Vandals and Veggies; Pesticides and Parkinson’s

I am often asked whether we have a vegetable garden.  We don’t.  Our garden is largely perennial flowers with a few annuals interspersed here and there for colour, and a few plants ‘out of our climatic zone’ which we treat as annuals i.e., they either die with the frost or we dig up the tubers to store until the following spring.  A few kale are thriving presently because I had an impulse buy at the garden centre when I bought a selection for one of our daughters.

For several years, early in the existence of our current garden, we did have a few tomato plants but they did not thrive in partial shade and we didn’t deem them worthy to supplant more colourful masses of perennial flowers in the borders that were closer to full sun.  And I never seemed to find that perfect, sweet beefsteak tomato that I so fondly remember from my youth.  Or perhaps the slugs found it before I could get my hands on it?  The growing season always seemed to be too something – too hot, too cold, too wet, too dry – and the tomatoes grew too fast and split, or too slow and were little dry tasteless lumps.  In any case, I have the utmost admiration for those of you who have told me that you grow the most beautiful, “to die for” sweet tomatoes.  I just hope that I am not dying from them. (Much more on this thought later.)

Still, I have become increasingly intrigued by this question of why we have no vegetable garden, especially when many others we know are engaging in significant and well thought out projects of sustainable and organic produce gardening.  And my sister and husband in Saskatchewan have always had a substantial vegetable garden that was integral to their farm’s economic base i.e., they grew their own food – remarkable eh?   Their children in turn recognize the importance of such agricultural pursuits and assist with the garden on the home farm.  Vegetable gardens have been a way of life for generations on farms and in rural communities.  Why did I not carry this tradition into my urban existence?

As usual, I began my investigation into such questions by rummaging around in my memory banks for historical antecedents that might provide answers.  I had already been rummaging around in that murkiness anyway for clues as to why I now march unsteadily through life with Parkinson’s disease.  So it seems only natural to expand the scope a little. I have to say that I am a little surprised at what I am uncovering and it may take some time to assess, analyze and ferret out conclusions or patterns from my ever-diminishing memory banks.  This is a long way of saying that my thoughts will undoubtedly be spread out over many blog posts.  I apologize to those who are impatient and like to flip to the end of books to reveal the ending avoiding nuances in the plot.  And my apologies, of course, to those whose idea of a plot is being able to tweet an idea in exactly 140 characters.  They likely have already left the building.

For those who are remain, my musings on Parkinson’s and gardening will stretch far into the future – as I hope will my ability to engage in such activity.  While many people do claim to believe in the supernatural, I doubt very much that I will be communicating via Ouija board from the verdant and abundant Great Beyond, free from bindweed and ergot.  The best I will be able to do is to leave wisps of memories through which, it is my fondest hope, I will be remembered in the same manner that I am remembering those in my past – if that makes any sense.  In the meantime, I will just continue to throw my memories (and attendant feelings) about with reckless abandon as I wade (with the help of Google, I won’t lie here) through gazillions of megabytes of information.

In earlier posts I outlined our family’s lineage and passion for horticulture and perennial gardens.  While all of this is true, and there is much more to tell, I have neglected to admit to the details of a family which was also focused on the husbandry of vegetables and fruit as produce for use and sale.  I haven’t lied about anything. I just haven’t told you a whole lot of stuff that still needs to be told.  Also, I have discovered that it takes time to recall, tell and analyze the stories of a lifetime. In fact, if one did this precisely, it would take a lifetime plus the extra time required to review the “director’s commentary” so to speak.  I don’t know about you but I don’t have that much time so I shall endeavour to cut a few corners without, I hope, cheapening the product.

The fact of the matter is that our family always had substantial vegetable gardens.  In the village where we grew up (Altamont, Manitoba) we had a sizeable garden on the north side our house where we grew potatoes, corn, peas, carrots, beans, tomatoes, cucumbers, egg plant [which we did not really know how to cook in those days (1950s,) and no one called it "Aubergine,"] and always an experiment or two e.g., celery, which weren’t always successful.  The celery experiment wasn’t.  The one concession to flowers in that garden was a row of snapdragons planted along the front fence.  It entertained small children, girls and women all summer long as they pinched open the flowers’ yawning jaws and poked a finger gingerly inside with some merriment.  Boys and men deemed snapdragons to be not manly and instead did such things as kick puffball fungus (Calvatia gigantean) in the pastures for fun, spraying great clouds of spores.  And, in those days, we certainly never entertained any notion that this fungus could add an earthy, nutty flavour to fare on the dinner table.

A smaller flower garden on the south side of the house behind the rickety old garage was home to delphiniums, peonies, poppies as well as hollyhocks.  The hollyhocks, really a biennial plant, seemed to thrive in the scrabble of stoney soil and summer heat against the house.  These conditions produced a glorious row of beauty year after year.  How I envy those hollyhocks today!  Every year I make a valiant, but unsuccessful, attempt to reproduce the hollyhocks of my youth.  Thankfully, I have a lover, an artist, who has immortalized them for me on canvas.  I also covet the delphiniums but have been unsuccessful in our attempts to have them grace our spaces.  Other members of my immediate family can, and do, grow both hollyhocks and delphiniums, so the failure here is a “me” thing and not a generalized family trait.  I do so hope that it is the same for Parkinson’s disease.

 Anne F. Marshall "Hollyhocks"

Anne F. Marshall “Hollyhocks”

A second vegetable garden was located behind the store that my father owned and ran for many years.  The store was the Post Office, the barbershop, a small confectionery and magazine stand, the bus depot, the hub for my father’s small Rawleigh products distribution business, and the office from which my father sold Wawanesa Insurance policies on vehicles, homes, and crops to residents of Altamont and district.  Each of these short occupational identifiers contains many vignettes that I know will float to the surface in subsequent posts to this blog.  My mother worked in the Post Office for many years as my father was “on the road” peddling Rawleigh brand products ranging from bag balm to “Kool Aid” and pie filling.

If you were to apply a class analysis to our situation, you would say we were “petite bourgeois” or “middle class.”  The fact of the matter is that the vegetable gardens probably were the only thing that lifted our existence out of poverty for most of my childhood life.  In our home we had no running water and no sanitation.  We had a well that was located under our basement stairs and we used a hand pump at the top of the stairs from which we drank and filled our washbasin or pots to be heated on the stove.  We did have electricity so no wood stove in the kitchen.  Periodically, the well was cleaned to rid it of worms, and salamanders.  Our toilet was a “honey bucket” in the basement that I had the pleasure of emptying when I grew old enough (about 10).  It was dumped into a pit at the farthest edge of our property away from the house – a place where, my father believed, the water table and an underground stream did not flow towards our well but away from it.  A coal-burning furnace (initially burning bituminous and later adapted to anthracite) in the basement provided heat for the household.  An electric furnace later replaced it, mercifully.

Don’t get me wrong; I am not trying to give the impression that we lived in squalor.  We didn’t.  While it wasn’t an easy existence, our gardens and an orchard on my grandparent’s farm, contributed greatly to our economic base.  A gendered division of labour existed with my father tending the gardens and my mother working in the kitchen canning, blanching, and freezing produce.  It was hard work and I remember my mother hating some parts of it – especially working late into the evening over a hot stove covered with steaming pots.

My parents struggled to pull our family out of the worst parts of that existence.  Ironically, in the end, they accomplished that by throwing off the yoke of this so-called petite bourgeois existence to join the working class when my father retrained as a stationery engineer.  One might say we were truly “proletarianized” in Marxist terms; or lost some status in Weberian [Max Weber] terms; or alternatively perhaps, the increased income moved us a few rungs up on the ladder of social mobility according to Canadian sociologist John Porter.  This has always left me in a bit of a quandary.  Did we succeed or fail?  In any case, this story of class change will be the subject of a future bog post, one not yet written – at least not outside of my mind.

But as I was saying, the gardens continued behind this primitive conception of the urban mall – the Post Office.  Here we grew potatoes, rows and rows of them, and asparagus! Long rows of asparagus!  In my small village, very few people knew about this culinary delight and fewer still grew it purposefully.  Those who did revelled in its beauty through their taste buds.  At the most tender opportunity, my dad would cut the young spears with his pocket knife and they would be served up slathered with pepper and butter, a white sauce, or a cheese sauce.  I know, I know…. my mother was never a great cook, but this was about as good as it could get.  As a young lad I thoroughly enjoyed asparagus and continue to do so to this very day, although usually without the sauces.  Once the spears began to be too woody (about the time they put them out in the stores where I shop today) dad would let the plants grow to create a great long, green hedge of feathers and seeds.  Asparagus eating was over for another year.

Altamont Post Office 2014  Photo: C. Baumann

Former Altamont Post Office, 2014                                                            Photo: C. Baumann

Two large patches of rhubarb (one located disturbingly close to the “honey bucket” pit) provided us with rhubarb pies, crumble, and sauce for a good month or more in the spring before their stalks grew woody and became more bitter than tart.  Of course, rhubarb provided handy hats for children and we ran about the lawn with the inverted leaves on our heads, stalks sticking upward like giant antennae receiving signals from faraway galaxies – signals that caused our legs to run and jump in the joyous abandonment of a Celtic ritual, halted only when some child fell and cried.  Every house on the prairies had a patch of rhubarb.  Old homesteads in Manitoba, houses and families long departed, are usually marked by three things: a foundation where the original house stood providing shelter from unbearably cold winters; a patch of common day lilies or “ditch lilies” providing food for the eye in July, “brightening the place up a little”; and rhubarb, providing the perfect blend of tart and sweet in the form of a pie or crumble which, I swear, kept marriages and families together when under other circumstances, they would have crumbled.

In addition to these gardens, we always seemed to receive a share of a large crop of potatoes that spent the summer multiplying in a field at my grandfather’s farm.  On a crisp day in the fall, dad and our family, and two or three of his brothers and their families would gather at the farm to harvest the potatoes which had been somewhat gently turned out of the soil with a cultivator drawn by a tractor (and in the early days, a horse.)  All kids scattered out across the rows to toss potatoes, large and small, into “gunny sacks” or burlap bags.  The bags were then hoisted onto a hay rack drawn through the field by a horse with my Uncle Cecil at the reins.

As an aside, I recall two horses at the farm – one was a broken down racehorse that we children were never allowed to ride.  It was skittish and danced with anticipation when it was being prepared for a ride.  I only ever saw Uncle Cecil ride that horse and, broken down or not, it seemed to me that it could still fly like the wind.  The other horse was a sturdy plow horse – probably a Clydesdale named Major, I think.  I have observed that every farm with a plow horse of Clydesdale (particularly,) Belgian, or Percheron blood has, or had, at least one horse, and probably more, named Major.  In any case, we were allowed to ride Major and often did take him down into the orchard where he would spend most of his time reaching for apples, while we wrenched the reins trying to get him to go somewhere without apples.  Any modern day horse person (of any level of expertise) will cringe at the thought, but we didn’t know what we didn’t know, if you know what I mean. We had a hell of a good time.

But the vegetable gardens of my youth were not always fun and joy.  The fields did not require much hand weeding and other maintenance but the town gardens certainly did. We were often sent into the garden to weed every inch of soil that was not inhabited by productive foliage.  I remember having to hill the potatoes, a concept I grasped very early in life, as I was wielding a hoe about three feet longer than I was tall.  Perhaps, my skills with a hockey stick were initiated by this activity – although I am pretty sure that no one ever described my stick handling abilities as “like hoeing potatoes,” thank goodness.

Pernicious flora was not the only threats in the gardens.  Fauna played their nasty roles as well.  Potato bugs were common and I recall going up and down the rows, looking under potato leaves where those little black and yellow striped insects (Colorado potato bugs) would be munching away happily.  We had to pick them off with our fingers and put them in a tin can.  I am not sure what exactly happened to them after that, but I think they were doused with gasoline and set on fire, or sometimes doused with soapy water, a process that I deemed to be preferable but no less lethal.  As well, we were expected to crush with our fingers any masses of eggs we discovered under the leaves – a particularly squeamish duty but nevertheless one to which I became enured quickly.

Colorado Potato Beetle.   Photo by Z.

Colorado Potato Beetle.                                                                             Photo by Z.

Cutworms were also a problem and we dug around the base of the young plants to unearth the curled up larvae and place them in the can for disposal.  Our failure to tend to these duties properly became very evident in a day or so when the leaves would be reduced to stems or the plant was laying on the ground from cutworm damage.  These insects also attacked tomato, pepper and eggplants but we had far fewer of those to attend.

