Spurs that Jingle-Jangle-Jingle

I’ve got bony spurs on the bottoms of my feet. They must be left over from a past life as a bird, cause they look exactly like what I’d install if I was going to be a bird. They’ve always been there but I only discovered them years ago when they started to hurt. Dr Fred said the reason they hurt is because they are pressing on a nerve. He said they are pressing on a nerve because I am too heavy. Combine that with pounding the pavement to deliver the mail and you have a recipe for sore feet. He said they could be surgically removed, treated with cortizone injections or I could get orthopaedic shoes but that the best bet would be to lose 20 pounds. I took door number four, but then again, but who can resist new shoes?

I hooked up with the specialist and we did a bit of this and that and finally he held my foot in a certain position, a position I felt was guaranteed by his education and experience to be the correct position, and asked his assistant to tape my foot so that they could make a plaster cast of it. “Like this?” he asked, as my foot slumped inward. “No like this,” said the specialist, repositioning. And away he went. As the assistant taped my foot it inevitably slumped inward and out of position. I had visions of walking around on shoes that would wreck not only my feet, but my posture, my ability to run for a bus. I sacrificed the hundred bucks and abandoned the shoe search.

Those bony spurs are getting on my nerves again; a combination of finding that that extra twenty pounds I lost and long days on my feet. They hurt like hell. At night my feet seize up a bit like a charlie horse. Getting to the shower is like walking on hot coals as the pain travels right up to my shoulders and I have to lean on every available surface to get there. As I sit here eating some ice cream, once again favouring the lose-twenty-pounds option, I find I’d like to scream and holler a little, get some sympathy. But who am I whining to? Working on the front lines I am talking to people with walkers and people with congenital diseases and other non-self-inflicted ailments.

So if you see me suddenly lose weight, that’s why. In the mean time I am overdue for a visit to Sherway Gardens. It is the only mall that I really like. It fills me with a sense that all is well with the world and that people there have never a care. One of these days I’m going to head over there and chew everyone’s ears off about all of my problems and your problems and maybe that will make all of us feel better.

And maybe they have some kind of wheely device for me to get around in while I’m doing it.


The End of the Tunnel

Our culture is so focused on that light at the end of the tunnel. I find I am so easily derailed when I can’t see it. Maybe it’s a bend in the tunnel, maybe the light goes out, but the panic, the flailing in the dark, the desire to give up, to press re-start and build a new character is terrific. I wonder if it really happens, if these deja-vus we all get are cause we already played this part of the game before. I wonder if that’s cheating.

On a trip to Vermont once, Mike aka the Best was driving and I was gawking at the scenery; up and around the winding roads, green valleys, steepled towns, low-hanging sky. We saw a rainbow, bright as can be with all its colours intact and as we wound around hips and curves of hills we got closer and closer. The excitement grew and then, quite suddenly we saw it – the foot of the rainbow planted firmly on the road in front of us. We drove through it in a shower of pixie dust and revelations of forgotten spiritual treasures and I felt for sure that life would be smooth sailing after that.

But maybe that wasn’t the lesson. Maybe the lesson was that the light at the end of the tunnel is a beautiful and compelling guide, but the point of the journey is all of the bright souls that light the tunnel along the way.


Oh crap. I just realized that June went by without a Mom’s day thing.

I think this is the first year of… twenty or so that we have missed it. No picnic, no get-together, no graph paper or Joe Louis’.

I remember her letter about caring for each other, about doing our work well, about getting together at least once a year and I suppose we are still doing all of those things if not in a linear fashion. I tell myself that is the main thing. That it’s about celebrating the living.

Happy Mom’s day, family.