruling our Social Studies Kingdom, and the strange admiration and ...bear with me...attraction to that kind of power. My first crush: a 50 year old man with anger management issues. Go figure. I truly liked and feared him in equal measures. I was so scared and impressed that I ended up a confused mass of cognitive jelly. I remained so up until about an hour ago.

Later on, I dared try out for the cheerleading squad (in Grade 7 as well I believe. Maybe Grade 8?). I am not 100% sure, due mainly to that aforementioned cognitive jelly situation, but I DO recall feeling shock at having been chosen after tryouts. Cheerleaders are supposed to be popular and I was hardly that. Wrong side of the tracks and all. I did however have tight cutoff jean short-shorts, knee high white socks and a white turtleneck top so perhaps that was the ace card I held. I was very slim but had zero boobs...and I remember feeling so awkward about it. Like a stunted mutant. It looked like I was smuggling golf balls into school. One classmate zinged me once when he said he said, "You're a pirate's treasure". I blushed deeply, inwardly pleased at this weird compliment (a treasure sounds special!) until he grinned wickedly and added, 'You have a sunken chest'. Yes... I can hear you laughing. You can stop now.

Body Image Angst is not a modern phenomenon for girls. I invented it. Probably. I have no patent. 

I could see that I was Chairman of the Social Committee. I have no recollection of such an honor but there are pictures so I can't say it's a lie. I can only assume my Vice Chairman did all the work and sent daily messages to me at the Kings Hotel restaurant where I was having a much needed smoke and coffee. I quit smoking almost 30 years ago...but I've quite romanticized it in my head, much like the Sock Hops we had at noon in the gym. In my mind they were breathy and wonderfully exciting but in reality, we were just nervous teens sweating through our clothes, falling madly in love for a whole week with someone who'd been brave enough to walk across the 'Boys Over Here/Girls Over There' room to ask us to dance to Seasons In The Sun or Crimson and Clover. Smelly socks be damned! 

Social Economics class was hell (that's what it was called, right? Or Home Ec?). I wanted to take woodworking so badly but I was missing a penis so could not enroll. However, my lack of said organ allowed me a free pass into the culinary hell I called Burnt Muffinland. My memories of this class are an Andy Warhol melting visage of white ovens, white counters, striped green aprons and blackened mini-mounds of stiff, once proud batter. To this day, the kitchen is deemed forbidden territory and my husband is the Chief Cook and Bottle Washer.  Being from Germany, where men cook as much as women do and just as good, I was banned over 27 years ago and have loved every minute of it, as has my so-said thickened waist and chinny chin chins.

There were so many wonderful teachers but there certainly were a few oddballs too: one who would 'discreetly' rub himself on the table corners while talking and sometimes the boys in class would chalk-up the corner so he'd walk around talking with a white powdered crotch. Then there was the teacher who'd put round-ended scissors in his mouth and open an close them...making his mouth stretch weirdly, as he taught. And I'll never forget the one who put pennies in his mouth, swished them around then took them out to calmly clean with a hanky. 

Does anyone else remember them too or did I actually live on Planet Zurgon after being abducted by aliens like I'd dreamed?

I've written previously about Field Days and Sport Days so I wont repeat them, but man, were those days BRILLIANT!! I wasn't very sporty, much to the shame of my athletic family (see Bob Buchy here) but I loved trying and I loved the atmosphere and camaraderie. I also loved the view: yes, I mean boys. No heavy duty relationships yet...that came in Grades 10 and up...but I do recall one particular boy who's identity and grade shall remain unnamed, who I thought was James Dean reincarnated and almost too gorgeous. I was thrilled beyond reason. Why date someone prettier than you? Well, I was young. That's it. I blame Youth. I wanted to be seen with a hunk from the other side of the tracks. That was a catch! Oh...and that isn't just a catch phrase...there was literally a train that cut through town. One side 'rich' and the other side 'poor'. I was happy he was slumming it.

But as is the way of life, our first few dates were our only dates. His outrageous beauty won me over at first and he could do NO wrong...but soon, I had to say 'pass' and walk away. It may be shallow and judgmental, but simply said, he kissed like a fish and honey...I don't fish.