Presently, I understand that cutworms are a significant pest for Canola (rapeseed) crops.  Canola was not a big cash crop in my youth but it seems that the cutworms were clearly there, waiting for better times.  Chemical control for cutworms is made more difficult because of their nocturnal feeding habits and laying under the surface during the day. Insecticides need to make contact with the pest in order to be effective.  In addition, cutworms do not feed during molting making it difficult to time chemical application.   Consequently, I am uncertain as to whether insecticides were used extensively for cutworm control during my youth.  There are other non-chemical means of cutworm management e.g., summerfallowing and delayed seeding – and, of course, sending children into the garden to “harvest” them.

Our vegetable gardens were augmented by many kinds of fruit grown in the orchard and berry patches on my grandparents’ farm.  Baskets of apples (eating, baking, crab, jelly,) strawberries, raspberries, watermelon, “muskmelon” [what we call cantaloupe today,] not only reached our table but were sold to others in the community.  “You pick it” farms were not yet in vogue.  I was often pressed into service to assist my grandmother and my cousins to pick the ripe fruit which was sold by word of mouth to the first callers – some stopping by the farm “on spec” and others calling on the party line telephone which hung on the wall like the future museum piece it was to become, and jangled out the correct number of long and short rings.  My grandfather experimented with many fruits and did develop a type of apricot that was hardy enough to produce fruit in the short Manitoba growing season.  I remember savouring its somewhat foreign (to me at least) juicy flesh.

I will return to stories of the orchard in future posts.  They surface too often in my memories to remain hidden for long.  But for now, suffice it to say, that I am pretty certain that these orchards did not produce fruit that was “organically grown.”  But again, I do not have firm evidence of the type or extent of chemical use, so any possible impact on my life or that of others cannot be stated or even alleged.

In other posts, I have contemplated the environmental antecedents for my Parkinson’s.  I am not an environmental research scientist, and I have no conclusive evidence of environmental factors in my own case.  I was far too young to keep records of any kind, never mind accurate records, or to make observations, which would stand the test of scientific methodological rigour.  However, one has to wonder whether there is truth in oral history as much as in scientific data gathering.  These reflections always make me return to the pesticides (insecticides) in common use during my childhood.  DDT always jumps to mind.

Interestingly, a German student, Othmar Zeidler, first synthesized DDT (dichlorodiphenyltrichloroethane) in a purely scientific experiment in 1874.  But Zeidler had no idea of its commercial potential and it was not until 1939 when chemist, Dr. Paul Herman Mûller, an employee of the dye-manufacturing firm of J. R. Geigy, S.A of Basel, produced it for commercial use.  DDT was used extensively in controlling Colorado potato beetles before it was used for a whole host of other applications.  I know that by the late 1950s (I was born in 1949) my father was applying “potato dust” to control those self-same Colorado potato beetles.  Was it DDT? I have no conclusive evidence that it was but in all likelihood it was used at some point.  Oh, if my father were still alive, the questions I would ask him.  His passing predated my diagnosis with Parkinson’s and these questions were not as important to me then as they are now.

By the late 1950s another pesticide Carbaryl (1-naphthyl methylcarbamate) was developed by Union Carbide and touted as a broad-spectrum insecticide.  It was sold to American farmers under the chemical name Sevin and is still available today to kill a wide variety of insects.  Initially, it was touted as having few after effects and little residue.  As a kid in the 1960s I am pretty sure that I remember my Dad using Sevin dust on his potatoes and tomatoes.  It has been described as a pesticide and a neurotoxin “which in plain English means that they act on the nervous system of the insect [and humans presumably?].  In insects they scramble nerve impulses causing neurological misfires and ending in paralysis and death.”

If I had to describe my own experience with Parkinson’s and Dystonia, the words “neurological misfires and scrambled nerve impulses” would not be far from my mind. God, I may have to become a chemical engineer and an environmental scientist to sort out my own disease.

Altamont, Manitoba 1985  Photo: United Grain Growers

Altamont, Manitoba 1985                                                       Photo: United Grain Growers

As I write this post, I have some fleeting images of a particular episode in the garden – not one of our family’s gardens but some other gardens around the village.  I could not have been more than five or six years of age.  [It seems that in these last few posts I am regressing into childhood memories in search of ... something ... I am not sure what.] In any case, I had an accomplice – let’s call him “Z” [not his real initial] in order to protect the guilty, for he was surely guilty, as was I.

Gardens in Altamont hardly ever had fences around them, and when they did, they were often in poor repair and offered no resistance or barrier to anyone who wanted to to gain entry.  Such was the case with Mrs. X’s garden, and I believe it was also the case with Mr. X’s garden.  Mrs. X and Mr. X had the same name but were not married.  They may have been related but I do not believe that any familial relationship was entered into evidence at the time and therefore it is likely irrelevant to the outcome of this case.  While I am certain that Mrs. X and Mr. X are quite dead, and that the statute of limitations has long run out on the commission of any crime(s),  I have disguised the names of the victims in order to protect myself from any litigation and/or charges from their heirs and/or successors, should they still seek damages or allege slander.

The evidence placed before a panel of two judges (my father and Z’s father) was that a redheaded vandal and an accomplice were spotted wreaking havoc in at least two gardens, and possibly more, at various locations around the community.  The redhead and accomplice were observed pulling various vegetation (carrots, peas, corn,  cucumbers and potatoes in particular) up by the roots and were frolicking about the garden waving and throwing both vegetation and produce willy-nilly.  As I recall, no bite marks were entered into evidence and it did not appear that the perpetrators consumed any carrots, peas, corn, cucumbers or potatoes.  Shelled pea pods were indeed found on the ground near the legumes but that was not unusual in any garden in the community as everyone ate fresh peas right out of the pod.

My defense of “being under the influence” and “just having a good time” must have fallen on deaf ears. I also protested that no one identified me by name but only referred to the alleged perpetrator as “that redheaded boy.”  I was adamant that just because I was the only redheaded boy of age 5 or 6 in the village did not mean that one from a neighboring town or environs did not sneak into our village intent on destroying gardens, and in the process besmirching my good reputation.  It seems this line of defense was not persuasive.

Perhaps, if I had a better lawyer, I might have been able to plea bargain.   Maybe Z and I should have reflected on the honesty of George Washington and professed boldly that we could not tell a lie and that we did indeed rip through Mrs. X’s and Mr. X’s gardens like little lethal tornadoes (certainly a grade up from dust devil) wreaking havoc among the fall harvest.

But, as it turns out, Z and I did not stand a chance.  The evidence mounted against us at each turn.  They had the dirt on us so to speak.  The potatoes had eyes and the corn had ears.  They saw, they heard and someone told.  (I personally think it was the tomatoes who heard it through the grape tomato vine – okay, okay, these bad puns don’t help my case either.)

To make matters worse, it seems the two perpetrators decided that it was such a nice warm day, and if one was going to frolic, one might as well frolic in the manner that true frolicking was meant to be done.  So we doffed several items of clothing that were subsequently found at the first garden (Mrs. X’s) and one of the principal scenes of the crime.  There is no evidence as to how we got to the second garden, almost all the way across the village, without calls being made to the morality squad (our mothers.)  I also have no evidence that these ragamuffins doffed all of their clothing but one might assume that if the punishment is commensurate with the crime that at least one of us met the criterion of being “indecent.”

So, it was determined that Z and I were two peas in a pod, and found guilty with no right to appeal.  Sentencing was to be carried out in accordance with local custom where parents both determined and meted out the punishment.

I am about to say something now that is not easily understood in this age of sensitive parenting.  It certainly is not meant to vilify or diminish my father in any way (especially in the eyes of my immediate and extended family) or to approve of corporal punishment.  I loved my father dearly for reasons most will never know, even though we disagreed on many things over the course of the years we spent on this planet together.  He was my earliest and best role model teaching me values and principles I hold dear to this day, and which have guided me almost without fail to good decisions throughout my life.  I accept responsibility for any decisions that have failed to meet the standard, inasmuch as I deviated of my own accord from those principles.  But some, when they read the following paragraph, will jump to inaccurate conclusions.  Sometimes, you have to live a lifetime to be able to calculate the end product of that lifetime.  Don’t be too quick to judge.

My father was a barber (among many other occupations as you heard earlier) and when I stepped out of bounds too seriously, I received a few smacks across my behind (always clothed) with the strap he used to sharpen his razors – firmly embedded in my mind as the “razor strop.”  This was one of those occasions.  Z was “grounded” – whatever that meant for a 6 year old – and he was tied to the kitchen table for a few hours “to each him a lesson.”  I recall at the time that I thought that action was more barbaric than the few smacks of the strap on my behind after I received a very stern lecture on the value of property and the importance of gardens for sustenance and survival.  My father had a way of ensuring there was always a lesson to be learned – from the behaviour that spawned the punishment – if not from the punishment itself.   You can know of the basic laws of physics but if you don’t understand them, it will be a painful life.  [Newton's third law of motion: In a system where no external forces are present, every action force is always opposed by an equal and opposite reaction force.]  Sometimes, such laws are parallels for understanding social behaviour.

So what am I to understand from my explorations of the murky depths of the cognitive reaches of my already dopamine deficient brain?

(1) We do not have a veggie garden and I really don’t understand why not.  Sorry.  The familial history and socialization to vegetable gardening was certainly present throughout my youth.  Perhaps, the fact that I would have much rather been playing hockey, baseball or any other sport interfered with the maturation of such ideas.  Leaving home when I was 16 to pursue some of those goals undoubtedly caused any thoughts of vegetable gardens to be suppressed.  These are all areas which I have not explored in this post and won’t as they are too complex and, remarkably, too sensitive even these 50 years later to lay bare at this time.   That time will come in due course.

(2) Perhaps I have a subliminal chemical addiction to vegetables carrying insecticides that attack my neurological system.  This addiction may have clouded my judgment such that I deny the purity of environmentally sustainable market garden crops and blindly rely on corporate farming practices to look out for the well being of consumers i.e., corporate farming can provide cheap, accessible food eliminating the need for family or community gardens.  If the phrase “sheer folly” were not already coined, surely it would have to be in order to describe these views.

(3) There do seem to be some other potentially mitigating environmental factors in my life re: Parkinson’s, including possible contamination of ground water from sewage [In a previous blog I mentioned my father’s concern about arsenic levels] and possible effects from the coal burning furnaces and the coal stored in our basement.  To be fair, I have never read anywhere that coal has any association with Parkinson’s, but you never know.

(4) And lastly, my regression into the past led me to that place where I found myself frolicking nearly naked through a cloud of insecticide infusing my neurological system with the potential to “misfold” the alpha-synuclein protein in such a manner as to promote “misfires and scrambled nerve impulses.”  Ah Parkinson’s, my constant companion and nemesis, may ultimately be the key to understanding my entire life.

After Note: “Z” and I were found guilty of vandalism and willful destruction of property but I cannot escape the feeling that we were not the only perpetrators in the veggie garden that fine day.  But there was not enough evidence to convict them, and they remain at large.

How Miss Myrna Got My Dollar Or I Hate Fundraising But Do It Anyway

I have a love/hate relationship with fundraising. No wait, let’s face it, I actually hate fundraising. But there are lots of people who are brilliant at it and thank God they are. Without them many worthy causes would not have sufficient funds to conduct research, or develop and deliver valuable services and programs.

I worked for years in an organization that received many requests each day to support a wide variety of causes. Each applicant carefully tailored their request to show why their work would benefit our organizational goals and were deserving of our financial support. I was charged with making recommendations on our allocations. Most causes were worthy and I hated to turn anyone away completely. Decisions revolved primarily around how to divide a finite amount of money among an ever growing group of applicants, keeping not only the applicants who were our allies happy but also keeping my superiors happy as they had preferences among the applicants.  Diplomacy combined with ruthlessness in appropriate measures was essential to divide the pie successfully. And success often meant you pleased no one, irrespective of the size of the pie.  I never felt entirely comfortable in this role.

Now I am on the other side of the equation, asking friends, relatives, former work colleagues, neighbours, Twitter buddies, and complete strangers to support a cause about which I have become passionate – Parkinson’s disease.  You see, I have PD. There is no cure. It is a degenerative neurological disease which, in all likelihood, will get worse over the course of my lifetime and ultimately will render me incapable of independent movement and decision-making. Nevertheless, my request for assistance is not made for narrow personal gain. Rather, it is a plea to support a multi-faceted approach focusing on cause, cure and care. We must find the cause of Parkinson’s in order to prevent future cases; we must find a cure for those already afflicted; and we must advocate for and establish conditions for care so that Persons with Parkinson’s (PwP), their families and caregivers can survive the many challenges of this debilitating disease.  No one should face a future of Parkinson’s disease without organizational support and resources.

