Slaying the dragons - one positive, wonderful thought at a time

It's been a while since I wrote a fresh blog. Nearly six months really, if you don't count re-prints, and though I write every day in my every-day job as a mild-mannered reporter for the insauga/indurham online newspaper conglomerate, there are still beery and personal things I want to to share that I can't in that forum.

Finding the time to write is tough but finding the desire to write when I already do that 9-5 is even more difficult, especially as I am still fighting my usual inner demons of depression and loneliness. Now, as my weight has got completely out of control since my knee surgery - I now touch the scales at just under 260 - I can add self-loathing to that list as well. All three dragons and no fly swatter in sight.

It shouldn't be that bad for me. I'm working in journalism again for the first time in a decade and the first time as a full-time working journalist in about 20 years and I absolutely love what I do. When the alarm goes off at 7:30 I am genuinely eager to roll out of bed and greet the day and I can tell you it's been an awfully long time since I felt that way.

Slaying the dragon - my new quest

I moved in with the folks in Downsview to help Dad take care of Mom (Alzheimer's) at the beginning of the pandemic and while I pay my share of the expenses, my bank account is flush like, well, never before, really. So that's a worry that was part of my life (and a part of most of my loved ones as well) that is no longer there, ready to strike at every month-end.

But there's a level of guilt that goes with that. I miss my kids very much and I very much want to get back to Oshawa to see them on the regular. I see Jake every six weeks or so but Cam and Matt only twice since this all started and Adrianne and her lovely family not bloody once. I can now afford to move back there (no more basement apartments for me) and much love to Mom & Dad and all, but the desire to get my own damn place is super strong.

But there's that guilt...

You see, Dad has his own share of 88 year-old difficulties and I really don't want to leave him right now. He doesn't move around that well and the duties I now do, like laundry and shopping, would be difficult (but not impossible) tasks for him. I can't stay forever either, but the move has been delayed and I'm not really sure when it will happen.

And let us not mention my older brother Brian and how he fits in this little family dynamic. Not today anyway.

And then there's my health. In addition to the problems caused by my knee replacement of 22 months ago and my weight gain, I have been experiencing a persistent cough lately, not unlike a smoker's cough, except I quit smoking more than 21 years ago. So I got it checked out, and while official confirmation will come after a new battery of tests next month, it appears I have idiopathic pulmonary fibrosis, which is serious shit.

The prognosis is varied. I could keel over next week in a paroxysmal fit of coughing, or I could hang on for 20 years or more, and a lot of that is up to me. Lose weight, eat healthy, that sort of thing. And for the record, the 'idiopathic' part is not because I was an idiot (though some may disagree) but because I was never a miner, concrete cutter or worked with asbestos - the usual culprits with this lung disease - and therefore they don't know why it chose me.

Thankfully I haven't wasted any precious minutes with the 'why me? nonsense, so I thought I should start looking around at the good things in my life right instead of wallowing in self-pity.

Ain't nobody got time for that.

If I ever want to slay those three dragons, this is the only way to do it. In no particular order, here are a few reasons why the future looks bright, if not necessarily long for this chubby but still handsome old writer.

I Have A Job

Yes, I know I mentioned this, but it's worth repeating that I was given a new lease on life back in the spring when old college pal Steve asked if I was interested in returning to the world of newspapers, albeit of the online variety. God yes, Steve! Thank you, thank you and thank you to Khaled, my new favourite best boss ever (sorry Jessica).

Dental Plan

I've identified with Homer Simpson for many years - "Lisa Needs Braces" - as my front teeth started falling out and damn if I haven't really smiled for years because of my lack of chompers. Now I have a dental plan and a little extra cash for what may not be covered and I have started the process of getting an upper plate of some kind. I hope to be smiling for real early in the new year.

New Beers

This is a beer blog, so I thought I would throw something beery in it. I don't know if it's pandemic related but the majority of my favourite beers of 2021 are new-to-me beers. My best-of-show IPA list is up to 14 as I write this and a dozen were born this year. Nine out of a top ten list of Imperial IPAs too. Creative minds not resting on their laurels but continuing to create, I guess. I like it.

Beer People

This has been a tough year for craft beer. The industry has had to deal with the fallout from the stories of sexual harassment and misogyny shared by Brienne Allen, a production manager and brewer at Notch Brewing in Salem, Massachusetts, with some well-known people taking the fall in the aftermath.

