Quiet Time

I thought I’d have a quiet day today—a writing day. With one teenage son out of town on a school trip, the other one enjoying the beginning of his summer break (which means sleeping), and my husband at the office, I’d set aside the day to work on my novel.

Two hours into my writing, Matt’s band “HOF” began to arrive. “We have to practice for our gig tomorrow night,” he said. “Oh, I thought you’d practiced enough on Tuesday when my bridge group was here.” I have to admire their diligence.

My peaceful day was soon infiltrated by the pounding reverberations felt and heard through the basement ceiling. Drums, saxophones, trumpets, bass guitars, and aggressive vocals combined to entertain with their lovely Indie punk rock melodies.

Working at the computer in the kitchen, I was soon visited by band members requiring snacks and drinks and offering congenial conversation. The 15 to 17-year-old boy (and one girl) band take their music seriously. They play, they break to eat, drink, and chat for a few minutes, and then they play some more. Three hours of live Indie rock music in the background while trying to write fiction makes for an interesting writing challenge, my characters likely saying and doing things they wouldn’t normally have said or done.

But how can I complain? Was it not me who convinced Matt to have the band practice here instead of at his friend’s, so we wouldn’t have to continually schlep his drum kit back and forth? I’ve always enjoyed having our kids’ friends at the house and this musical entourage is particularly interesting. An eclectic group who dance to their own beat and have their own style, they come with Mohawk haircuts, long rocker tresses, blond curly locks, and preppy coifs. Polite, good-humoured, talented and smart, I must say, these kids are a pleasure to have around despite the interruption to my Chapter Sixteen.

After attempting to write amidst the background (or should I say, underground) entertainment, I decided to try my luck in the backyard, where I anticipated the sounds of birds chirping, the feel of the breeze blowing, and the sight of our dog and rabbit happily—and quietly—romping around the grass. Most of all, I looked forward to stealing away for a few hours of peace and quiet on a perfect summer day.

None of this was to be. Here I sit, on my comfortable deck, reclined in the chair, listening to our next-door neighbour’s incessant barking dog, our back-door neighbour’s screaming children, and the piercing drilling and sawing noises from another’s home renovation. I’d be a hypocrite to complain without acknowledging my own past offenses. I once had screaming children (who now don’t scream, but play loud musical instruments) and a barking dog (who barked so much that the neighbour yelled across the fence, “Give your dog a valium, will ya?), not to mention a noisy construction project or two.

The G20 Summit is here in Toronto and I just got off the phone with my husband who is working downtown. “It’s a ghost town here,” he said. “Only about 30% of our office came in, probably more than most—driving was a breeze and parking was half price.”

Maybe I should have left the suburbs and trekked downtown for my peaceful day of writing; I might have had better luck finishing Chapter Sixteen.

How Busy Are You?

“Hi! How are you? Seems so long since we last talked.
Yes, it’s been ages. I’m good. Busy though.
Me too. I can’t believe how fast time is flying by. We’ve got to get together to catch up.
Absolutely. Let’s connect via email.”

And so the conversation goes. Have you ever had one like that? Did you actually email each other and make plans to meet for coffee or lunch? And not cancel the day before?

Life is busy. We’re all busy. Sometimes too busy to see family, connect with friends, walk the dog, or pick up the phone.

A while ago I read a clip in a magazine about busy people. It said that when we tell others how busy we are, it’s really a type of social bragging. Of course we’re busy. Who isn’t? But when we say it, we feel important. Like we have so much to do and so little to say, except that we’re busy.

