How to (Sort of) Stay Sane:
With witless foe
I won't engage;
by doing so
I fuel my rage.
Reasoned attempt
proves of no use -
the thought exempt
are speech profuse.
They rave and rant
their jabberwock,
and won't recant
on foolish talk.
When I explain
with logic sound -
they show disdain
for facts I've found.
Their blissful state
of ignorance
will agitate
my common sense -
so it is best
by far for me
to just protest
non-verbally.
Thus with this ode
I will explain:
This is my mode
of staying sane.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 20, 2018
It's a crazy old world we live in - and sometimes I'm just about driven to distraction by the level of lunacy I see online.
Conspiracy theories abound. Anything or anybody who's made it into the news in the past decade seems to have inspired some kind of nefarious plot of epic proportions. Did Hilary Clinton die, only to replaced by an even more evil doppelganger? Is Michelle Obama actually a man? Is Elvis dead, or is he secreted on some desert island with Michael Jackson and Princess Diana?
A lot of people believe bizarre things - like the earth is actually run by lizard aliens, chemtrails released by jets are gassing us all into submission, the moon-landing was faked, and of course, the world is flat.
I saw an interview with a "flatworlder" recently, wherein he stated that gravity was "only a theory". Science was never my forte, but I'd say gravity seems to be working just fine for me. I mean, if you want to believe the earth is a big old pie plate in the sky that's your problem, but the sad thing is that the guy I saw was pretty rabid in expressing his beliefs. The rest of us are the crazy ones who've bought into a Jewish conspiracy to boot.
Don't even get me started on those sad excuses for humanity that believe the Holocaust never happened.
American political conspiracies run the gamut - 9/11 was an inside job, Obama isn't really American, the US government has alien technology at their compound in Roswell, and JFK might have been shot by a dozen different parties - and heck - he might be on that desert island too!
"Big Pharma" takes a lot of heat. Vaccines are turning our kids autistic, claims a Hollywood blonde and a doctor who was relieved of his medical license decades back - and some still buy it, and do their best to sell it too. Somebody has already cured cancer, but the FDA is withholding the cure just for fun. Pharmaceuticals are killing us all - say the alternative and "natural" medicine crowd. Some of them would have us turn back time and still look to leeches to "bleed us". Others turn to blatant new age quackery, like relying on the healing energy of dolphins. Last week I read a story about a homeopathic practitioner who came under fire for treating a teenager with rabid dog saliva!
I'm not saying that all natural remedies are useless or silly, but a whole lot of people who sell them don't know what they're talking about (thus saith a woman who spent three years working in a health food store), and the customers who buy usually know less. But golly - dolphins and dog saliva? At some point wouldn't a person of average intelligence question these practices?
People adhere to some pretty nutty "religious" beliefs too. (I put that word in quotes, because some of these beliefs are just too over the top to maintain status of "religion". Use Scientology as a comparison, and Tom Cruise and his cohorts begin to look reasonable.) There are multiple groups out there who worship aliens of one sort or another, Jediists who try to emulate Luke Skywalker - or Yoda. At least they have lofty goals, unlike The Church of Euthanasia, which has this catchy motto - "Save Earth - Kill Yourself." On a more amusing note, somewhere in the wilds of Vanuatu there's a tribe who believe that Prince Philip is essentially the great white God. (Apparently he's cool with it, and sends them gifts occasionally.)
Media has introduced me to interesting, but mind-boggling folk who insist on living like dogs, cats or babies. Call me judgmental, but how screwed up would you have to be to go live out your life waiting for someone to change your soiled diaper, or litter box, when you could just get up off all fours and take care of your own business? Yuck.
Sometimes crackpots want you to engage with them so that they can preach the gospel of the inane. These folks are so entrenched in their own variety of lunacy that they can't access any of the common sense they might've arrived with, and I've learned the hard way that you can't talk facts with people who think they're geniuses who've figured out how to debunk all those things we learned in history or science class. No - there's a narcissism at play here that most of us need to back away from - quickly. Sometimes in my mind's eye I can see Will Robinson's robot standing before me with arms flailing - "Danger, Sharon - DANGER!" I speak to both sides of every aforementioned belief here. (And oh - so many more!) Don't waste your breath. I'm really not worthy of your proselytizing efforts - I've got all the crazy I'll ever need. I just can't allow myself to be drawn into your debate.