I made the mistake of wading into the debate in the early stages and put my foot squarely in my mouth in the process, assuming all these stories of assholes in the industry were American and weren't we just peaches up here? And I got rightfully told (in a very nice way) to STFU, so live and learn. But what I really learned through the experience was that there are many, many truly awesome people in the business who are not afraid to say and do all the right things.

From brewers and brewery owners like Erin Broadfoot (Little Beasts) and Josh Hayter (Spearhead) to writers and podcasters like Robert Arsenault (Drunk Polkeroo), Robin LeBlanc (Thirsty Wench), Jordan St. John and Danny Brown - just to name a few - I realized there is a solid foundation in Ontario's craft beer community and with it, hope for the future.

Buist-ed for the second time

David Buist

Speaking of beer people, I have a beer pal who is destined for greatness, if for no other reason than he has immortalized me twice in cartoon form. I am far from the only one and it's considered a major coup to be thus turned into a comic book character of his invention. David is a noted children's illustrator and an illustrator of a few beer books as well and I really need to get together with him again just so I can get a few more pieces of art and get them signed. And maybe re-visit that cottage in God's Country. Next year if we can get through this damn pandemic.

Built a Bike

I kid you not. I actually built something. Okay, it's taken me three weeks and the pedal straps are still unattached and the control panel is not wired up, but I have (almost) successfully created an exercise bike from nothing more than parts, tools and a manual. I know, right? But it's a true story.

Friends

I don't get to see many of them (besides my best pal Jake) but I have seen my Oshawa peeps Steve and Brandon a couple of times and my Beer Bro, college chum (and now work colleague) Don a few times as well. I am, in fact, visiting him in his new St. Catharines digs this weekend. I can tell you I really look forward to our Friday morning virtual Huddle meetings at work, so that should tell you something of my desire to see friends again. (Christmas Party December 11 - yay!) And my dear friend Candice, what can I say about her? She and I have met up at least a half-dozen times to drink fine ale and share our tales of woe with each other. It's what keeps me sane.

North American Beer Writers Guild

Pretty fancy name, but then it keeps pretty fancy company and they have a contest each year to declare the fanciest of beer writers in a bunch of different categories and this year, I entered it. There was almost no chance of me winning anything but I knew I had at least three good blogs over the past 12 months (Appliance and Love Story are the others I chose) so I thought, 'why the hell not?'

Spoiler alert: I didn't win, but I was told there was feedback from one of the judges if I wanted to hear it and I most certainly did. This is what the judge had to say: Glenn's unique voice and self-awareness lend themselves to quality content. I laughed at the appliance bits. I teared up a little at the thought of the struggles of Glenn's Mom. This is an easy-reading blog with lots of personality.

It was well worth the $30 entry fee just to read that.

Christmas

I love Christmas but didn't always look forward to it. I was usually working one job or another through most of the holiday season and my most consistent holiday tradition was being broke. This year money is less of an an issue but the most important thing I am looking forward to is being with my family. That's four kids, seven grandkids, an ex and all the spouses and girlfriends to make an absolutely memorable reunion.

I can't wait.

Cheers!

 This Remembrance Day blog was first published in 2013 and has been faithfully reprinted every year since, with a few tweaks each time. Lest we forget

I Remember

Je me souviens. I remember.

I remember my great-grandmother’s tears when she sent four of her boys off to fight in the Great War. I remember her muted joy at seeing three of them return safe but never truly sound; her son John – my father carries his name – fought valiantly during that horrible spring of 1917 before he was left behind in the deadly quagmire that was the first day of Passenchedale.

I remember English Sally, she who married a son of Pennan, walking the length of the island from her family home in the great naval port of Portsmouth to the north-east coast of Scotland, just to be with her man, homeward bound from the Napoleonic Wars.

I remember Alexander Hendry of Aberdeenshire fighting for his freedom at Culloden in 1746. Life for Alexander and the rest of the Scots who fought with Bonnie Prince Charlie would never be the same.

I remember a newlywed Rozel straining to deliver her baby on the very day her husband, an American loyal to the crown and kin to my children, was fighting for Canada’s freedom alongside Isaac Brock at Queenston Heights. The soldier would return safely to meet his son; his wife would not see either ever again.

I remember my Great-Uncle Charlie, who had left his wife behind while he tried to earn a living in Malaysia’s rubber industry, struggling to stay alive in a Japanese POW camp during World War II. Charlie, who served me marmalade on toast when I visited him in Rotorua, New Zealand 44 years later, risked his life to keep a diary as he toiled daily to rebuild the bridge over the River Kwai, while the good guys rained down a daily torrent of death from above.