People like to compare notes. We like to say how much we crammed into our day. Some busy folks will start with their morning routine: “I took the kids to school, walked the dog, had a bite, grabbed the paper, drove two miles, forgot my cell phone, drove back home to get it,” and then follow with the rest of their day:

“I got to work, had meetings, did some damage control, ripped my nylons on the metal part of the boardroom chair, had to run to the store to get a new pair, made sales calls in the afternoon, found out my daughter had her school music recital that evening, had to be home by six to make supper and drop her off by 6:30, whipped home, drove my son to soccer, returned to the recital and circled around for twenty minutes looking for a parking space, was late for the concert as was my husband, who was supposed to meet me there, got home at 8:30, cleaned the kitchen, threw some laundry in the machine, reviewed my notes for my presentation the next day, and out of sheer desperation for mindless diversion, watched The Bachelorette until 10:00, at which time I fell asleep without brushing my teeth.”

This is not exactly my life, but an example of a working person’s typical day. If you asked this fictional character how she was doing, she’d probably say, “Busy.” And she wouldn’t be exaggerating.

Tuesday’s Globe and Mail reported that Canadians are so busy these days that they barely have time to eat with their kids. “The hours that Canadians spend refreshing their minds and their bodies through leisure and cultural activities – and moments shared with family – are being condensed and it’s affecting their well-being,” the article states. Furthermore, “Canada has become a society operating 24 hours a day and, as a result, more people are working odd hours...That has cut into the time they would normally spend with their spouses and their children and doing the things they really like to do. And that can lead to burnout.”

My very good friend Karen McKnight is a Life Coach and an Executive Coach at Transitions’ Edge in Toronto. She helps people achieve better balance in their lives. She herself is one of the busiest people I know. I don’t know how she does it. Her schedule is not dissimilar to the one outlined above, multiplied by two...or three. I’ve often said that she is like two people packed into one.

Karen says, “People need to be clear about what they want from the particular stage of life they are at – and also have a clear vision of how they want to ‘be’ – how they ‘show up’ in terms of all the roles they play in life. It is also vital for people to know what ‘centred’ feels like – and this is a very individual thing. The more awareness someone has about their particular version of balance, the quicker they are to notice if they have been knocked off and thus the quicker they are to ‘right’ themselves...and then just when you figure out what balance means, chances are a variable will change in your life that means a redefinition of priorities, which then impacts how you allocate your time.”

For Karen to feel like she is functioning optimally, she prefers for all her energy quadrants (physical, mental, emotional and intellectual) to be in full gear and to know and feel that she is contributing in a variety of different ways in the world around her. When she gets depleted, which feels like a ‘crash’ to her, she knows it’s time to pull back, regroup, and recharge. Then, when she re-enters, she can approach things with full energy again. “The key,” she says, “is for people to take the time to learn about their preferences and their relationship to ‘busy’ and what makes for a fulfilled life (at this time).”

Most of us like to be busy, and we like making a contribution. Busyness can be of our own making or imposed upon us. Particularly upon those who are working hard, raising children and caring for elderly parents all at the same time. And not everyone has a partner to share the burdens with.

When I look at my life schedule, it’s relatively packed. I’m constantly trying to re-jig my priorities so I don’t feel so tired all the time, and it’s a challenge. Is my life any busier than yours? I doubt it. In fact, it’s probably a day in the park compared to some of your schedules.

My point is this: we are all busy. We all have responsibilities and we are all doing our best to live balanced lives. Let’s take that B word out of our conversations and instead of answering the question, “How are you?” with the proverbial response, “BUSY,” how about taking a deep breath and sharing a smidgeon more about our lives. And the next time we say, “We’ve got to get together sometime,” let’s pull out our BlackBerries or calendars and make an actual date…that we keep.

And if you catch me saying the B word, please call me on it!

Leading From the Grave

To lead from the grave is a remarkable feat. Martin Luther King Jr. still speaks to us with his "I had a dream" speech, and no one can forget John F. Kennedy’s statement “Think not what your country can do for you, but what you can do for your country.” Christians consider Jesus to be the greatest leader of all time, and his instruction to “Love your neighbour as yourself,” the quintessential directive for mankind. These leaders walked their talk, which gives their teachings credence. They sent out a call to mission and for many, their powerful words and actions will always resonate.