My loss for sure. But I am perfectly certain he found a nice carp to marry one day. 

All in all though, seeing the fresh, cherubic faces that personify a life left swirling in the dusts of Time has been both lovely and sad. Lovely to see them and remember kinder, more simple times... sad to acknowledge the vast amount of time between then and now.

In closing let me say this: having so many wildly differing memories has been a trip, but there aren't all that many and the gaps have me concerned. Is aging the culprit or is there a nefarious, frightening medical reason why I cannot recall the most developmentally important days of my life? Health-wise, I am no better or worse off than the average Boomer so I must conclude that it is likely my memories are seared into place strictly and most decidedly by pure chance and the magnitude of their importance AT THE TIME. I emphasize 'at the time' because I assure you, my sunken-treasure flat-chestedness resolved itself admirably and I breastfed 5 children easily, and can now boast an ability to match, visually, any front-cover magazine photo of any bare-chested woman...in National Geographic.

And for certain, the photo of the bespectacled and semi-bald Mr. Belinsky in the staff section of the yearbook has absolutely no affect on the flutterings of my heart. 

But I admit... my husband could pass as his brother.

THE CAT DIDN'T COME BACK

Some people cannot cry at funerals.

Rather than finding this abnormal or unfeeling, I understand perfectly. Not that this is my issue... every molecule of moisture from my entire body pours out of my eyes like the flood raising Noah's Ark, but this is precisely why I get it. Who in their right mind would want that? If it can be avoided, naturally or by design, more power to you. 

My flood hit yesterday morning. 

My Hero, my Defender and my big brother Bob Buchy, age 71, passed away October 22 2022, three days before my birthday. The diverse reactions of various members of my family inspired this post. 

I wrote a small story about Bob in another section of my blog recently regarding, in part, his own journey which was both excitingly fortunate and painfully tragic; joyful yet sorrow-filled. He was a beautiful, amazing man who lived a warrior's life till the end, baffling doctors with his stamina and resilience, and breathtakingly defying the odds of those suffering his particular type of progressive, debilitating and wholly evil Multiple Sclerosis. There should be medical books written about him. He was a phenomenon. A bloody Legend. 

You can click on this link for that story (and to understand the title of this post!): Better Hands on A Snake: A Brother Broken By Disease and The Sister Who Picked Up The Pieces

My sister Linda, the eldest child in our family, passed away on Valentines's Day, Feb 14 1964 at age 16 in a tragic car accident, but I still have three sisters and another brother. We live scattered about in all directions with myriad nieces and nephews now having myriad children of their own. I also have an aunt who will have been on this earth 96 years come December and theoretically, I could swing a dead cat in a circle anywhere in Canada and probably hit a cousin or two.

In other words, the reactions to the news of Bob's passing have run the gambit. 

Bob was, as you'll read within the aforementioned link, a lucky son of a bitch from the get-go. Tall, smart, athletic, handsome as hell, a bit of a scoundrel and so damn funny! My God we laughed a lot! In his active younger years, he naturally generated in those around him a sense of awe, admiration, and most likely some justifiable jealousy. In his later years, his condition kept him steeped in a self-inflicted solitary existence with precious few allowed in. It was his way of dealing. So, it's been no surprise that there's been a mixed bag of reactions to his passing:

May he rest in peace.

It's for the best. That wasn't a life.

He hung on so long! But he isn't suffering anymore.

That's so sad.

That's too bad.

He's in a better place now.

It's God's Will.

I could go on and on, but it's that one remark that I want to address...and I think you know which one. Not the one that piqued the atheist in me, no...it's the 'That wasn't a life' comment. 

It wasn't said harshly or in a mean-spirited way at all. In fact, I think it was intended as comfort, oddly enough. Nevertheless, I know in my heart many feel that way about people with Bob's level of MS, or any quadriplegic for that matter. Assuming they haven't a life worth living.

Let me tell you something. My brother, even in his most dire straits, was a better man than most. And thrilled to be alive. His will to live, his extraordinary passion for life, his ability to eke out some measure of pleasure from the simplest of actions is beyond commendable. His desire to fight his disease, to wrestle it in place and dare it to keep him down was limitless. I know I couldn't have done it, even though I'm cut from the very same cloth. His resolve knew no boundaries. My resolve tends to dissolve with the first drop of rain.