I remember a son of a former classmate losing his life in Afghanistan; the shock when I read the news lingers with me still.

I remember my friend's Uncle Don, a Second World War Navigator who died in battle in the summer of 1944. Don passed on his name to his nephew and his story to you.

I remember the 3rd Canadian Infantry and Pvt George Savage - father to Jamie - braving an apocalypse of bombs and gunfire to land at Juno Beach on D-Day 1944 to begin their push into Germany.

I remember other Dads from the neighbourhood and their efforts in that war as well. Art Canfield - father of Bruce, Diane and Paul - served with the Royal Regiment of Canada and Phil Hennessey - father of John - got to meet General George S. Patton.

I remember Tom McCaw - father to Janine - enjoying great meals and an accommodation upgrade on a Canadian naval ship because crew members were convinced he was King George VI in hiding.

Passchendaele

I remember Frederick Wilmot - grandfather to Nicole - who enlisted in 1941 and rose to the rank of Sergeant.

I remember Vic Shirreffs, my first father-in-law, who served as a stoker in the Canadian Navy.

I remember Royal Navy Seaman Stanley March, great-grandfather of Josh, and I remember Bill Ryan, father of Dave, who fought with the Argyll and Sutherland Highlanders.

I remember William Findlay, great-grandfather of Amy and the youngest Sergeant Major in the British Army, being awarded the Distinguished Medal of Honour.

I remember the funeral of a young man related to me by marriage who was just beginning his military career. The sound of the pipes as they played Amazing Grace sent shivers up my spine. I will never forget that day.

I remember my friend Hago, who did two tours - the first in Kosovo and the second in Afghanistan - and continues to serve to this day.

I remember Mark; and I won't forget Scottie, who earned his Marksman Award four years running in Pettawawa. I remember the future pilots at the old Portage la Prairie air base in Manitoba; and the men and women from the local armoury in Oshawa who came out to Karaoke at Stag's Head on Tuesday nights.

Commemorating the 100th anniversary
of the Armistice. Oshawa, 2018

I remember Vimy Ridge, the four-day battle in the spring of 1917 that marked - at a cost of 10,000 soldiers killed or wounded - a coming of age for Canada as a nation, as well as the end of our innocence about wars and the people who profit from them.

I also remember my friend Sandi's simple description of four members of her family who served in both World Wars: "Heroes. Each and every one."

I remember the Remembrance Day service held a day early a few years back in downtown Brooklin for the benefit of the school children. After being so many generations removed from war it was important the kids knew what their parents, grandparents and great-grandparents were fighting for, and that they would have a better understanding of what they were supposed to remember.

I  remember every soldier I have ever known and I remember those who fought and died for me and my family and for our freedom, and for the freedom that we all enjoy and too often take for granted.

I remember the families and friends of those soldiers and the tears that were shed for fallen loved ones.

I remember the blood spilled by innocents, and I remember the heartbreak of everyone affected by war.

I remember like it was yesterday the signing of the Armistice to end the Great War. One hundred and five years ago today.

I remember. So I won’t ever forget.

The Unknown Warrior

by Moz Perkins

On November 7, 1920, in strictest secrecy, four unidentified British bodies were exhumed from temporary battlefield cemeteries at Ypres, Arras, the Asine and the Somme. None of the soldiers who did the digging were told why. 

One body was then chosen at random and taken by horse-drawn carriage through Guards of Honour and the sound of tolling bells and bugle calls to the quayside, where he was loaded onto HMS Vernon bound for Dover. The Unknown Warrior was met at Dover with a nineteen gun salute - something that was normally only reserved for Field Marshals – and finally taken to Westminster Abbey where the soldier became part of the second Armistice Day ceremony.

The idea of the unknown warrior was thought of by a Padre called David Railton who had served on the front line during the Great War. It was his intention that all of the relatives of the 517,773 combatants whose bodies had not been identified could believe that the Unknown Warrior could very well be their lost husband, father, brother or son.

THIS is the reason we wear poppies. We do not glorify war. We remember - with humility - the great and the ultimate sacrifices that were made, not just in this war, but in every war and conflict where our service personnel have fought - to ensure the liberty and freedoms that we now take for granted. Every year, on the 11th of November, we remember the Unknown Warrior. At the going down of the sun, and in the morning, we will remember them.

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