The story that I want to share is about a leader in my life, who died forty years ago—my grandmother. If there is any one person who has influenced me personally from the grave, it would be her. My grandmother never led a large group of people to action, but she led her family to survival. Her courage and determination became an inspiration to all who knew her. I was only eight when she died, but what I remember about her and what I came to learn about her later in life have often spurred me on during tough times.

My grandmother was born in Budapest, Hungary in 1909, into an affluent and highly respected family. During her early years she had a governess and went to the best schools; the family had maids and cooks and they entertained lavishly. Budapest was a beautiful city, a cultural and intellectual hub of Eastern Europe, and there was no shortage of cultural diversions for them to enjoy. Attending the symphony, the opera, the ballet and society balls was part of their regular lifestyle.

In her late teens my grandmother attended university, uncommon for women in Hungary at the time, and obtained a degree in education. Women in her social class did not work in those days (in or out of the house) and despite her university degree and her intelligence, there were few opportunities to develop a career. But she had a strong moral and social conscience; a good and honest person, she treated others with respect, regardless of social status. In her early twenties, she married my grandfather, a professional engineer, and kept busy with social activities and philanthropic work and began a family. Life was good.

Before long everything changed. The Second World War began and by 1944 chaos reigned. Budapest was bombed, food became scarce, businesses shut down, and properties were destroyed. Their own house was bombed but fortunately, no one was hurt. The family scattered and the children went to live in the country with my grandfather's parents.

But the countryside was not much of a haven. When the Russians advanced they had to return to Budapest, where the family was assigned living quarters. Bombing continued and every day brought new fear. Gas and food were scarce and the best hope for survival was to flee to Austria. My grandfather was able to get the family out of the country despite difficult circumstances. After packing a few belongings and as much food as possible, my grandmother said good-bye to her beloved Hungary, not knowing when, or whether, she would ever return.

At age 36, my grandmother became the main caregiver of her children and her in-laws. She was responsible for their safety, shelter and sustenance, while my grandfather separated from them to work. In the beginning they camped out in a boxcar at a railway station and after three months of cramped living, moved into a small apartment nearby. My grandmother had to be resourceful in finding food; to get by she bartered rationed items like sugar cubes and silk stockings for milk, butter and other necessities. She spent her days visiting refugee camps in different parts of Austria, looking for her own parents, who she hoped had managed to leave Hungary as well. For several months, she didn’t know if my grandfather was dead or alive.

In 1948, my grandfather followed his brother-in-law to Sweden and eventually brought the family over from Austria. With no knowledge of Swedish, they all had to find work to survive—my grandmother labored as a seamstress, my grandfather as a draftsman, and my young teenage mother had various summer jobs. My great-grandparents cared for my uncle, who was a young boy at the time. Again my grandmother was left at the helm while my grandfather tried to make arrangements to immigrate to Canada.

In 1951 they came to Toronto and put a down-payment on a small house, using the proceeds from the sale of my grandmother's most expensive piece of jewelery. The family took whatever jobs they could because they could not speak the language. Even my great-grandmother, a woman of gentility, eventually found work as a housekeeper because she didn't want to be a burden. When their English was proficient enough, my grandfather landed a good engineering job in Montreal designing grain elevators, and my grandmother found work teaching sewing in a high school. After a few years of working very hard, they were finally able to enjoy a decent standard of living.

I’ve always been amazed at how my grandmother coped with the hardships—especially when she was on her own in a foreign country and solely responsible for the welfare of her children and in-laws. When I knew her, she was working full-time and loving it. She sewed her own clothes and always looked sensational. I remember a loving and joyful woman who embraced life with passion. I never heard her complain or lament about the privileged life she’d left behind. Not once did I hear her say anything about ‘the good old days.’ She loved everything about Canada—the forests, the countryside, the lakes, and the people. One of the few things she took issue with was sliced white bread, which she considered tasteless and soulless (Hungarians love their food!).