Instead of becoming a victim to his Fate, Bob made a choice to square off and meet MS head on. But not on its terms. He made it a promise: it could take his body by force, but it would never take his mind.

In the years before his voice was taken, we would chat on the phone and I'd hang up and think, 'you'd never know he was sick!'. Ever sharp as a tack, ever playful, and perpetually busy planning his next project. The Charming Pirate seemed to have a lot of slaves at his beck and call, and he was never short of things for them to do, directing them from his wheelchair like a fabled Hollywood director, minus the slanted beret and megaphone. At various incremental points in time, he would be unable to move his legs... his torso...then his hands... his arms, and eventually his head, but on the phone, you would have never guessed it. 

Maybe I'm wrong. Maybe he cried himself to sleep every night and cursed the Gods, his mind's eye seeing his raised fist challenging the Heavens...but in the clear light of day, the face he showed the world was determined, intelligent and exceedingly curious. After he lost his voice, it must have been completely and utterly exhausting having his feelings and needs known, but he managed it as best as was humanly possible. He NEVER gave up.

Forever witty and engaged. Forever willful and stubborn. Till his final breath, he was always Bob.  Multiple Sclerosis couldn't rob him of that.

I would argue a very few of us could have lived my brother's life and displayed even a modicum of his bravery, or a single minute of his patience and tolerance. Who among us could have maintained such a level of calm composure and soundness of mind while being wracked with the fear and mental anguish that might be for most, understandably, the daily norm. So please, when you see someone like my brother Bob, look through eyes of compassion, surely, but not of pity. He or she, without a doubt, is a much better and much stronger person than you or I will ever be.

                                                                                  *

 “Now cracks a noble heart. Good night, sweet prince, and flights of angels sing thee to thy rest” 💔

A RADIO LOVE AFFAIR: the rekindling of an old, staticky flame

Radios.

Back in youth...I'm talking the 60's and 70's...in small town rural Canada, the height of personal entertainment was the radio.

We would listen to our old radio in the kitchen a lot, but mostly it was turned on to 730 CKDM to listen to Bernie Basaraba "The Voice of the Kings" as he commentated the local hockey team who both of my brothers each Captained at one point or another. 

My social life centered on watching the games live when I was old enough to walk to the arena myself, but when I was younger (or older but babysitting my sister) listening to the game on the radio was pretty damn exciting! Games and the local radio station playlist was all we got, except on a cloudless night when we could tap into a Winnipeg station now and then. Scratchy, staticky signals weaker than a preacher's whiskey.

But those big radios were permanent fixtures in most homes, like ours in a nook in the kitchen above the counter, so privacy for listening alone was impossible. 

So, when I was given a small, hand held transistor radio, I was crazy happy! It made an indelible mark in my childhood. I listened to it pressed close to my ear so often, I'm sure you can still see its imprint some 50 years later.

I went to bed every night with that transistor radio next to my head on the pillow, or if my sister complained (we slept two to a bed in our big family) I turned down the volume to a ghost's whisper and slept with it under my ear. I learned to contort my body so my full upper-weight was on my arms under the pillow and the hard plastic radio was less painful under my head. 

That must be a mannequin's hand holding the radio pictured below because, trust me, 10 minutes in that position, your hand would we numb for life. 

It wasn't until I was about 19 yrs old (1979) when the Sony Walkman came out that earphones/headphones were common. There may have been something similar for transistor radios before that, but not in our house. None of that fancy stuff for us.... *eye roll*

When I happen to catch an old tune on the radio now, it immediately sends me back to my room at home. I can smell Mom's honey-dipped donuts cooling on the rack; I hear the boys arguing out back, fighting over who has to mow the lawn; and I see my posters of Donny Osmond plastered on my wall like love-sick, teeny-bop wallpaper.

Some of those early tunes are:

The Archies

Sugar Sugar:

Lay Down 

by Melanie & The Edwin Hawkins Singers:

Three Dog Night

Mama Told Me Not To Come:

Freda Payne

Band of Gold: 

The Guess Who

American Woman: 

I was so madly in love with Canadian singer Burton Cummings from The Guess Who, I told everyone my first baby was our Love Child. My husband at the time just smiled and let me have my fun. *smile*

So...the point of this post, finally, is to share with you an app I found called RADIO GARDEN. It's a mobile or webb app actually and it's bloody amazing! And it's FREE whether it be on your phone or computer! 

