Right-click to download printable, full-size version of card.

 

Folding the printed version once in each direction should create a traditional card.

2017 Annual Letter

Signs of aging

Indications of a certain stage of life are indeed growing more numerous. Not all are physical. Has anyone else begun identifying with Mr. Spencer? Still worry about where the ducks in Central Park go for winter, however more and more time is spent pondering Holden’s disappointing essay on the Egyptians. Plus, I suspect Chris is planning on gifting me a Navajo blanket this year.

 

Rock of ageism

When asked which cultures have reputations for revering old age, many people think of East Asia. An educational company in Vancouver has been happy enough with my work to issue an invitation to teach in China for a year. The next day, the manager apologized as she retracted the offer, explaining that I was too old. The Chinese government does not issue work permits to someone of my dotage. Instead, I am domestically developing the curriculum for some international high schools in China. Instead, younger, fitter teachers will trek to the Red Dragon while this bag of bones remains in Canada, the Great White-Haired (and balding) North. A shorter trip to the Orient to check on the program has been proferred for the future. Here’s hoping these phlebotic veins can handle the long flight.

 

Rock my sole in the bosom of Asics’ cram

Who knew that theoretical knowledge and actually acting on that knowledge could make such a difference? It’s embarrassing to admit that it wasn’t until this year that I finally wised up and ordered shoes in extra-wide EEEE sizes. While my outsized feet are thankful, can’t help but presume they might harbor some resentment at the decades of abuse from being crammed into “normal” footwear. Coupled with last-year’s realization I had been tilting the car’s rear-view mirror the wrong way since learning to drive, I wonder what new revelations the coming years may bring. My insides are in knots wondering if they can stomach a new way to tie laces or fold fitted sheets. Might 2018 be the year when the paper rolls out the other way?

 

If the enemy of your enemy is your friend, who is the boss of your boss?

This year’s answer—your wife! Started working for the Vancouver School Board. Chris is in charge of my supervisor. Potential picket signs may prove challenging. “Management shouldn’t hog the blanket!” For symmetry’s sake Chris will also work for me as a sub-contractor for the curriculum development (see above). Let’s see what types of slogans she comes up with.

 

Pedagogue, teach thyself

My duties at the VSB are to tutor adult students in their courses toward a high-school diploma, preparation for a career, and/or transfer to a university. Intake is open throughout the year, and weekly I share the enthusiasm of these new students as they begin their academic journeys. The position also presents the opportunity to review grade eleven and twelve math classes (Poly-what-ials?), plus be informed about updates on scientific discoveries of the past forty-plus years. Ready to learn the Krebs cycle (oops, citric acid cycle) again? Once more the opportunity to emulate Sartre’s Self-Taught Man arises with access not only to multiple courses—but also the answer keys.

 

Key words

Some folks feel that keys and accountants are cultural indicators of the levels of distrust in a society. These recent postings to foreign and domestic educational organizations have increased my responsibilities and doubled the number of keys on my key ring. No indication yet of any slide towards becoming a CPA.

 

Row, row, row your boat

The erg has remained a steady companion. This year saw another milestone with over twenty million injury-free lifetime meters logged on the rowing machine, a bit over halfway around the world. The new walking commute to the education centre also offers an opportunity to approach the 10,000-steps-per-day fitness goal that all the cool kids are embracing, keys a’janglin’ the whole way.

 

In Flanders Fields

While Americans begin thinking of Thanksgiving turkeys in November, Canadians begin the month by honouring the sacrifices made in war and peace-keeping. John McCrae used poppies to symbolize the fallen soldiers of World War One. The power of his poem is reenacted each year as Canucks participate in a national fundraiser/memorial by purchasing—and attempting to wear—poppy boutonnières to support and salute veterans in the period leading up to the eleventh hour of the eleventh day of the eleventh month. (Remembrance Day for those who could use a jog.)

 

Where have all the flowers gone?

Observant friends may have noticed that Chris and I rarely are seen in public together around this time (the beginning of November). Please be not alarmed. No domestic squabbles prevent us from appearing at the same social events. Rather, it is the straight pins used to attach these ersatz, felt poppies to one’s lapel. The simple fasteners just don’t. Try as we might, we can’t seem to master the delicate art of keeping these precarious emblems from falling off, blowin’ in the wind, and nestling unseen between narrow crevices.

 

Temporarily losing my yearly allotment of badges, I must borrow Chris'. This generosity renders her poppy-less for the nonce, preventing her from venturing out until my return, which is immediately followed by the ritual swapping of the one unlost poppy. This changing-of-the-guard continues until the inevitable re-discovery of the original fallen comrade, usually wedged in the seat of whichever car I was trying to get in or out of. Among the many other gratitudes of American Thanksgiving, we are thankful to be able to set out together as a couple, once again poppy- and-shame-free, after Remembrance Day has passed.

 

Several years ago, Chris and I heard the Dalai Lama speak. He was asked, “What can we do, as small, insiginificant individuals, to help solve some of the huge problems in the world?” His Holiness thought carefully and replied, “You can begin by being kinder to yourselves and to each other.” In that spirit, we wish you winter warmth and kinder-ness for 2018 and beyond.

 

Todd and Chris

 

(with apologies to John McRae)

 

 

From my lapel the poppies go.

Between the cushions? I do not know.

What marks the place? Where do they lie?

Detach from coats and off they fly.

Scarce seen amid the dirt below.

 

We are the Pins. Not long ago

We held, felt drawn, to petals stow.

Once stuck, then gone, and now we lie

In unknown fields.

 

Do not ask, “To where we go?”

“Or where from failing tacks we flow?”

Have yours? Be proud, and wear it high.

Please don’t look down on we who try.

We cannot keep. Our poppies go

to finders’ fields.

 

 

copyright 2017 by Todd Strong