Parkinson's SuperWalk, Ottawa, Lakeside Gardens September 6, 2014

Parkinson SuperWalk, Ottawa, Lakeside Gardens September 6, 2014

I am certain that there are many reasons why people give money to favourite charities and organizations. Undoubtedly understanding philanthropy and the use of various techniques, strategies and technologies to increase giving is a science. And we employ professional fundraisers to maximize our return on investment such that good works can be accomplished effectively and efficiently. The world of fundraising and charitable work is filled with noble causes populated with good souls of enormous talent and skill who guide organizations to ever greater heights with each passing year. And yet the need is ever greater with each passing year.  At this point, a pessimist would just pull the blanket up over her/his head in an attempt to shut out both light and sound.  An optimist would (and should) revel in the advances made in each passing year. While we have not found a cure for Parkinson’s, no one can say that we have not made significant advances which make living with Parkinson’s more tolerable for PwP and their families/caregivers. Yes, I know that these advances are not enough and there is still great suffering for those afflicted.

I suspect that charitable organizations in small communities are reliant upon (or are part of) local faith and not-for-profit philanthropic organizations primarily supported by good, solid upstanding citizens who can rightly be called philanthropists and give generously from their own good fortune to those more in need. Who gives and why they give is undoubtedly one of the most important questions addressed by those who study philanthropy.

As always, I am not an expert in what I am about to say and the usual caveats apply.  But I shall forge ahead, sometimes careening from one idea to another much like a Parkie bouncing off walls while walking through a narrow hallway when the meds have worn off. While I may not proceed with style, grace, alacrity, or certainty of direction, rest assured that I proceed with great purpose. Consider the following:

Fundraising in small towns in the 1950s took many forms. Charitable works were carried out in several ways: by faith groups (called “churches” in those days) and their respective auxiliaries; by not-for-profit organizations who held meetings in secret, with secret codes of conduct, secret handshakes and greetings, but raised money very publicly to support highly visible projects; by individuals who gave selflessly and generously to worthy causes eschewing any public recognition; by families who suffered great loss in the untimely deaths of loved ones and wished to spare others a similar fate; by those who adhered to the belief that community is greater than the sum of the individuals within it and was a place of shared responsibility for its overall health and well being; and by those who learned that love is a powerful motivator converting personal tragedy into positive energy extending the force of life of their loved ones long past their deaths through charitable foundations and events.

In the small rural Manitoba town where I grew up, entertainment was where you found it. I often tell my children that the only toy I ever had was a stick with a nail in it. This is closer to the truth than I usually care to admit.  In the days before HBO and Netflix, entertainment sometimes found us when small troupes of singers, magicians and storytellers with pet skunks would pass through, booking the local hall for an evening before moving on to the next lucky town – spiriting out as many precious dollars as they could from the community before anyone asked for their money back, leaving behind only detritus for the hall caretaker to clear away.

But sometimes community-minded organizations, churches, and local businesses would coordinate to host a talent show – a loosely formed excuse to raise money for charity and showcase local talent. The night’s lineup could include the likes of: poets and poetry readers, tap dancers, folk singers, country and western groups, the wanna be rock band making its first appearance outside of an old barn, the local choir, a humorous skit about an operating room performed behind a curtain in silhouette à la Groucho Marx, and an emcee with a suitable patter of corny but clean jokes and enough brainpower to engage in witty repartee with the hecklers in the audience. The winners were selected by a panel of three individuals representing, somehow simultaneously, both the diversity and the commonality of the community. In other words, no one could complain about the results … and, at the same time, everyone could complain about the results if they wanted to do so. Few ever did. Small monetary awards signified success for the top three acts. The show relied on voluntary labour and donated goods, and, after a few small expenses, the proceeds went to local charities, and the good will stayed within the community.

Canadian one dollar bill 1954. Every dollar counts

In 1959 the Canadian one dollar bill was equivalent to $8.19 in 2014. Every dollar counts.

When I was about 10 years old, I recall being given a whole dollar to attend one such show – many story tellers would say “a crisp new dollar bill”, but mine was neither crisp nor new.  It was decidedly limp, worn, and slightly torn with illegible writing on one side. This dollar had not lingered long in any one pocket and it was not to linger long in mine. The Canadian loonie was far off in the distant future and this particular rag dollar was to retain a visage more akin to a rag than something shiny and collectable. My dollar was to pay for my entry and treats for the evening. The cost of admission was pegged at whatever people felt comfortable to give, knowing proceeds were being distributed to charity.  The dollar bill was all I had, and the most I had ever had in my own pocket at one time.  Filled with anticipation and excitement, I went to the community hall. This shy redheaded boy hesitantly approached the door and opened it slowly to peer inside. It was not yet dark outside and I could only make out dark shapes as my pupils struggled to adjust and process the information to spur my forward advance.

OMG!  Well, this acronym wasn’t in use in 1959, but I think I thought something equivalent to that as my eyes landed on the person who was selling tickets at the table just inside. It was Miss Myrna! – the teenage daughter of the school principal, and she was, from my recollection, very beautiful and extremely intimidating, rendering me incapable of both speech and rational thought. Miss Myrna, gorgeous senior in high school and me, grade 5 introvert – hardly a fair match in any interaction.

Miss Myrna was beautiful and mysterious  Photo: S. Marshall

Miss Myrna was beautiful and mysterious                           Photo: S. Marshall

I edged forward, aided by a push from someone behind who was annoyed at my reticence to enter.  I slowly proffered my ratty dollar bill. Miss Myrna took the bill gingerly between thumb and forefinger and asked how much I would like to pay for my entry fee.  Little did I know that I would parallel Stephen Leacock’s classic story of My Financial Career when I stumbled over my words and muttered, almost beneath my breath, “one dollar”. Miss Myrna smiled at me oh so sweetly and the dollar bill was now being caressed in her hands with a newly found fondness – or at least I thought so.  She asked, “Are you sure? That is an awful lot of money.” Whatever neurons were firing in my brain at that moment were not sufficient to overturn the previous decision.  Dry mouthed, I nodded. The decision was now confirmed – my full and only dollar was committed to go to charity and my evening was to be celebrated without any treats from the concession.  But I did feel good – good that I sacrificed as much as I was able to sacrifice for those who needed the dollar more than I did.  My consolation was that maybe, just maybe, Miss Myrna would judge me as a worthwhile soul and not an irritating, stinky, grade 5 toad.

In truth, I do not know what Miss Myrna thought about those few moments of interaction, if she thought about them at all.  My own recollection is that she did smile at me sweetly if not approvingly, or maybe it was approvingly if not sweetly – it is hard for a ten year old to tell the difference – several times during the evening as the talent performed. Two old time fiddlers – one of French Canadian heritage and one of Irish Ottawa Valley background – fought it out for first and second places with a series of jigs, reels, waltzes and a schottische thrown in for good measure.  Each was brought back for an encore presentation and they wrapped it up with a friendly fiddle duet. The crowd lapped it up. Third place went to two young highland lassies deftly performing a sword dance, much to the irritation of the youngsters in the crowd who cheered raucously for the newly formed rock and roll barn band.  Older folks in the audience were quite disgusted by this youthful, rebellious exuberance.

Over the coming days, I basked in the memory of Miss Myrna’s warm smile and reflected upon the complexities of charitable giving. I sometimes still do. Did I only donate that dollar because I was a young tadpole incapable of any meaningful interaction with a member of the opposite sex; because I was under the spell of a beautiful older woman; because I knew deep within my value system that the dollar was far better off in the treasury of the charity than in my own pocket where it would soon be converted into candy with limited use as currency; or because all humans are born with some notion of altruism which can be nurtured and directed towards enhancing the greater good of any community. Perhaps, it need not matter. The important point was that the dollar was given and this transaction was worthy of the needs of all concerned.

In today’s world, should we give to anyone who comes knocking on our door, calling our phone, or contacting us via the internet? When we give, are we all just tricked by pretty voices, pretty faces, sad stories, bad choices, hopeful prayers, slick players, and fancy lines for fundraising times?  Of course not. Giving, done freely within one’s means, without expectation of immediate selfish return, often carries the potential to accomplish more than intended, unbeknownst to either the giver or recipient.

When Anne and I announced our intention to marry and issued invitations to our wedding (the second marriage for each of us) there were discussions about wedding gifts and whether we should accept any at all. Neither of us had any need for traditional wedding gifts involving household goods, and we certainly did not need money.  We also knew that most of our friends and relatives would not be comfortable in attending without some form of gift. That is just the way they are. We thought about donations to charities but discounted it as being too impersonal for most even if it would be the most altruistic.  Sorry to disappoint, but altruism does not always win out – in the short term at least.

To make a long story short, we decided that for those who felt compelled to bring a gift, a small gift certificate to a local garden centre or nursery would suffice. Many guests did avail themselves of that option and various “‘gardens’ within the garden” began to unfold. The photo below is one perspective on this garden which has brought great joy to our lives over the past 18 years, and will continue to do so for many more. One of our children opted to be married against this backdrop five years ago. All of our children and our closest friends understand how much this garden means to our overall health and well being – particularly mine as I make my way through life with Parkinson’s.  Anne revels in the sheer riotous and often ridiculous madness of the colours, and the unpredictable yet ultimately perfectly chosen juxtaposition of colour and form upon which Mother Nature has deemed it suitable to place her signature.  The garden is my classroom – for matters agricultural, horticultural, political, sociological, philosophical, and spiritual. The lessons, not always immediately apparent, do reveal themselves ultimately with enough tactile and cerebral prodding.  It is a classroom whose doors never close.

Many gardens make up the garden

Many gardens make up the garden.  August 2014      Photo: S. Marshall

These few gifts given to us on our wedding day have blossomed into a profusion of colours, shapes, scents [even if the Parkie doesn't smell them so well any more] and memories which nurture and guide our souls through the rhythms and “stuff of life” as my father would say. Giving is most often like that. It has benefits far beyond any human capacity to calculate the permutations.

So, did Miss Myrna unfairly take advantage of a young lad who stayed pretty much a ” country bumpkin” most of his life?  I think not. The lad, even at such a young age, wanted to impress – not always a good quality but not the worst by any stretch. There was no firm expectation of quid pro quo on either side.  The money was given and received in good faith, and put towards good charitable works by the local faith groups. The lad discovered that basic human interactions often contain lessons for later, and greater, life decisions.

Since I began writing The PD Gardener Blog about one year ago, it has received over  1,200 views in 32 different countries.  No matter where you live, I ask that you exercise the altruistic tendency of basic human nature (even if it may be tinged a little bit by a desire to impress) and support Parkinson’s SuperWalk 2014 by clicking on the link below to donate and/or join my team, The PD Gardener.

Help sow seeds in the many gardens that must flourish in order to subdue Parkinson’s and to support research, advocacy, policy development, services and programs.  And remember, giving, like gardening, is always worth the effort.

http://donate.parkinson.ca/site/TR/SuperWalk2014/EO_superwalk?px=1017712&pg=personal&fr_id=1155

Thank you!

Stan Marshall aka The PD Gardener

 

‘Car Trouble’ or Who was in the Boot with Parkinson’s?

It is a rare occasion indeed when Ottawa, Ontario (at the confluence of the Rideau, Ottawa and Gatineau Rivers) is mentioned in the same breath as Lake Kawawaymog near South River/Algonquin Park in Ontario, and the Assiniboine River near Treherne, Manitoba. The straight line distance between Lake Kawawaymog and Treherne is approximately 1,502 kilometers (934 miles.) The straight line distance between Ottawa and Treherne is approximately 1783 km (1108 miles.)  Interestingly, a straight line from Ottawa to Treherne runs almost directly through Lake Kawawaymog.

 Photo: AFMarshall

Lake Kawawaymog                                                             Photo: Anne F Marshall

Other than having this interesting geographical juxtaposition, their waters never intermingle directly, but a strange thing happened last week. A time – space continuum was breached, as my thoughts traveled to our immediate destination (Lake Kawawaymog) and kept on traveling straight to Trehere not only across 1783 km but also back through 57 years of temporal space. No, I was not hallucinating because I have Parkinson’s disease and although Parkinson’s was along for the ride, it just wasn’t driving as usual. And yes, the levels of all bottles in my stash of scotch remained constant so there is no blame to be directed there.

A = Ottawa B = Lake Kawawaymog C = Treherne

A = Ottawa
B = Lake Kawawaymog
C = Treherne

Please bear with me. I can explain but you will have to be prepared for a somewhat circuitous route.

Anne and I were embarking on a relatively short journey (51/2 hours or so) from our home in Ottawa to Anne’s sister (Wendy’s) and brother-in-law (Ger’s) cottage on Lake Kawawaymog. My own sister (Ger) and brother-in-law (Terry) were accompanying us as we were to drop them off en route at Terry’s sister’s place. Regular readers probably realize that I do not often reveal names beyond my immediate family on the grounds that some of them are, in fact, innocent. But in this case, in order to avoid confusion, I need to note that both my sister and my wife’s sister’s husband respond to the name “Ger”, one being Geraldine, and the other Gerald or Gerry. Fortunately for us they seldom are in the same room together, but they are included in many sometimes confusing conversations.