Nope - not gonna comment. Scroll on by, Sharon.
Simply put - you drive me nuts and I need all the marbles I have left.
Saturday 21 April 2018
Thursday 5 April 2018
"Visiting William" - by Sharon Flood Kasenberg
William's House
I know nothing about him
except he owned a mill,
and maybe had five children -
a few small facts - but still -
somehow I feel I know him
from living in this place;
I often try to picture
how he lived in my space.
My house, you see, was his dream -
he lived scant decade here.
As I wander through my rooms
one thing seems very clear.
William had a vision once -
for his children and spouse -
William milled some lumber
and built a lovely house.
He built this house I live in,
the place I work and play.
Though I don't really know him,
I thank him ev'ry day.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 4, 2018
When we moved to our home in Atwood Ontario we were quite thrilled to be able to glean a few facts about the history of the house we'd bought. Our home was built in 1896, and originally dubbed "Forrest House", after its builder William Forrest. We know very little about William, except that he owned the original mill in town (located at the end of John Street), had five children, and lived in this house ten years before he died at the age of 48. I've always felt badly that William only got to live in his house for a decade.
Last year my husband and I took our first drive to the Atwood cemetery. It was a pleasant spring day - and my husband's birthday - and we found ourselves in the car looking to explore. Seeing the cemetery we decided to stop. It was a peaceful spot to visit on a crisp but sunny spring day. On a whim I said, "Maybe we can find William Forrest's grave."
So we divided up and each searched a separate area of the graveyard. After a few minutes my husband called out to me - and I stood over the grave of the man who'd built my house. At the bottom of the tombstone I read the inscription - He is missed at home.
I don't know exactly why I teared up, but I did. Even before I knew his name I'd felt a connection to the builder of my house. I'd often marveled at what a fabulous house it must have been in its day, and how excited the owner must've felt when he walked into the completed house for the first time. When I found out that it was built by a miller I felt excitement - he had chosen the lovely golden oak trim and had probably checked over each bit surrounding the windows and doors. Perhaps he had been the one to proudly hand carve the year the house was built into the lintel above the pocket doors in my living room, which would've been his front parlour.
"Thank you for building our home, William", I whispered. "We are enjoying it for you."
I like to think that he was a good man - a beloved husband and father who was truly "missed at home" after his death. I'm only certain that if he misses the home that missed him, and stops by for the occasional visit, he does so quietly and unobtrusively. (Which I appreciate!)
I still don't know much about William Forrest, but I know that his "vision" and mine were oddly aligned. When I was a child in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, there was one house across town that always stood out to me - a house with a rounded turret on the left front corner. For a Grade Twelve project I had to fashion a house out of bristol board - and the house I made was modeled on the house on Queen St that I'd always admired - complete with turret.
Odder still, when my current house was first sold in 2011 by the insurance company that was based here for many years, the listing made such an impact on me that I remembered photos of the wood trim (and the pink chairs in the board room) a full five years later when the property came on the market again! I knew I had to see this house, and then I knew we had to buy it. William gave me my turret.
We have decided to make an annual pilgrimage to William's grave. I know it might seem silly, or morbid - or downright weird - but "visiting William" reminds us of our mortality in a pleasant way. My husband has decreed that he wants to go to that cemetery every year on his birthday; to walk past the graves of the men who built our town and the man who built our house. I agree that this annual trek satisfies the soul. I can't speak for him, but it gives me a sense of continuity and puts my life in perspective. Who knows how long I have here? Who knows what I might leave behind as a legacy?
Someday I'll put up a commemorative plaque in my front entrance. It will simply say, Forrest House - established 1896. It will make me happy to give my house back it's original name, and in so doing, pay tribute to the builder. This house is his legacy - a dream that not only came to fruition, but has outlived him by more than a century.
Every day I'm inspired by William's house - not just the building itself, but what it represents for me - hope. William created something beautiful that outlasted him. People may have forgotten the name of the builder, but his house still draws attention. His handiwork is still admired. And when I give the house back its name I'll have opportunity to retell his story - what little I know of it. William's house gives me hope that someday there will be "Sharon's poem" - one verse that outlasts me - something worthy of being quoted a century after my death.