 "From the (click link in blue letters) Radio Garden app site on the Google Play Store “Radio Garden allows you to listen to thousands of live radio stations world wide by rotating the globe. Every green dot represents a city or town. Tap on it to tune into the radio stations broadcasting from that city.“ The app designers are adding stations constantly. You might be surprised what stations you will find just in your area you didn’t even know existed. As long as you have a phone signal you can tune into Radio Garden. Just select a green dot or city, there is drop down menu for all the stations in that area on the app. 

For your computer just go here to radio.garden. Or just Google it yourself. There is an app, of course.

I just LOVE it! Sure, I have access to tons of music, but nothing beats listening to music (or programs of all sorts!) on live radio from ANYWHERE in the world, 27/7! You can be your own DJ!

And it looks SO cool. When you turn on the app, an animated planet Earth comes on your screen and it rotates and takes a few seconds for the bright green dots (the 'seeds' ) to get planted...which only means it's getting populated with the stations for you to use...

Then you can scroll around the world immediately listening to what looks like hundreds of thousands of radio stations playing LIVE in their towns and cities globally. You can type in the city or town etc...where you wish to listen, or look randomly, like I usually do, and listen to one of a gazillion stations in Brazil ...

...or the USA, or Germany, Iceland, Poland, Sicily...anywhere! I like to find a lone wee green dot in the middle of the ocean on an island somewhere remote and listen in on what some lonely Lighthouse Keeper in may be listening to...

I can't tell you the thrill I got the first time I played with that radio app. To listen to CKDM again in my hometown...

....or to the music my daughter may be listening to in Edmonton, or the news in German my sister-in-law listens to in her little village in Germany...or my grandchildren in Australia...it was mind-blowing!

I have travelled extensively in my life and it was just so beautiful to sit in my comfy chair outside in the sun last summer, close my eyes and listen to some tunes out of Jamaica, remembering the feel of warm sand at my feet and an ice cold Red Stripe beer at my fingertips. I could almost smell the unmistakeable mix of salt water and Caribbean blooms. Then, when I grew restless for maybe a talk-show in a language I knew nothing about, I'd spin over to Rome and find a channel that had some that passionate Italian spice I heard while visiting the Vatican in 2016... so many incredible memories!

And finally, I often seek out a radio station in Ukraine and wonder if it's the music I'd be listening to today had my grandparents not taken a leap of faith and left the Motherland for Canada. 

That always gives me the shivers.

I hope you find some pleasure in this new technology and awesome new means to 'travel' the world.

BETTER HANDS ON A SNAKE: A Brother Broken By Disease and The Sister Who Picked Up The Pieces

Rhonda picked up Bob’s hand and placed it gently on the Stanley Cup.

Splaying his fingers so they could feel its cool steel patterns, she helped them travel down the side and up again, allowing a slow and thorough sweep over the decades of engraved names.

She avoided looking at his tear-filled eyes, giving him a period of grace to enjoy a personal moment of wonderment and awe, and a sliver of the privacy that his disease had stolen. Bob knew he could never die a happy man, but he and Bobby Clarke had touched the same Cup. That was happy enough.

Millions of people go to see the Stanley Cup, but how many people can say the Stanley Cup came to see them?
                                                                            *

Born in a small prairie town in Canada, my brother Bob and sister Rhonda could not have been further apart. In every sense. A fifteen year age gap leaves a lot of dead space between siblings. The rare shared experiences don’t really stick. There is just a thin shared branch of a family tree.

Where Bob was a tall, fit, Hollywood-handsome jock with the kind of aloof self-assurance and blue eyes that melted chastity belts like chocolate bars on a June dashboard, Rhonda was a sharp-tongued girl with a pleasant face and the meaty Ukrainian thighs the women of our family were legally required to own. Where Bob walked under a perpetual spotlight of attentive admiration, Rhonda was, I admit, largely ignored by her shitty babysitters (read: the sisters, including myself). A household with seven children is bound to have issues, and we had our fair share, but we were always close-knit. We laughed a lot and went through myriad decks of playing cards. That’s my memory anyway. Until that awful summer.    