On Highway 17, some twenty minutes west of the City of Ottawa boundary, our trusty hybrid vehicle (make, model and year withheld to avoid any possible litigation) decided to pack it in. In the old days when a vehicle died it just stopped running, or made some horrible grinding, mechanical noise. In this case, when I kicked the accelerator to pass a slower vehicle in front of us and to avoid a faster vehicle which was intent on riding up our rear end, the hybrid cried out electronically with a cacophony of bells and whistles, and a plea for us to “pull over and stop safely” appeared in bold text across the dash in front of me. Further attempts to rouse the engine and transmission to their respective tasks went unheeded. We slowed and coasted to a stop on the gravel apron.

We sat in disbelief for a moment and then I did what every human is programmed to do – reboot. I again started the car, put it in gear and pushed carefully on the accelerator. Toying with us, the hybrid got back up to speed, but then quickly relapsed into ‘I ain’t going nowhere mode.’ The four of us sat somewhat stunned as the realization that our routine trip was going to be anything but routine.

While we gathered our wits, I did have some fear that this situation would trigger an attack of Parkinson’s tremors and accompanying pain in my left foot and leg. I do suffer from persistent pain but it had been largely under control on this trip barely registering a 2 or 3 on my 10 point scale. And stress, even of the most innocuous sort, usually precipitates such responses. I need not have worried. It didn’t develop. But more on that later.

‘Car trouble’. Those words rolled around in my brain with a familiarity which surprised me. When I was a very young boy, ‘car trouble’ followed us around like the black cloud over Joe Btfsplk’s head in L’il Abner. In the late 1940s and early 1950s my parent’s traveled the highways and byways of Manitoba in at least two different Austin Healey cars. And funny little cars they were. Turn signals were not yet in common use on many vehicles and hand signals were an obligatory part of the highway driving code. Winter was always chilling as wind and snow blew in the driver’s side window onto whichever poor child had the misfortune to have the rear left seat.   Then came a breakthrough which sealed the Austin’s comical fate in my mind forever – electric turn signals emanating from between the posts of the front and rear doors on each side. Controlled manually from inside the net effect was that of little illuminated rabbit ears popping up and jutting out with each turn, and popping down when the turn was complete. I do recall that my father hated it when I would reach out of the back window and try to keep the ears from popping out. Fortunately, he could not swat me as I was in the seat right behind him and he never swore so I escaped immediate wrath. And he mostly forgot such things by the time we reached our destination.

I recall my mother being in perpetual fear of breakdown especially on rainy days and on muddy roads, or during bone chilling minus 30C winter days. These are fears she carries with her to this very day.  In winter, we children traveled under the warmth and weight of several itchy khaki blankets courtesy of my grandfather and my dad, and the military. To be fair to Austin Healey, ‘car trouble’ included getting stuck in snow or mud, dead batteries in the middle of winter as well as a variety of mechanical concerns ranging from inoperative windshield wipers, to frozen heating systems with no defrost, to holes in the gas tank from the pounding of gravel from the roads. A good road had gravel; a bad road had mud; both were dangerous. There were precious few paved roads.

But, back on the apron of Highway 17 we were waiting for the tow truck to arrive to carry the hybrid away in an inglorious fashion, when the memory of a leaking gas tank on the old Austin flashed through my mind. I am not sure why, but maybe it was because it was also at the beginning of small exciting trip for me. I was a young lad of about eight. My dad and I were off on a day trip to go fishing in the Assiniboine River near Treherne, Manitoba.  We rarely fished in the Assiniboine in those days, preferring to fish in the smaller Pembina River which ran closer to home. [This was before the days of torrential summer rains which flood large sections of Manitoba. How about that? I think I have lived long enough to document climate change in my oral histories!]  Anyway, the fish in both rivers were mostly Northern Pike which we called “jackfish.” In summer, the river was warm and the fish sluggish and mushy. As you can imagine, sluggish, mushy fish taste like sluggish, mushy fish. The thrill was in the catching not the eating.

Nevertheless, Dad and I were returning to the great meandering Assiniboine because a month or so earlier we had been fishing off a shoal on the shallow side of the river, casting our lures into the deeper waters eroding the far bank, when my lure was struck with a heavy hit from something large. It almost ripped the rod from my hands and the rapid retreat of whatever was on the other end caused the handles on the reel to rap painfully on my knuckles. As an eight-year old, I had no concept of how to skillfully play a fish for landing. The fish (I assume it was a fish and not some Assiniboine version of Ogopogo – Lake Manitoba’s answer to the Loch Ness Monster,) came back towards me just as rapidly and I cranked in the line. The fish then turned to make a second desperate escape bid neatly snapping the taut line, making off with my favourite red and white spinner and dashing my hopes of landing a really big one. If I were telling this to you in person, I would punctuate the story at this point with my arms stretched out widely.

So, we were returning to the Assiniboine, somewhere west of the bridge on PTH (Provincial Trunk Highway) 242 and east of the bridge on Highway 34 in search of the “big one that got away.” I am not certain which bridge was called the “new bridge” and who knows, they maybe call it the “new bridge” to this day, some 57 years later, such is the unique passage of time on the prairies. Only we never made it – car trouble.

Somewhere north of Notre Dame de Lourdes, we let it slip away. [Funny, these words evoke some notion of a Canadian version of "Me and Bobby McGee."] Anyway, dad noticed that the gas gauge was going south faster than the old Austin was going north. A quick stop for dad to peer beneath the car, dust still billowing behind us and over our heads. The verdict: a small puncture in the gas tank. A new problem; never had this before. What to do? Perhaps it was too far to return to our home in Altamont? Besides, we both held out hope that it could be repaired and we could continue on our expedition. I also think my dad didn’t want to disappoint me. Dads are often like that.

It was a Sunday. I know this because my dad only ever had full days off on Sundays. So we continued on towards a nearby farm. We pulled into the yard and into an open shop (a wood frame building as it was in the days before there were many steel Quonset huts.) I don’t recall much other than the farmer was nice (they usually are) and wore the obligatory coveralls of the day. The floor of the shop was a combo of concrete and dirt – hard to know where one started and the other ended – both covered with oily, greasy substances accompanied by that distinctive petrol smell. My dad and the farmer quickly discussed the particulars of the situation and jacked the car up with a hand jack. Yep, closer examination confirmed the original diagnosis – a small puncture in the gas tank. I recall my father not being happy about the quality of the steel of the tank and the fact that there did not appear to be any protective shield for the gas tank.

What to do? There was a discussion about possibly welding the hole. Thank God this option was discarded quickly! A search for something to plug the hole ensued: rolled up paper – nope; rolled up cardboard – nope; small twigs – nope; some form of glue found in the shop – nope; gum chewed to a sticky mess by an eight-year old boy – nope. Combinations of the above – nope. Other materials were undoubtedly employed as potential solutions but none succeeded in stemming the slow leak.

A decision was made to top up the tank and turn for home, disappointed that the day would end without a fish, or even a fish story.  My father, being the methodical man he was, scratched out a rough equation in an attempt to determine the optimal speed to drive to be most efficient such that the amount of gas used by the motor minus the rate of leakage did not decline past zero i.e., we would not run out gas before we reached our home destination. All without speeding the poor Austin into the ditch or attracting the attention of the RCMP who patrolled those roads. I fear this mathematical learning opportunity was largely lost on me. We reached home safely and the “big one” got away once again. It was an anti-climax that the tank was repaired by sending it to Winnipeg. From that day forward, it always had an additional protective shield deflecting any gravel that would spit up from the roadbed.

Meanwhile, back on Highway 17 modern technology was working exactly as intended. Using our two cell phones we called roadside assistance covered courtesy of Ger’s CAA card. [Note to self: get one.] A tow truck and taxi were dispatched to our location. After a short cell phone conversation with the service department, the hybrid was towed to the dealership for repairs. We searched the internet on our cell phones for the closest car rental agency, determined car availability and had the taxi deliver us and our luggage to that exact location. A replacement car was secured. Phone calls and texts to those at our respective destinations were made, took time for lunch, and we were back on the road with only a two hour delay.

No one panicked – not even Parky.  My Parkinson’s remained remarkably in check – no exacerbated tremor or pain for that time period or for the remainder of the day. Amazing! Modern technology, money of course, and the presence of mind of my brilliant sister to have a roadside assistance card, took most of the guess work out of this crisis.

Maybe … but my past experience is that if Parky has an opportunity to screw things up, it will. So I am still left with the burning question: why didn’t my Parkinson’s act up and make life unbearable for me, if not for others? It could just be the reduced stress as noted above, or it could just be luck as Parkinson’s often is unpredictable with a mind of it’s own. I actually think that on this trip Parkinson’s was in the “boot” along with the luggage. As a kid I always laughed when the old timers referred to the trunk as the “boot” and the hood as the “bonnet.” The Austin had a boot, and a bonnet.  Our current car trouble was under the bonnet and Parky was discretely packed away in the boot.

Upon further reflection though, I am coming to realize it is also likely that I am developing (with a lot of help and encouragement) skills in implementing certain techniques and practices to diminish the impact of Parkinson’s – to keep it in the boot so to speak. For example,

(1) I have been reviewing for quite some time The Pain Toolkits produced by Peter Moore whom I follow on Twitter @paintoolkit2 and his website http://www.paintoolkit.org/  The toolkits and Peter’s encouragement on Twitter have been instrumental in my attempts to be in control.

(2) I switched my physiotherapy approach to LSVT BIG and PWR (Parkinson’s Wellness Recovery) at Action Potential Rehabilitation http://actionpotentialrehab.net/ where my physiotherapist is Sue Goodridge. Even though I have only had a few weeks under this program I already feel that I am gaining a better understanding of both the mechanics and the theory of physiotherapy as applied to Parkinson’s. Such things as movement, flexibility, coordination and balance are among the keys to a better quality of life. Even simple exercises such as “splaying my toes” remind my feet and brain that my toes are intended to move that way. For too long my brain was sending signals to my feet and toes that they should remain immobile in some futile attempt to avoid or lessen pain. In fact the opposite – more movement – is required. Movement and exercise are critical for persons with Parkinson’s.

(3) My physio, Sue, aside from having all the skills and qualifications of a physiotherapist, is quite expert in chronic and persistent pain. She has pointed me in a direction of “mindfulness meditation” as a way to approach stress-related persistent pain and to deal with muscle movement disorder. I am discovering that pain management is greatly enhanced when we have an ability to focus, or re-focus, the brain away from the problem. This is somewhat of a surprise to me as I have never been an adherent of meditation per se although I have long practiced what I jokingly refer to as “mind over matter trickery” to overcome both pain and tremor when I want to go to sleep. Of course, it may just be that I am exhausted …

Don’t get me wrong, I am in no way an expert in any of the above areas. I have only just begun this particular journey.  We shall see where it takes me and I shall be blogging from time to time about these experiences and adventures.  So far, I feel that there is real improvement and that my optimism is warranted.

That being said, none of these programs, techniques or practices is as important to me as the love, encouragement, understanding and support of Anne, our four daughters and their respective husbands/partners. They are the fuel for the engine that keeps my old chassis moving – even if the bonnet and boot are too large.

All of this rambling has been my usual long winded way of saying that I escaped what should have been a very stressful day as Parkinson’s was relegated to the ‘boot’ in the ‘car trouble’ affair. It was a pleasant drive with Ger and Terry to their destination, and good food, drink and stimulating conversation with Wendy and Ger made for a relaxing time when we reached our cottage destination.

But, I have to tell you a secret. Parkinson’s was not alone in the boot. My dad and his mother Maud (my grandmother) were also in the boot. I am pretty sure they had never been held captive in the boot when they were alive, and I am also pretty sure that this was not an imposition for their souls and/or spirits at this time. Nevertheless, our vehicle was carrying two of the three children born to Kathleen and Bert, our mother and father. Perhaps, our father provided prudence to my sister Ger to purchase the roadside assistance card; our grandmother Maud was in the boot to keep Parkinson’s under her stern and intimidating watch (you met her in earlier posts); and my dad also would not have wanted our mother who hated car trouble to worry – she is still living and so could not be in the boot but she was likely huffing at Bethany where she lives in Middle Lake, Saskatchewan.

How do I know they were with us? We were close to Terry’s sister’s where we were to drop Terry and Ger before we continued on to the cottage. Turning a corner, a field of naturalized lupines appeared on the left side. Struck by such beauty I braked abruptly (no one behind thank goodness,) and jumped out of the car to snap a few shots with my iphone – chalk another one up for technology.  At that point I knew that we were accompanied by someone who loved the passengers in this vehicle, who understood intrinsically the beauty of such a sight, and knew that I love lupines!