Thank you, William, for giving me a goal as lofty as our turret.
I know nothing about him
except he owned a mill,
and maybe had five children -
a few small facts - but still -
somehow I feel I know him
from living in this place;
I often try to picture
how he lived in my space.
My house, you see, was his dream -
he lived scant decade here.
As I wander through my rooms
one thing seems very clear.
William had a vision once -
for his children and spouse -
William milled some lumber
and built a lovely house.
He built this house I live in,
the place I work and play.
Though I don't really know him,
I thank him ev'ry day.
Sharon Flood Kasenberg, April 4, 2018
When we moved to our home in Atwood Ontario we were quite thrilled to be able to glean a few facts about the history of the house we'd bought. Our home was built in 1896, and originally dubbed "Forrest House", after its builder William Forrest. We know very little about William, except that he owned the original mill in town (located at the end of John Street), had five children, and lived in this house ten years before he died at the age of 48. I've always felt badly that William only got to live in his house for a decade.
Last year my husband and I took our first drive to the Atwood cemetery. It was a pleasant spring day - and my husband's birthday - and we found ourselves in the car looking to explore. Seeing the cemetery we decided to stop. It was a peaceful spot to visit on a crisp but sunny spring day. On a whim I said, "Maybe we can find William Forrest's grave."
So we divided up and each searched a separate area of the graveyard. After a few minutes my husband called out to me - and I stood over the grave of the man who'd built my house. At the bottom of the tombstone I read the inscription - He is missed at home.
I don't know exactly why I teared up, but I did. Even before I knew his name I'd felt a connection to the builder of my house. I'd often marveled at what a fabulous house it must have been in its day, and how excited the owner must've felt when he walked into the completed house for the first time. When I found out that it was built by a miller I felt excitement - he had chosen the lovely golden oak trim and had probably checked over each bit surrounding the windows and doors. Perhaps he had been the one to proudly hand carve the year the house was built into the lintel above the pocket doors in my living room, which would've been his front parlour.
"Thank you for building our home, William", I whispered. "We are enjoying it for you."
I like to think that he was a good man - a beloved husband and father who was truly "missed at home" after his death. I'm only certain that if he misses the home that missed him, and stops by for the occasional visit, he does so quietly and unobtrusively. (Which I appreciate!)
I still don't know much about William Forrest, but I know that his "vision" and mine were oddly aligned. When I was a child in Sault Ste. Marie, Ontario, there was one house across town that always stood out to me - a house with a rounded turret on the left front corner. For a Grade Twelve project I had to fashion a house out of bristol board - and the house I made was modeled on the house on Queen St that I'd always admired - complete with turret.
Odder still, when my current house was first sold in 2011 by the insurance company that was based here for many years, the listing made such an impact on me that I remembered photos of the wood trim (and the pink chairs in the board room) a full five years later when the property came on the market again! I knew I had to see this house, and then I knew we had to buy it. William gave me my turret.
We have decided to make an annual pilgrimage to William's grave. I know it might seem silly, or morbid - or downright weird - but "visiting William" reminds us of our mortality in a pleasant way. My husband has decreed that he wants to go to that cemetery every year on his birthday; to walk past the graves of the men who built our town and the man who built our house. I agree that this annual trek satisfies the soul. I can't speak for him, but it gives me a sense of continuity and puts my life in perspective. Who knows how long I have here? Who knows what I might leave behind as a legacy?
Someday I'll put up a commemorative plaque in my front entrance. It will simply say, Forrest House - established 1896. It will make me happy to give my house back it's original name, and in so doing, pay tribute to the builder. This house is his legacy - a dream that not only came to fruition, but has outlived him by more than a century.
Every day I'm inspired by William's house - not just the building itself, but what it represents for me - hope. William created something beautiful that outlasted him. People may have forgotten the name of the builder, but his house still draws attention. His handiwork is still admired. And when I give the house back its name I'll have opportunity to retell his story - what little I know of it. William's house gives me hope that someday there will be "Sharon's poem" - one verse that outlasts me - something worthy of being quoted a century after my death.
Thank you, William, for giving me a goal as lofty as our turret.
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