                                                                              
Most of us had grown up and left home...going off to university, finding jobs, getting married or, in Bob’s case, joining an NHL farm team in St. Louis, Missouri, USA. Mom had a scrapbook full of Bob’s headline-news hockey career, and we were all mighty proud.

He was 19 when St. Louis nabbed him. 6’0”, 185 lbs, playing Centre with a smooth, effective style. He played for the Billikens first, and then went onto play in Syracuse, New York, and a few other American teams. 

Like all his teammates, he was waiting to get called up to the big leagues. He had always been a top-notch hockey player and much of my childhood was spent being a rink-rat watching him play with the local Junior A Hockey club, The Dauphin Kings.

Captain Bobby Buchy. Always the star of the show. At least in my eyes.

Well, maybe not just my eyes.

Scoring 5 goals a game was not unheard of for him, and when a team in Montreal tried to trade 4 of their players for him, it wasn't a surprise. They surreptitiously flew him out to Quebec to court him, but Coach Steve 'Boomer' Hawrysh wasn't having any of it. He called them back to block the steal and refused to let him go. 

Bob was a joy to watch. And funny at times too: I can't count the number of times the games were stopped so the rink staff could shovel the ice to find Bob's lost contact lens, the jam packed crowd of 2000 fans cheering uproariously upon its recovery! 

His dream, like most Canadian kids who slept with their blades on, was to play in the NHL and nothing was going to stop him. 

However, Multiple Sclerosis had other plans. 

I was 9 when Bob left home. He started his professional career with all the eagerness in the world, but all too soon, he just wasn't doing as well as he knew he should be. He wasn't feeling himself. Was it nerves? Not enough sleep? These things were never an issue before, so why now? There was nothing obvious to point to, so it must be that he just wasn't as good as he thought he was. His stats never grew and neither did his confidence. He blamed himself. Who else was there? 

He then moved from team to team, his total points dropping while his penalty minutes rose. At home he'd been a lover, not a fighter! 

Not anymore.

Now the only life he had ever wanted was slipping from his fingers.

Desperately unhappy, with his self-assurance and dreams now shattered, Bob left hockey and entered dental school, trying to wrap his head around his unfathomable loss and stark new reality. But his naturally positive good nature and instinct for survival soon helped him refocus and his new path began to look brighter.

And then we got the call.

I was 14. My big brother was my hero, and now my hero was blind and couldn’t move. MS had drawn his name on Fight Night and it was Round 1.

Sucker punched. A TKO.

He was sick for months, and then unexpectedly he went into full remission. But at age 24, he was forever a changed man.

He began the life of a Free Spirit. Quitting dental school, living in the bush up North, building log homes, grabbing at pleasure at every turn, doing whatever the hell he pleased and living in constant fear of a relapse. People who didn’t know him thought him an odd duck, a drifter...or a Charismatic Pirate who was quick to laugh and cheat you at cards. And steal your girlfriend. 

He wandered.

And that was Bob’s life until, 10 years later, MS rang the bell for Round 2. This time it wasn’t a TKO, but he was on the ropes. And he’s hung there ever since.

A lifelong, slow and unrelenting attack.

Playing cards at the kitchen table (a family tradition), Bob would sometimes stand up and his legs would wobble. Those long muscular legs that used to pump like an iron horse on the ice, thrilling us all with their solid elegance, now barely able to push back his chair. Struggling visibly, he would shun anyone stupid enough to offer assistance, and then leaning on the countertops and walls, he’d drag himself, tortured step by tortured step, to the bathroom. The usual 10 second walk became a 10 minute ordeal. One way.

We would sit back and wait, feigning interest in small talk. An unspoken agreement to provide a half-assed background din so Bob wouldn’t be embarrassed by us overhearing his difficulty making it up and back down the hallway. Grunting. Shuffling. Heavy breathing. None of us making eye contact with each other, only half hearing each other speak, listening instead with perked ears for the dull thud of a fall. Or a call for help. Lost in our private anguish at the unseen evil that was attacking our brother. All of us helpless to fight back. Not allowed to help.