Photo: S. Marshall

Lupines!                                                                                                   Photo: S. Marshall

As always, my experiences leave me with a bit of a mystery or intrigue that raises questions, sometimes philosophical. In this case, both my grandmother and my dad were colourblind! Not a life threatening condition to be sure but how could they fully know what they were seeing?

What you see when you are colourblind.  Source: Coblis Colorblindness  Simulator  Photo: S. Marshall

What you might see if you were colourblind.  Source: Coblis Colorblindness Simulator                                                               Photo: S. Marshall

Surely if they hadn’t experienced the full visual effect, they could not know that the striking natural beauty of the lupines would literally stop us in our tracks, sending a signal to us that all was well. But think about it. They were horticulturists by nature and experience, and their love and appreciation of Nature allowed them to transcend this disorder of being colourblind. I try everyday to use my dopamine assisted brain to transcend a neurological disorder called Parkinson’s to alleviate pain and tremor.  And you know, it often works.

I can only conclude that on this particular day, Parkinson’s did not stand a chance.

 

Parkinson’s: Was it me, the pesticides or Diefenbaker?

You know, I didn’t plan much of my life. What I mean is that most of my life seems to have just happened to me.  I was there obviously, but it was as if I was swept along with the current and occasionally I would thrust an oar into the water to change direction – maybe out to sea, maybe into choppy waters, or maybe into a safe harbor.  In retrospect, maybe I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention to what was happening. The question is: should I have been paying more attention and taken a more active role in setting the trajectory for my body and soul?

Would my life be different (better?) if I had formulated a grand plan or blueprint for living my life with measureable goals of achievement?  I have talked to many people who have such an orientation. Their life’s path and goals can be either detailed or general but they are never in doubt that when the final tally of their life’s work (existence) is counted, that it will be called a “success.”  Most argue that humans can control or shape their own destinies through their talents, skills, and abilities, and hard work, good judgment, and good decision-making can always be credited for success.  And conversely, if you are not a success, then you must not have the necessary skills or, more likely, you have screwed up somewhere along the way, by exercising bad judgment, bad decision-making or not working hard enough.

Curbside Tansy: Good planning, bad planning, no planning?  Photo: S. Marshall

Curbside Tansy: Good planning, bad planning, no planning? Photo: S. Marshall

I am not convinced that I can look back over my life with such certainty and proclaim that the trajectory I have followed has been purposeful to the point that I can claim to be its author either way. I certainly don’t feel as if I had a vision and worked successfully to realize that vision.  Undoubtedly, some would say that is a terribly sad thing to admit as the word “failure” carries such a heavy burden. Rest assured, I do not feel as if my life, in any respect, has been a failure.  It is just that I did not set the course alone and was not always aware of the destination.  But, as authors usually say, “I am indebted to all who made this work possible but any errors and omissions are my responsibilities alone….”  Very few say, “I took a laissez faire approach to this work and this is the way it turned out….”

I also do not think that I am a fatalist: someone who thinks that “fate” pre-determines life’s chances, direction and outcome.  This doesn’t really fit all that well with a previous post about the long shadow of the gardener where I outline the gardener’s role in intervening in the course of Nature and the role that humans play in successfully altering certain aspects of diseases and conditions affecting and afflicting the human condition.  While we do not have a cure for Parkinson’s, we most certainly do mitigate its symptoms through the use of pharmaceuticals and we alter its intensity through Deep Brain Stimulation and delay its progression through exercise. So, I am not a fatalist but neither am I in the camp where humans can absolutely control their own destiny.  Could it be that I am unknowingly floating along with one oar occasionally dipping into the water so that I am going in circles only sporadically rather than all the time?  Hmmm … that is an intriguing thought at least.

I can pretty much tell you with certainty that no one plans to have Parkinson’s Disease.  But I have it.  Does this mean that I have screwed up somewhere along the away?  Did I miss a cue where I could have jabbed my oar into the water more forcefully to change course?  Does it mean that I am a failure – perhaps weak of mind, weak of body, or that I used poor or bad judgment along the way? Is having Parkinson’s Disease an individual failing or weakness?  Is it similar to smoking and its relationship to lung cancer where we can point to the smoker and say self-righteously that they should not have smoked; they should have known better; and now they are paying the price.

Perhaps, I should have washed my fruits and vegetables more diligently over the course of my lifetime to ensure that I was not ingesting harmful chemicals used in agriculture. Perhaps, it goes back to my parents and grandparents as they grew many of those fruits and vegetables on the farm and in small town gardens using pesticides predominant in the 1950s and 1960s (and maybe unwittingly exposing themselves and their families to unnecessarily high levels.) These decades have been coined the “Golden Age of Pesticides” led by that miracle chemical DDT which gained credibility for its effectiveness in WWII.  A whole host of products were developed – pesticides, herbicides, insecticides, bactericides, miticides, rodenticides, nematicides, and fungicides – attacking pests, insects, fungus, weeds and other organisms which threatened the production of the world’s food resources. We know now that this was unhealthy but do we know that any of these chemicals cause (or caused) Parkinson’s?

Some nasty products inherited from previous owner.  Photo: S. Marshall

Some nasty products inherited from the previous owner of our house.   Photo: S. Marshall

While the relationship between pesticides and Parkinson’s is under greater and greater scrutiny, at the moment there is no scientific proof that the relationship is anything more than a correlation.  Interestingly, I did grow up in Manitoba where persons with Parkinson’s are overrepresented compared to the Canadian population.  One might surmise that Manitoba would be the ideal crucible for Parkinson’s with exposures to pesticides in the production of grains and market garden produce.  But I did not grow up on the Red River Valley flood plain, which had the highest concentration of pesticide use.  I grew up on the Manitoba escarpment formed by the shores of receding glacial Lake Agassiz.  A University of Manitoba research paper indicates that the incidence of Parkinson’s is higher along the escarpment than elsewhere in the province.  But, as usual, there are some complicating factors inasmuch as the area also has high levels of cadmium and arsenic compounds which places well water at risk of contamination through erosion and runoff.  I remember my father talking about possible arsenic contamination in our wells when I was a child in the 1950s.  Everyone in our rural location was on well water.

The present always links to the past of course, but the equation is never linear.  I guess there is no shortage of areas for me to research, contemplate and on which to opine.  I grow more like my father every day.

It is neither for personal gain nor ideological correctness that I encourage research on the relationship between Parkinson’s and pesticides.  I am sure that many would like to pin Parkinson’s on corporate greed, malicious actions of misinformation or withholding of information, and malfeasance in the application of these products.  There is litigation underway currently in at least one instance involving flight attendants on the matter of the use of pesticides on aircraft and the incidence of Parkinson’s among flight attendants.  Believe me, I am very supportive of these legal claims, but I am resigned to the fact that the most likely outcome of litigation is a settlement to those affected if the case meets what I call the “Erin Brockovich threshold” where the evidence is weighty enough to tip the corporations into a settlement.  It is true that settlements flowing from litigation provide a monetary marker that some level of justice has been reached, and a confirmation that pain and suffering has monetary value.  Indeed, some corporate behaviours will have been changed for the better in the process.  But the primary question of cause and effect remains unanswered.

The current thinking is that some genetic formations are responsive to an environmental trigger for Parkinson’s and pesticides may provide that environmental trigger in some, but not all, instances.  Still, while we are pretty certain that not all cases of PD are the consequence of exposure to pesticides, these findings provide encouragement that we may be closer to finding the cause and a cure.  I can only hope that is the case.

As much as I would like to shift the blame for my having Parkinson’s to pesticides or some other external factor, let’s return for a moment to the assumption that I have some control over my own destiny.  A slightly revised formulation of my question would be:  is Parkinson’s a consequence of having lived a “bad” life?

I am sure that you will excuse me if I approach this question in my usual unorthodox manner by asking:  Did the Right Honourable John G. Diefenbaker have anything to do with my having Parkinson’s?  John Diefenbaker was Prime Minister of Canada from June 21, 1957, to April 22, 1963.  I was 8 years old when Diefenbaker was elected Prime Minister and I remember vividly being enthralled with this character.  I would listen to his voice quavering through the radio (we didn’t have a television yet) and I could imagine his lips (which had the odd quality of being thin skinned but plump at the same time, with the lower lip often in the pouting position) on the verge of launching a spray of spittle as he castigated then opposition leader Lester B. Pearson of the Liberals on some matter of policy or perhaps, personal, difference.   Diefenbaker was always fodder for political cartoonists but it was particularly so in his later years when his jowls would hang down below his chin, shaking in indignation at his critics both within and outside the Conservative Party.

[I am not going to expound on Diefenbaker’s record as a politician, as it is not germane to any argument that I am going to make here, other than to make a personal observation that his achievements make him look like a freakin’ socialist compared to our current Conservative Prime Minister.  Sorry, I couldn’t resist.]

At any rate a corollary question has to be asked.  Did Diefenbaker himself have Parkinson’s Disease?  Remember, this was a time when there was little research and little medical thinking on the nature or prevalence of PD.  One biographer, Phillip Buckner, says that Diefenbaker had a “nervous habit of shaking his jowls which led to rumours that he was suffering from Parkinson’s disease….” Of course an accusation of PD was designed to discredit Diefenbaker and cast doubt on his ability to lead a government.  On June 7, 2001 (22 years after Diefenbaker’s death,) the University of Saskatchewan took an unusual step to issue a press release, announcing research concluding that Diefenbaker did not suffer from Parkinson’s but had “essential tremor,” thus protecting, posthumously, his intellectual integrity and mental capacity to lead a Canadian national government.

OK, so what is all this about Diefenbaker?  The majority of you (a) weren’t even born when Diefenbaker was prime minister; (b) aren’t interested in historical political figures; (c) are apolitical; (d) live in another country; and e) think I have gone off my rocker.  These facts would indicate that I have gone in this direction pretty much to satisfy myself.  Could it be that I am now just beginning to understand that my recipe for blogging is one part self-indulgence on behalf of the writer, one part indulgence from the reader, and one part curiosity from both the writer and the reader as to whether any worthwhile windows on the writer’s soul will be opened if we continue?  I am not sure if you like this recipe, but as with any recipe, you should try it at least once – preferably not half-baked.

In spite of my early fascination with Diefenbaker, I was never a convert to his political vision and for years I openly made light of – no, I openly made fun of the possibility that Diefenbaker had Parkinson’s.  I would impersonate his voice and try to form a shake of my jowls (hidden beneath my beard!) in the most exaggerated manner possible with my lips quivering wetly and indignantly, “Ppppparkinson’s? Rrrriiiidicuulousss!”  It might have fit the atmosphere and political flavor of the moment and I recall that others and I laughed uproariously (more or less, depending on the amount of libation already consumed) at this totally inappropriate and spurious ad hominem attack.

So, I am left sometimes wondering:  am I now paying the price for some pretty stupid things I said about John G. Diefenbaker?  This is not the only stupid thing I have ever done in my life (my children will be surprised that I admit this,) but maybe it is the one thing that has floated to the top of some pond of scum that constitutes the totality of my failings, and the life I now live is matched to the chemical characteristics of that signature scum.

Sometimes the path and destination are not entirely clear. Photo: S. Marshall

Sometimes the path and destination are not entirely clear. Photo: S. Marshall

I haven’t made a study of how people rationalize life’s existence and condition, nor do I plan to do so.  Nevertheless, I would very surprised if any of us who have Parkinson’s doesn’t ask the question: why me?  [I am sure this is common for those who have other debilitating or life threatening conditions.]  And we begin to assess our life in ways that would offer an explanation.  There are, of course, many answers and many paths to follow in the quest for an answer.  Genetics? Pesticides? Other environmental factors?  God’s will?  The answer that makes sense to us as individuals provides the sustenance for our survival.  We need to understand and rationalize our existence, the condition of our existence, and the conditions placed upon our existence.  Not easy stuff to think about and not easy stuff to live.  Hopefully, each of us will find a path and an answer that allows for loving and caring relationships in our families and in our communities. I am exceedingly fortunate to have found such unequivocal love with Anne and all of our children.  But we must also, in our external relationships, free ourselves of bitterness and animosity to those who find different paths with different answers – whether existential or spiritual.

As I review these thoughts,  I am reminded that in a previous post, we flew perilously close to a philosophical sun without melting our wings; today I have taken us perilously close to religious concepts where we might conceivably burn up totally.  I have steered purposefully away from using words, concepts or constructs such as Heaven and Hell, sin and salvation.  Those ideas are undoubtedly on the path for many and are already part of the answer for many.  Are they part of mine?  They haven’t been to date. This is as far as I am prepared to go on this subject at the moment as it is quite foreign terrain for me.  Undoubtedly, I will wander there in future posts.

The only thing I am willing to concede is that I don’t for a minute think that John G. Diefenbaker would assign Parkinson’s Disease in an act of retribution from the Beyond.  But then, have I been speaking “literally” or “figuratively?”  Is Diefenbaker the personification of God?  I bet that he’s never been called that!  Although Dalton Camp may have called him the Devil!  (I hope this statement sends at least some of you scrambling for your Canadian political history books….)

So, why me?  It is not Diefenbaker’s doing.  I don’t believe it is because I led a “bad” life. Is it not fruitless to add up the totalities of one’s failures and successes to pass judgment on your life’s worth?  Anyway, isn’t that someone else’s job?  The jury is still out on the role of pesticides. And who knows whether I could have taken decisive action during my lifetime to change the course of my personal history with Parkinson’s?

Maybe the best answers are really questions: a) who knows (shrug)?  b) if gardens were planned like lives, would we have invented pesticides? and c) if lives were planned like gardens, would we have invented pesticides?

Bad Judgment: Letting The PD Gardener have the camera when his meds have worn off. Phota: S. Marshall

Bad Judgment: Letting The PD Gardener have the camera when his meds have worn off.       Photo: S. Marshall

In the Parkinson’s Garden: Ali, Michael J., and me

I am not sure what led me to consider writing a piece on humour and Parkinson’s Disease (PD.) On the surface, there does not seem to be much funny about Parkinson’s. I am not a particularly funny guy and I do not see myself as a humourist. My children may think I am funny (bless them) or more likely, that I have a weird sense of humour and that I am funny/strange (hey, in a good way.) Other than a few impromptu occasions when I played “Stanta” at the office Holiday lunch where I improvised a few in-house comments, I have avoided putting my mind to comedic endeavours. I do not write jokes, nor do I tell jokes particularly well. In fact, I barely remember any of the jokes I have heard over the past 60+ years and there have been tens of thousands of them.

Yet, here I am, sitting at the keyboard intent on writing about humour and Parkinson’s. Others have tackled this and done a far better job of it than I am likely to do (see Yuma Bev at http://www.parkinsonshumor.blogspot.com.) Perhaps, I am being deluded by dementia often associated with PD or maybe I have a propensity to achieve failure. Am I rising to the level of my own incompetence? [Oops, I almost typed “incontinence” instead of “incompetence.” That may well seep into my blog at some point, but not quite yet.]

Undoubtedly, a sense of humour is both learned and inherited. My father had a wry sense of humour and there are others in the extended family (living and dead) that I consider to have somewhat quirky outlooks on life. I confess though that the humour of the latter never developed much after their demise, but interestingly, the richness of their life stories did. Funny that.

Before I go too far, I think it is important to distinguish between humour and comedy. At the risk of appearing a bit “researchy,” and you know that I try to avoid rigourous research in this blog as much as possible, (some of my professors have told me I tried to do that in my academic work as well,) it is sometimes necessary to interject some sociological order into all universes. Dick Gregory, renowned American comedian and civil rights activist, described humour as everyday situations that happened in everyday life and relayed to others in informal settings. By contrast, comedy was paid work where individuals were divided into audience and performer – and the performer better have his/her comedic timing down pat.  With that in mind, I think that I am contemplating humour as opposed to comedy in this piece. But I do have PD and may appear to be confused, even if I am not.  Please read on to find out for certain.

I do not remember my paternal grandmother (Maud) well but my most explicit memories of her are from my childhood and teen years. (For the record, she was every bit the horticulturist that my grandfather was and I shall explore her talents more in later posts.) She always seemed to be a stern, straight-laced person, not particularly the cuddly type. Maybe being the mother of five sons had something to do with that. Nevertheless, I knew her to have quite a soft side. She was not above pulling one’s leg with some exaggeration or story of life. But she had one serious downfall – when she was engaged in some tomfoolery, she had an undeniable twinkle in her eyes. You only had to look at her straight on to learn whether what she was saying or doing was fact or fiction.

Maud "Granny" Marshall

Maud “Granny” Marshall   Photo: unknown

I inherited that same trait and it has proved to be my downfall on many occasions as I tried to pull off some spoof or other, or even, dare I say it, lie about something. My maternal grandfather (“Grampa Bill”) also possessed a well-developed sense of humour with no ability to conceal it so I am doubly cursed with this weakness. Those who know this fact quickly find me out in any ploy.  Genetically speaking, both sides of the family ganged up on me – for humour at least, and who knows about the PD?

Personifying Dick Gregory’s juxtaposition of humour with comedy, Grampa Bill also established himself as a performer – not so much paid as rewarded – in various social settings such as Legion Halls and gatherings of army buddies. He maintained a constant patter of jokes coupled with a long playlist of old standards and comedic ditties played on an old squeezebox. I did not inherit this latter talent but can only surmise that some residual features of it still percolate through my personality from time to time.

My children have grown accustomed to my (often) sad attempts at humour although it does create some genuinely funny and absurd conversations where we riff off one another with bad puns and malapropisms.  It is particularly fun in this electronic age of text messaging. They speak openly in front of me, as if I am not present, of their personal concerns about having my sense of humour. I am afraid that they have good reason but at least they have some early warning.  My greatest wish is that they inherit my sense of humour such as it is … and not any genetic propensity for Parkinson’s.

Humour can be learned to an extent but it can’t be forced. If you have ever witnessed someone who is unfunny trying to be funny, you know that it must come from deep inside the genetic code. I can hear my ancestors as I start into a conversation that has some potential to be funny. Hmmm … psychosis and hallucinations (both visual and auditory) are routinely part of the lives of approximately 25% of PwP, usually later in the progress of the disease.  There are several potential triggers for hallucinations but these are best left to another time. This is an aspect of PD that has not visited me yet. I am not sure it ever will but I can’t say that I am looking forward to it if it does.  Still, I don’t think that retrieving sub-conscious memories of past relatives constitute hallucinations but … I shall have to be careful about what I say here ….

What I am about to write now would shock my grandmother and I doubt that there would be a twinkle in her eye – more likely she would have some sharp words uttered through pursed thin lips. Nevertheless, I shall charge ahead in some perceived need to edify myself about the fact that comedy and humour may take different forms even if the situation is essentially the same.

Consider the following scenario: you find yourself (assuming you are male) between Muhammad Ali and Michael J. Fox at the urinals at a baseball game. (If you are female, make any assumptions you wish.) By the way, I have taken the fundamental premise of this scenario from a real joke circulating on the Internet.

A comedian or comedy writer is likely the one who thought up this scenario and in its telling will add some quick repartee about having to be careful with all that shaking going on (Parkinson’s you know, wink, wink.) Regardless of how much beer or other liquid has been consumed by any of the parties involved, the interaction (and the joke) is over quickly.

Others will also have contemplated this scenario but will have presaged it with considerable verbiage around never having met Muhammad Ali and being disappointed that the only celebrity in sight at the game played in Los Angeles has been Michael J. Fox who was almost overlooked, as he was so short. The writer opines that he paid a bundle for the tickets because he wanted to see some celebrities. Late in the game he makes a trip to the bathroom and, lo and behold, he sees Muhammad Ali and is so overcome with excitement that he extends his hand to shake Ali’s while he is at the urinal. Of course this is a dodgy proposition at the best of times. The comic then clumsily mutters something about being glad he did not end up between Ali and Fox.  [shakey, Parkinson’s, yada yada.]  The joke ends up in essentially the same place.

However, let’s assume that you are a PwP and further assume that you have a sense of humour.  PD humour is largely self-deprecating and based on our personal, lived experience.  It transpires that you actually do end up, by pure happenstance, at the urinals in a real life situation between Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali. Wow! The humour is in the account of the meeting. After all, whom do you pretend not to glance at first? Add your own Parkinson’s shakiness into the equation and suddenly Ali and Fox have something to fear as well. Further, the fact that Muhammad Ali is 6 ft. 3 in. and Michael J. Fox is 5 ft. 4 in. provides all kinds of potential for quips about being drenched from head to toe, etc.  But what separates this PwP account of the meeting at the urinals from others is that it is experiential and the humour flows from that fact. There may well have been an exchange between Ali and Fox as they know one another; and you, yourself, may have participated in the exchange. The humour is in the telling of a true story, but with just enough embellishment to make the listener check to see if there is a twinkle in your eye … or not.

But there is nothing funny about Parkinson’s Disease, is there?  It is a disease to be feared and among the last words you ever want to hear from a neurologist are, “you have Parkinson’s.”  However, my neurologist did say to me recently, “you have six months left.”  It turned out that he was referring to how long my current prescription for L-dopa would last. I never really thought I only had six months left to live, but it was funny to hear it, as he said it. Why is that?

But what are you going to do, when life deals you a lousy hand? Oh you know, there are all the usual motivational sayings and/or lyrics from uplifting songs: “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” “Just pick yourself up, dust yourself off and start all over again.” “Dig down deep and fight back.” They don’t really work for me.

I am not trying to downplay the importance of motivational and inspirational sayings, or soul-strengthening passages from the texts of various religions. They are important to each of us in how we face PD and its intractable march to destroy our brains and bodies. For me, humour has its own inspiration and is more than a coping mechanism; it is one of the essential ingredients for quality of life and survival.

I have great admiration for the Michael J Fox show and everyone involved with it. It is difficult to write Parkinson’s humor – too obvious and it appears that you are mocking those who have PD – too subtle and only those who know the details of Parkinson’s will get it. There is a need to strike a balance between the two.  As a PwP, I truly appreciate the subtle humour that makes me feel I am an “insider,” privy to information that only very few others have. But then again, I want some things to be really obvious, front and centre; to raise the profile of PD, providing education and awareness to the ravages of this very unfunny disease; to drive home the points that more research and funding is required to find a cure; to impress that economic, social and health policy need to be aligned to provide quality of life so that dignity is not the final victim of PD.

Do I think that the Michael J. Fox Show is the best comedy show on TV? No, but I do laugh out loud more than three times each week which is better than the bar I set for many other shows.

So, what if I met Michael J. Fox and Muhammad Ali in my garden? Ha!  That is a scenario even more unlikely than my meeting them at the urinals. But if I did meet them in my garden, we would hear Anne shrieking: “ Watch where you guys are treading! There are tender young seedlings under there you know!” I have heard this admonition many, many times as I lurch around the garden like Young Frankenstein when my meds are wearing off.  Intellectually, I know what is happening and I look down in a sort of “out of body” experience to see my feet heading wherever they feel like, while my mind is stepping as delicately as possible. I have come to enjoy “lurching”, at which I am getting ever better.  If you haven’t tried it, maybe you should. It is good exercise with those long strides that force you to concentrate to avoid pitching head over teakettle into the shrubbery.

The challenge of the garden wall   photo: S. Marshall

The challenge of the garden wall    Photo: S. Marshall

I often find myself focusing on the 8-inch garden wall in front of me as if I were about to attack the balance beam at an international gymnastics competition. If I can reach it without damaging some baby brown-eyed Susan’s, I will have exited the garden with minimal damage. Wait, don’t they grow like weeds anyway? Why am I so concerned about them? I tell myself to hell with the brown-eyed Susan’s – just get one foot on the wall and then step down to the path without gaining any extra momentum. If I lose the battle of agility to the one of speed, I will end up crossing the path, crashing through the Monarda (Marshall’s Delight no less) and pitching into the Rosa Rugosa. What follows will be the ignominy of a cross-examination as to why I smell vaguely of spicy herbal tea, have scratches all over my hands and arms, and rose petals in my hair.  

It is at this point that I call on “Brother John” (Anne’s brother) as a role model for balance success.  I am much indebted to Brother John for a classic image of him raising his arms in triumph as he executed a perfect landing, after launching himself from his sitting position on the couch to a standing position directly in front of the couch. With that portrait of success etched into my dopamine deprived brain, I initiate a long graceful stride to the wall and then a split second later, another one to the path with my arms high in the air in the victory position – the audience roaring its approval and the announcer shouting, “Wow!  He really stuck that landing.” I don’t believe it until I check myself for rose thorns and/or blood trickling down my bare arms.  

I do sometimes fantasize that Ali, Michael J. and I are in the garden. I am pretty sure this is a fantasy and not a hallucination.  The collateral damage would be considerable but it would be the best and probably funniest day of my life! Ali would be bobbing and weaving, playing rope-a-dope against the fence with his head just visible among the Joe Pye weed, Jerusalem Artichoke, and Rudbeckia quoting poetry: “… float like a butterfly and sting like a bee,” appropriate for any self respecting perennial garden. Michael J. would be channeling Alex Keaton, vainly waving his arms about in the shorter brown-eyed Susan’s and Echinacea to convince us that this waste of space could be put to better use as a condo development. Or perhaps MJF would provide a private re-enactment of Marty McFly and the famous guitar performance of “Johnny B Good” in Back to the Future, only this time from the “Gardens.”  In any case, seedlings and full-grown plants stand directly in harm’s path.