He would make it back eventually, sweating and red-faced from the effort, and we’d start up again like nothing happened. Deal the cards.

A true warrior, he fought. And he fought. And he fought.

Much later, suicide notes were found tucked in-between book pages: I will NOT end up in a wheelchair. I’d rather die.

What does one do with old suicide notes?

Rip them up.

Cry.

Don’t tell Mom.

                                                                    *

Although my brother won his battle against Suicide, he lost his war with The Wheelchair.

Rhonda had remained at home and soon, mom and dad couldn’t live without her selfless, invaluable help. It suited them all perfectly and they had their routine down pat.

Then at age 35, health worsening, Bob had to move back home. Rhonda was now 21.

Things slid downhill quickly after that.

Defeated and dejected, Bob was learning to cope, but our family home wasn’t very big and definitely not wheelchair friendly. His legs were near useless now and his hands were starting to numb. Mom catered to him devotedly but inside, she was crushed. And scared. Dad just lived in some kind of blind denial. Accepting the truth would have broken him. The weight of all that fear and sadness became tangible and the symbiotic nature of their home drastically changed. Duties shifted and allowances were made, whether they were welcome or not. Rhonda fumed. Bob fumed. Frustration and anger mounted. Clashes of personality began to hit hard and daily petty spats between Rhonda and Bob eventually turned into shouting matches. 

I think it was Mom’s obvious distress that finally made them run up the white flags, and they simply recognized that they were just two people who were pissed off at what life had dealt them and they’d become each other’s convenient punching bag. The wall of contempt fell and the healing began.

It started with civility. No more name-calling or rudeness. No arguments. They ignored each other for a while but spoke politely when circumstance necessitated. And then one night during a regular game of Rummy with Mom, Bob couldn’t hold his cards easily anymore. His fingers could barely move so they called it a night.

Next game, Rhonda unexpectedly joined them and helped Bob deal the cards. She then shifted them around in his hand with his instruction. Looking at his cards, he shook his head somberly and said, “I’ve seen better hands on a snake.”

The laughter around the table was loud and cathartic. Like a giant chalkboard brush wiping the slate clean.

                                                                           *

Bob, ever defiant and hungry for independence, soon decided he needed to be on his own and wanted to live in his old cabin by the lake. How’s that possible, one could ask? Great question. How can a man who cannot walk or move more than a finger look after himself?

He can’t.

And so the Charming Pirate re-emerged and with assistance from his new ally and astonishingly resourceful sister, arrangements were secured to have help come up twice a day to the lake to 1)  get Bob out of bed and 2) get Bob back in bed.

In-between those times, save for the odd visitor, he was all alone.

 It wasn’t ideal. We worried. A lot.

“What if a hungry bear comes by, or your cat curls up on your face and smothers you one night? ”

“Then I die. My choice.”

Freedom to choose saved him from despair. Complete autonomy became his standard, and his life became bearable. 

Then years later, at age 58, his condition worsening, Bob finally threw in the gloves and moved back home. Our aged parents were a handful for Rhonda to manage, and Bob, now a quadriplegic, became a full-time job in his own right. Drastically lessening the hours (and income) from her job as a Teacher's Aid, she became nurse, secretary, chauffeur, concierge, personal shopper, cook, maid and most importantly, lottery ticket and bingo card buyer to them all.

Bob was in and out of hospital with so many near-death bouts of pneumonia, we lost count. We’d visit him in hospital and he’d whisper-sing the Fred Penner kid's tune, ‘The cat came back, the very next day…’ and we'd laugh through our tears.

A cat with nine lives, indeed! But then the whispering stopped.

MS took his voice.

So Rhonda and Bob developed an exasperating and painfully tedious way to communicate that we dubbed 'AlphaBlinking'. When lip-reading fails, Rhonda starts with ‘A’ and works her way down, all the while looking to see if he is blinking once for ‘yes’, or twice for ‘no’.... slowly spelling out his words.

YOU try it. Good luck.