 

Is Ali bobbing and weaving with Joe Pye, Jerusalem Artichoke and Rudbeckia?  Photo: S. Marshall

Is Ali bobbing and weaving with Joe Pye among the Jerusalem Artichoke and Rudbeckia? Photo: S. Marshall

But back to reality. My response to Anne’s shrieks to step carefully is invariably the same, “if you want a gardener with PD to clean up this mess of weeds, you have to expect some collateral damage! I am not called The PD Gardener for nothing, you know.”  That, along with a well-timed diversionary question about the new peony in a bed I haven’t yet tramped across, usually buys me enough time to escape the scene of the carnage.

There is much more to be said about humour, gardens and Parkinson’s, and all the permutations and combinations cannot be addressed in one post. I was going to say “short post” but you would snicker at that characterization. I shall return in future ramblings to chat about the Parkinson’s world, from the inside out.

In the meantime, I have learned that gardens, for the most part, recover from unintentional Parkinson’s invasions. And the benefit to a PwP for having the opportunity “to trod” in such gardens is immeasurable. Any sacrifices the flora has made are returned more than a hundred fold to the maintenance of a healthy PwP outlook on life. I have also learned that finding humour in what we are and what we do is critical to understanding that, while not everything in life is what we would wish, when one is in the garden, alone or with loved ones and friends, life is damn near perfect.   

Maneuvering in this garden is a challenge!  Photo: S. Marshall

This garden would be perfect if I hadn’t stepped on the seedlings!   Photo: S. Marshall

Parkinson’s and the Gardener’s Shadow

Every year about this time, I begin to look out at the frozen tundra of our garden and wimper, “everything’s dead ….”

 

"Everything's dead ..." Photo: S. Marshall

“Everything’s dead … ” Photo: S. Marshall

But the magic always returns in the spring with snowdrops and crocus shoots emerging even before the snow and ice have fully receded. I marvel at the resilience of the flora that survives in the Ottawa Valley.  In the gardening parlance of plant hardiness zones, we are mostly in zone 3 but plants hardy to zone 4 and 5 often survive in specific microclimates. 

I don’t know why I am surprised, because I grew up in the even harsher climate of the Manitoba prairie where zone 2 would be the order of the day with some zone 3 locations.  And my family in The Pas, Manitoba and Humboldt, Saskatchewan (in sub-arctic zones) would snort at any suggestion that the Ottawa climate is “harsh” compared to what they live through.  Nevertheless, they do try to rationalize their choice to continue living in such a climate by citing the old saw that theirs is a “dry” cold, and therefore they are not really that cold.  However, anyway you slice it, the mean annual temperature of The Pas – 0.3 C (31.5 F) compared to Ottawa 6 C (42.8 F) tells the story.  Ottawa is cold and The Pas is damn cold – ‘nuff said.

It is small wonder that humans have spent considerable effort to overcome their environment by developing a variety of shelter options and energy uses to provide protection from the cold, and heat in other parts of the world. Of course, there is considerable evidence that we have not been effective stewards of planet earth in our efforts to protect the very environment we are protecting ourselves from, so to speak. I will not address that issue today but, rest assured, it will return to these pages in the future. It is too important to ignore.

There are many who would avow that nature should always be allowed to take her own course without human intervention.  Of course, this idea, unfettered and taken at its extreme, cannot be achieved. It would mean that humans could never intervene in the course of nature in order to better the human condition, or indeed to survive. Humans have always sought to “tame” nature, to “overcome” nature, to “improve upon” nature, to “protect” them from nature’s wrath as well as to “benefit” from nature’s bounty. 

There are countless theses and dissertations written in disciplines as varied as engineering, philosophy, environmental science, sociology, psychology, architecture, and literature to name but a few, exploring the relationship that humans have with nature. I don’t plan to engage in an academic exercise of outlining all of the issues and conducting some sort of meta-analysis by formulating hypotheses and reaching conclusions – believe me, I am as thankful for this as you are. My observations are, as usual, anecdotal and unscientific but hopefully thought provoking.  

It is important to understand that the gardener always will tinker in the garden and always will intervene to alter the course of nature, sometimes for the better and sometimes for the worse. And sometimes just to show that we can. It was reported recently that a man in Chidham, West Sussex in the UK has successfully grafted 250 varieties of apples onto one tree over the course of some 24 years. Don’t believe me? Google it.  

Upon reading that account, I was reminded of my watching, as a young child, my paternal grandfather (Bob) grafting what seemed to me to be twigs onto various types of trees in his orchard.  He meticulously demonstrated how to prune the spear being grafted at a precise angle to be inserted into an incision in a branch of the receiving tree. It would be bound with twine or a piece of bark and covered with a type of rooting hormone and gum to cover the tender incision.  I am told he was successful in grafting more tender varieties of apples onto hardier rootstock and even produced some apricots in a climate not favourable to such tender fruits in southern Manitoba.

That is a fine memory indeed but do you know what I really remember?  I remember my grandfather’s hands as he manipulated his old pocketknife (sharpened on a foot powered treadle grinder in the farm shop) in a gentle but firm procedure. I remember his thick thumbs and fingers, seemingly incapable of such dexterity, being more than adequate to slip the young scion into the incision for the graft. Those fingers had often used that same pocketknife to cut a slice of apple, proffered to me with pride, from one of the many varieties grown in the orchard on his farm. And amazingly, even though Parkinson’s has diminished my sense of smell considerably, the crisp scent of that apple still tingles in my olfactory lobe. Tart and clean.

Not even sure what kind of apples these are.  Must get my pocket knife. Photo: S.Marshall

Not even sure what kind of apples these are. Must get my pocket knife. Photo: S.Marshall

But more than that, I remember those same thumbs and fingers on my father’s hands as he tended his flowers and vegetables in Manitoba and Saskatchewan. A short growing season, but loam rich soil and many hours of sunshine made for a fast transition from spring planting to fall harvest. Dad also had a pocketknife which he used to cut into various fruits and seeds in his efforts to provide an education on gardening (if not horticulture) to a mostly unreceptive teenager – me. I watched his hands grow old in the garden, in his workshop, and in his efforts to keep his mind sharp by filling out every crossword and Sudoku puzzle he could find, in pen. 

Today, I look down to see those same thumbs and fingers on my own hands as I deadhead spent flowers, root out troublesome weeds, and dig with an old spade to move, remove, or replace various perennials. But there is no pocketknife in my hands. The era of security checks at airports have diminished their numbers, although I am pretty sure that I have one or two tucked away in my ‘odds and sods’ drawers (yes, more than one drawer.) However, unlike my father’s or grandfather’s, my hands often shake and my fingers fumble to meet the task at hand. Parkinson’s is never far away if it is not immediately present.

But I am not disturbed by my inadequacies. Rather, I am heartened that I had the great fortune to witness those hands fly across three generations with a destiny to toil in a vocation (for my grandfather) and an avocation (for my father and me) to assist nature in creating beauty, joy and satisfaction.

Humans have long put their own stamp on ‘gardens,’ witness the many and varied formal and informal garden types neatly categorized within a nationalist typology: English, French, Japanese, Dutch, Korean, Spanish, Persian, Chinese, Italian, etc. All are created with plants and hardscape endemic to their namesake nations, if not to their immediate environs. But most have unmistakable human influences that, while artificial, are evidence of efforts to “improve” upon nature. I was reminded of this during a short walk we took recently in the Gatineau Hills north of Ottawa.

William Lyon Mackenzie King was Prime Minister of Canada for a remarkable 22 years in total during the years 1921 – 1948 and developed a country retreat at Kingsmere north of Ottawa in Quebec. He bequeathed that estate to the people of Canada and, among other things, the public is welcome to view his attempts at creating “ruins” on the property. He salvaged portions of buildings and landmarks being demolished in Ottawa and relocated them to Kingsmere. It is widely known that Mackenzie King was quirky to say the least, and some may think that these “ruins” are folly but most visitors would likely agree that they are creative enhancements to nature’s already established beauty.

Does this ruin the View? Photo: S. Marshall

Does this ruin the view? Photo: S. Marshall

Still, anyone who gardens knows that nature is not always beneficent and we sometimes intervene deliberately with the intention of altering the trajectory of a phenomenon that is harmful. On a very small scale, I am trying to root out some very invasive vinca minor (periwinkle) that is threatening to take over and choke an entire bed of hostas and other innocent victims. Periwinkle, in its place, is a very fine, hardy ground cover that can thrive in considerable shade and has a lovely, small flower (periwinkle of course.) Unchecked, it wants to take over the world.

Vinca minor (periwinkle) would like to take over the world. Photo: S. Marshall

Vinca minor (periwinkle) would like to take over the world. Photo: S. Marshall

Whether I like it or not, I have Parkinson’s Disease, a natural phenomenon with no known cure. It is neurologically invasive.  Many organizations are working diligently and relentlessly to fund and conduct scientific research to achieve a cure. Success would mean a monumental change in the course of history for millions of Persons with Parkinson’s (PwP) and their families, and for those who are at risk for Parkinson’s. I do not expect to benefit personally from this work. The time frame is too short; the disease is too advanced. No matter, it is critical to continue to pursue a cure. Scientists, Parkinson’s support groups, fundraising organizations, fundraisers, caregivers, family members of PwP, individuals and philanthropists are all in agreement that a cure is our primary goal. But there are at least three corollary ‘meantimes.’

In the first ‘meantime’, we continue to use the gold standard of levodopa along with an array of other pharmaceuticals to keep the disease in check and to help us remain upright in a never-ending struggle to defy the inevitable.  Chemical assistance works to a certain degree but there are long-term and short-term side effects, and drugs do wear off. 

In the second ‘meantime’ we pursue strategies to alter the functioning of the brain.  For example, Deep Brain Stimulation (DBS) is an invasive brain surgery that has brought relief to many PwP.  I am privileged to have met someone recently who had DBS although at the time of this writing he has yet to have the stimulus unit fine-tuned to its final settings. Nevertheless, it is a pleasure to witness the improvement in his tremor even without the full effect. It was also a pleasure to witness the genuine excitement and relief that he and his spouse exhibited throughout a lengthy process of being accepted, having the surgery, and in the immediate post-surgery period. I am confident that the next time we meet they will be wildly satisfied with the outcome.

There is also hope that a newer, less invasive ultrasound brain procedure will be as effective as DBS by focusing ultrasound waves on a specific part of the brain killing the cells causing the tremor. This procedure requires neither invasive surgery nor a general anesthetic and holds great promise to alleviate some symptoms and provide a much improved quality of life for PwP and their families. 

I am under no illusion that DBS or ultrasound is a “cure.” They are not. Some of the more problematic characteristics of Parkinson’s are decreased but not totally eliminated.  Most patients receiving the treatment still require drugs such as levodopa but usually in much reduced quantities. DBS or ultrasound is not for everyone. In my own case, I do have considerable tremour when the medication wears off but my major concern is cramping and pain in my legs and feet. I am not sure that these can be changed through these procedures.

Other research seeking to unlock the genetic code of PD is underway and may well lead to the discovery of ‘markers’ allowing for earlier identification and treatment. All scientific research must continue.

It would be an understatement to say that PwP, families and caregivers are praying that a cure can be found. Those of us in our mid-sixties or older know the likelihood of a cure within our lifetimes is exceedingly slim. Perhaps those with early onset Parkinson’s will see the development of a cure. Realistically, that would be my greatest wish and the best possible outcome.

In the third ‘meantime’, we must focus on other measures such as exercise to delay the progression of Parkinson’s and to alleviate some of its immediate effects.  The October 2013 World Parkinson’s Congress in Montreal brought together research scientists, physicians, PwP and their families, caregivers, therapists, health and social work professions, health policy analysts, fundraising organizations, advocates, and many others from around the world to inform, discuss, analyze and make recommendations.  I did not attend but followed the congress on various websites and Twitter postings.

At the time I did not know many PwP personally but still the excitement about the Congress was palpable, driven by a sense that all players in the Parkinson’s equation would meet on common ground to share critical information to make a quantum leap towards enhanced quality of life for PwP and their families, and a cure.

The concept of exercise – moving our bodies in some deliberate physical manner for at least 30 minutes each day – was pervasive at the Congress. It is beneficial to those facing a wide variety of physical and mental illnesses. Parkinson’s is one of those.  I am not fooling myself into thinking that exercise can cure any disease but it appears that its greatest benefit is to delay the progression of some of the most problematic symptoms e.g., rigidity, stiffness, slowing of gait, feelings of weakness, imbalance, etc.  As long as these can be delayed, changed, or improved, exercise is a good prescription. There is even a very good campaign in the UK to have physicians prescribe exercise as per guidance issued to the National Health Service by the UK National Institute of Health and Care Excellence. (See Exercise Works! http://www.exercise-works.org/.)

Exercise for PwP can take a wide variety of forms with walking, Nordic pole walking, cycling, running, x-country skiing, downhill skiing, snowshoeing, aerobic exercises, rowing, Pilates, yoga, dance, Tai Chi, and boxing being among the most popular.  The National Ballet School in Canada and the Mark Morris Dance Group for PD in New York have specific ballet and dance classes for PwP.  Each type of exercise has its adherents and specific selling points – cardiovascular, flexibility, balance, strength, concentration, etc.  Nevertheless, they are all in agreement, exercise is critical to physical and mental health in PD and to delaying the disease.  (Nevertheless, Anne and I do have a good chortle when we imagine me doing arabesques or pirouettes. Don’t underestimate the importance of laughter in the medicine cabinet.)

Rather than ballet, I have been developing a regimen of cardiovascular training using a NordicTrack machine, some light weight training with free weights, along with aggressive gardening (attacking weeds and invasive plants with vigour.)  Coupled with good nutrition and eating habits, I lost over 35 pounds since January 2013 and I feel better. Or at least I did until recently when I seem to have developed some issues with sciatica and/or right hip. My neurologist is clear it is not PD related so I continue to explore the problem with other doctors. This new development, while somewhat painful, has me very much frustrated that I am not able to continue my regular exercise routine. I take this frustration to be further anecdotal proof of the thesis that exercise is beneficial as it has a negative consequence when withdrawn. I am currently awaiting results from x-rays and will be seeking further medical attention in the coming weeks.  Stay tuned.  

You know, I have always thought that I was ‘progressive’ but I didn’t really want to have progressive aging along with a progressive neurodegenerative disease – both incurable by the way.  In any case, it is sometimes difficult to discern which symptoms are related to PD and which are just related to getting older. PD itself is a series of ups and downs, good days and bad days. Growing old just adds to the fun! Ain’t life just peachy that way?

I once told a student that he should always write something to signal that his paper has a conclusion, or is coming to a conclusion. His next paper succinctly intoned: “Here comes the end.” So, take heart, the end (of this post only!) is near.

Today, we have drifted perilously close to some heated philosophical debates about humans and nature without having ventured so near as to melt our wings. We will need those wings for other flights into the worlds of Parkinson’s and gardens, as they do meet regularly but mysteriously.

Just as every gardener casts a long shadow and a watchful eye over the garden in the belief that we can improve on nature, every person touched by Parkinson’s tries to cast a shadow over this hated disease to alter its natural course.

I leave you with these questions: Can humans partner with Nature on an equal basis to create beauty? Can humans win the struggle with Nature to eradicate the ugly?

The gardener's shadow is omnipresent. Photo: S. Marshall

The gardener’s shadow is omnipresent. Photo: S. Marshall

 

Going Home with Parkinson’s: Always a few surprises

 

When I was a teenager, we had a silly saying that went as follows: So I said to myself, “Self, don’t go away. But I turned around and there I was, gone.” I make no claim as to its origin but it seems to demark some sense of searching for identity, or more appropriately, a sense that our identities were rapidly changing and no sooner had we latched onto the latest version than it was gone.  Gardens are a bit that way actually, ever changing over the seasons.

Please garden: don't go away Photo: S. Marshall

Please garden: don’t go away.   Photo: S. Marshall

My last post was largely about searching for an identity in a new Parkinson’s body and the saying would have been apt to describe that process. However, this post is largely about dealing with Parkinson’s on a day-to-day basis while revisiting an identity that I have been shedding for about ten months.  

I am a retired staff from the Canadian Union of Public Employees (CUPE). I will not bore you with all of my tasks and responsibilities, as I don’t believe they are germane to this post. Suffice it to say that I was employed in several senior positions for almost 24 years. It is impossible for the work, and more importantly, the people, to have not influenced almost every aspect of my persona.

This influence was brought into sharp relief recently when my wife, Anne, and I attended the 50th anniversary convention of CUPE in Quebec City.  CUPE has a wonderful practice of inviting those who retired after last convention to attend the next convention. This gracious gesture acknowledges the contributions of the recent retiree, permits the retiree to meet and greet colleagues both old and new, and allows the retiree to witness the formulation of new policy and practice as the union moves forward. Don’t worry; I will not bore you with policy decisions and debates, although I am sure they would be interesting to some, and infuriating to others.

Over 2500 delegates and staff. How many will have to deal with PD in future? Photo: S. Marshall

Over 2500 delegates and staff.  How many will have to deal with PD in their lifetimes?  Photo: S. Marshall

I didn’t know what to expect as we made our way to Quebec City. On the one hand, I was excited with eager anticipation to see members and staff who were so integral to the mission of the union.  I had worked closely with thousands of them. On the other hand, as the kilometers clicked away on the train, I had a sense of trepidation.  I would be meeting many people, for the first time, as a Person with Parkinsons (PwP). How would they react – hell, how would I react? I was not concerned about my own mental state as I indicated in my last post, I have largely come to grips with Parkinson’s and my identity. I was more concerned about how my Parkinson’s body would react? Would I be able to control my temours so that I didn’t look like my legs were going to fall out from underneath me?  Would the pain debilitate me at inappropriate times such that I would regret being in the presence of others? I did not want to appear frail and weak. Would I have the stamina required to do all of the things I wanted to do? I just didn’t know what would happen.

I was right to be concerned about the tremours, the pain and the fatigue. They did cause some problems throughout the five-day meeting. Because I am now in touch with the rhythms of my body in ways I had never been before, I tried to prepare ahead of time.  Foolishly, I did not consider the obvious: convention carries on all day and into the evenings with forums, rallies, and other events, as well as dinners out with friends. And Quebec City has such great restaurants with remarkable cuisine.  In short, convention is a 12 – 13 hour endeavor each and every day for those who want to absorb everything.  Non-PwP are thrilled by this prospect and often work and/or party late into the night, extending the hours even further. Ah, I remember my own staff days “fondly” where it was not unusual to work 18 hours each day during convention.

But this time, I made a personal commitment to engage in at least 30 minutes of cardiovascular exercise each day, and I found myself in unfamiliar territory as a PwP. The hotel had a gym and the first two days I hit the treadmill early so as to be at convention on time. However, I failed to consider that it takes about 1½ hours after waking for my L-dopa to kick in. This meant that those early gym dates were particularly tiring.  This was compounded by a departure from my strict adherence to nutrition that maximizes PwP performance of daily activities (a long way of saying that those restaurants are really fantastic with multi-course meals, wine and desserts.) I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that fatigue caught up to me quickly and I couldn’t sustain the pace. To make a long story short, I opted to forgo evening sessions and late dinners for the last three days and I no longer went to the gym but I did walk on one other day. (Please note: I returned to a strict regimen of exercise and proper diet upon returning home.)

When fatigue catches up to me I walk slowly and with great effort. I am usually in pain and I have strange muscle and nerve sensations in my legs and feet, and have noticeable tremour in my left leg. Even in casual situations such as a dinner with friends, my left leg shakes and I have muscle cramping and pain. I used to think it was some form of stress that caused this but now I am convinced it is “stimulus” that is the trigger. Whenever my mental senses are heightened, the symptoms are exacerbated. It is important to note that this does not apply during physical exercise which seems to override the mental stimulus. Sorry, I seem to have lapsed into some musing on a subject about which I am not qualified to analyze.

It was at that point that the word “disabled” became real to me for the very first time. It has crossed my mind a few times since diagnosis, but not seriously as retirement tends to cast a different hue on the matter. At convention it hit me fully that it would be impossible for me to carry out the responsibilities of my previous position without considerable accommodation.  In Canada, PD is considered a disability. I have never really considered myself to be disabled but that reality is now upon me. It is not a word (or a condition) for me to hide behind nor should I. I want to pursue life in all its forms and will continue to do so. But I am also cognizant that as a PwP, I can no longer participate in society in a manner equal to my former self.  There is a longer discussion to be had on this point but it will have wait for another time. Those of you who have laboured through this text to this point are undoubtedly relieved.

So, what surprised me?

CUPE traditionally opens and closes convention with Solidarity Forever and Bread and Roses, performed in both English and French. Of course, this was not new to me having attended countless other conferences and conventions. But to my surprise, I was quite noticeably (to me anyway) emotional during the singing of Du Pain et des Roses – a feminist and labour anthem, and slogan that has its roots in the Lawrence, Massachusetts textile strike of 1912 and reprised in a revised form in the 1995 March of Women against Poverty.

Once you hear the uncomplicated clarity of the lyrics of Du Pain et des Roses, it’s refrain and demands are etched in your mind forever. Have a listen here to the group Break Syndical who performed it at convention.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jsY0ODVIjCA

Over the course of the week many staff and members made their way to our seats in the convention hall to say hello and pass on their good wishes. And each walk through the convention centre and hotel was a walk through a gauntlet of handshakes and hugs. I really loved seeing everyone and exchanging a few words, if even only for a few moments. However, I was not prepared for my reaction after you left. I would lean over to Anne to say a few words about you and I would be unable to enunciate these words as the emotions welled up inside.

I am not certain exactly what was happening. Perhaps, it was the realization that I would never again have the opportunity to be in the presence of those who are so dedicated to making a positive difference in society. During convention, Tomson Highway, renowned Canadian playwright, novelist and musician, told delegates he has always seen trade unions as “the guardians of human dignity.” Perhaps, it was the realization that I no longer had a central role in policies and campaigns to continue that custodianship.

Or perhaps, some of it was Parkinson’s. About 15% of PwP do exhibit symptoms of a neurological phenomenon called involuntary emotional expression disorder (IEED.)  It is a “non-motor” symptom of PD that is not well understood.  In any case, those who experience it find themselves, for example, being tearful in a manner disproportionate to a particular event.  Over the past several years I had noticed a change in my “sensibilities” such that I would be close to tears during commercials on TV – and these were commercials about new cars and household products, not intended to be tearjerkers! Of course, this change could be attributable to personal weakness rather than to PD, and you realize that as a man, I am not prepared to admit such a thing openly.  Should I be embarrassed?  I am not really. I am just trying to figure out what is happening and trying to do so in a reasoned fashion. So, I am going to blame it on Parkinson’s.

Anne remarked several times during the week that she felt as if she were accompanying a rock star, as everyone wanted to reach out and touch me. Her words, not mine. It was a bit like that.  But truth be known, I wanted to touch you as much or more. It was my opportunity to have tactile contact with some of the most dedicated individuals I have ever had the good fortune to encounter. And it would very likely be the last time – just a fact of life. I will leave multiple farewell tours to Kiss, Cher, The Rolling Stones and the Beach Boys.

There were many handshakes and hugs. Oh, there were a few (but very few) fake hugs as not everyone was a friend of mine within the union, and polite protocol prevailed. This is not surprising.  What was surprising to me was the genuine, warm, heartfelt reception I felt had from everyone I encountered. Rest assured, it was reciprocated.

I must offer a sincere apology to many of you though as I am afraid what you received was a very sweaty hug from a PwP.  In fact, sweating uncontrollably (hyperhidrosis) for no apparent reason is another symptom of PD and is often an early warning sign although it is not the same for everyone. PD affects the autonomic nervous system such that it loses its ability to regulate the body. Excessive perspiration may also be a consequence of PD drugs such as Levadopa that is critical to manage symptoms such as tremor. 

My first memorable encounter with this problem was when I was working on an election campaign for a candidate at a local polling station. I was literally dripping as I examined the voters’ list. I am certain workers at the poll were less than thrilled but I hope my candidate realized how much sweat I put into her campaign! At convention I am surprised that you didn’t back off and say: “Get away from me you great sweaty beast!” You are to be commended for your politeness, or perhaps you were a woman who was suffering through a hot flash and the feeling was mutual.

At the end of the week, I was happy as the kilometers clicked back up the tracks towards Ottawa. I had a great time overall. I was proud of the work that my former colleagues produced in order to make convention a huge success setting the path for another two years. But most of all, I was happy to be headed back to our garden – time to put it to bed for another year. Snow would be soon upon us and I had already begun the intellectual enterprise of plotting human intervention (for better of for worse) into Nature’s master plan to recreate another garden to stimulate and excite our senses, and challenge our abilities. Hmmm, sounds like the subject matter for another blog.

In the case of gardens, they definitely do not listen to my admonitions not to go away, and when I turn around they are gone. 

Still beautiful but almost gone (for the winter.) Photo: S. Marshall

Still beautiful but almost gone (for the winter.) Photo: S. Marshall