Once, I flew home cross-country to see Bob in  the ICU at the hospital, thinking his time had finally come. I tried to AlphaBlink his final words to me and failed miserably. I was devastated. Rhonda stepped in to help and we eventually realized that he was asking about his old battered goalie stick from his childhood that had been recently unearthed from the deepest dregs of the basement. He had been spelling it G-O-L-I-E and it had been throwing us off for 20 minutes! We laughed so hard... until he was airlifted to Winnipeg and I knew that damn stick might be the last thing we ever talked about.

But, the cat came back.

Predictably, set routines drastically changed after he needed a tracheotomy: feeding tubes; perpetual throat suctioning; nightly distress-checks every 2 hours. Very much like a newborn babe needing regular feeding and changing. 

If anyone asks Rhonda if she has kids, she doesn't know how to answer. Her life was like motherhood!

My brother and sister carved out a life for themselves with the tools they were given. Neither are prone to verbally expressing affection (NOT a family trait...the rest of us are embarrassingly mushy), but they give each other the gifts of kindness, laughter, and a love that is never spoken, but always shown. Every single day.

I love getting pictures of Bob's bright, colorful birthday parties. His brilliant, hilarious Halloween costumes. Their lovely Christmas celebrations. Scenic day-drives to the parks and lakes.

What could top that?

Well...there might be ONE thing.

                                                                       *

It happened on August 22 2018, when Rhonda gave Bob the most treasured gift of his life.

Any true fan would kill to touch the Stanley Cup, and one day, to Bob’s utter amazement, news hit that it was coming to the house.

To THEIR house!

Dauphin Kings Alumni and Head Coach of the Washington Capitals Barry Trotz brought The Cup to town to raise money for charity. Hearing that Bob couldn’t possibly come to the fundraiser to see it, he brought Lord Stanley to see Bob.

Why would he do such an amazing thing?  

Barry once said, in a SPORTNET article: " [my] favourite player was a centre named Bob Buchy. He reminded me of Jean Beliveau — tall, graceful, skilled. Everyone has a favourite player growing up and I guess a lot of them are [NHL] stars these days. Mine was a player from our hometown.” (link to article CLICK HERE )

Carrying the large, iconic trophy carefully in his arms like a big shiny baby, Barry walked up the wheelchair ramp and into our hearts. My brother’s eyes were as wide as any Knight newly gazing upon the Holy Grail.

Rhonda’s face split into such a wide grin, she found teeth she didn’t know she had.

A chat.
Pictures.
Pure magic.

They say that our experiences in life are like Deposits that we save in the Banks of our Minds. The more we experience, the more we save, and then in our solitary Golden Years when its hard to get up from our rocking chairs, we can make Memory Withdrawals, enjoying them over and over again. My brother had led an interesting life for a while, but MS robbed him from filling that memory bank. That special day did much in way of enriching that vault.

There must be a special place in Heaven for people like my sister Rhonda and Barry Trotz…but Bob? Well, I’m not sure where pirates go…

                                                                            *

                                                          

                                                        **UPDATE**

My beautiful brother Bob quietly passed away in his sleep on Oct 22 2022. My tribute to him can be read here: THE CAT DIDN'T COME BACK

                                     PHOTO ALBUM:

AGE 19: CAPTAIN BOBBY BUCHY of the Dauphin Kings:

                                                                              

   

Off to play in St. Louis: (Rhonda is in this pic too!)

 Number 19:

Handsome bugger!

Me and my Hero:

In remission:

Many years later, already in his wheelchair:

                                        Bob and my twins Scott and Chaelan circa 1992

Bob with Mom and Dad:

Happy holidays and celebrations with Rhonda: here in Christmas 2019

And my personal favorite:

Bob, Barry and Lord Stanley:

And finally...
                                                  

Bob and Rhonda:                          

                                                                    THEN AND NOW

                                                                    Here in 2010:

THE END? Nope, not by a long shot...

***

NOTE ADDED:

I was delightfully surprised at the overwhelming reaction this blog piece received on the hometown Facebook page I posted it on (as a last minute link in another story actually) but my most cherished comment(s) of all, was from retired Senior Associate Chief Justice of The Supreme Court of Manitoba, The Honourable Jeffrey Oliphant, who was born and went to school in Dauphin. Here is his post, which is followed by a dozen other back and forths (not shown)... mostly me gushing all over the poor man for his encouragement. *facepalm*