She died at the age of 62 of a brain tumor. The fact that she never had a chance to enjoy her retirement saddens me; her dream was to travel and reconnect with old friends, many of whom had dispersed to various foreign countries. But judging from the attendance at her funeral you’d never know that she was so far away from her homeland. The church was packed with family and friends, students and colleagues—people whom she touched with her love, her courage, her vitality, and her determination.

My grandmother never gave up on happiness and through her positive attitude, strong will and hard work, the obstacles she faced were not insurmountable. She showed that despite setbacks, challenges and hardships, there is always a way forward. Walking her talk, she demonstrated how great legacies are created. As is the case with the illustrious historical leaders, my grandmother’s spirit will undoubtedly live on for generations to come.

Where the Heck did I Put my...?

“Has anyone seen my glasses, my cell phone, my wallet, my keys?”

These questions can be heard in many households around the globe. Especially in households containing people over the age of fifty. Make that forty!

Thanks to ‘middle-aged’ brain syndrome (my own terminology), once we hit that particular stage, our lives and minds are never quite the same.

This week, when shopping at Costco, I filled my cart with the usual staples and then added several impulse purchases. Pressed for time, I got to the cash register with few minutes to spare before picking up my son at school. After scanning all my items, the cashier passed me the contraption to scan my debit card. To my shock and horror, I couldn’t remember my password.

“Do you have cash?” she asked.

I checked my wallet. $25 would definitely not cover the contents in my cart. “No,” I said. “Let me think for a second.” Well aware of the long line behind me, I racked my brain, practically causing a hemorrhage.

“We have an ATM over there,” the woman said.

I smiled. “That’s not going to help if I can’t remember my password.” I closed my eyes and thought some more. How could I forget? I’d been using this card for years, albeit not that frequently. “Do you take Visa?” I knew they didn’t but thought I’d inquire for good measure.

The only way I could explain this memory lapse to myself was that since Visa recently began requiring passwords, the place in my brain where I stored my debit card code had been taken over by my new four digit code. Not to mention all the other passwords floating around my brain competing for storage space.

The cashier had to reverse all but $25 worth of my purchases and another employee had to put everything back on the store shelves. I was so mortified that I couldn’t look at the people waiting in the line.

As I headed to my car, annoyed and frustrated, the forgotten password popped into my head. What a nasty trick!

Since I haven’t even reached the age of fifty, this is disturbing. And how many times have I walked into a room and forgotten what I was going there for? How often have I struggled for a person’s name when introducing them to someone? Such senior moments are not supposed to happen to me. Not yet.

I read, write, do crosswords, play scrabble and bridge, and even tackle Sudoku from time to time. Aren’t these activities supposed to keep our brains alert? Sure I have a million things going on in my life, including helping manage the lives of my kids and husband, but don’t we all?

Several years ago I read a Margaret Wente (Globe & Mail) article about her own struggles with forgetfulness. After removing her debit card and receipt from an ATM machine, she left without taking the cash she’d just withdrawn. Funny that I’d remember that story, which I’m sure I read more than five years ago.

Recently, I heard an interview on NPR (National Public Radio) about the aging brain: The Surprising Strengths of the Middle-Aged Brain. I have to admit, I fall right into the profile. Barbara Strauch, the health and medical science editor at The New York Times, writes about this very topic in her new book, The Secret Life of the Grown-Up Brain.

According to Staunch, the bad news is “Our brains do decline as we age” (no surprise), but "What [scientists are] starting to do is sort out what is normal aging [and] what is pathology and leading toward dementia — and they now know that dementia is not inevitable, and that basically this 'normal forgetting' is part of normal aging. And in many ways we can — if we keep ourselves healthy — actually improve our brains. We can live out the rest of our lives with pretty sharp brains if we're lucky."

The good news is this: “not all is lost in middle age. There are certain cognitive functions that improve as a brain grows older. Strauch points to studies that indicate that a sense of well-being peaks — across all occupations and ethnicities — as people reach middle age. In addition, she says, certain studies show that an older brain can solve problems better than a younger brain.”

Last night my husband and I went out for dinner. When he handed over his Visa to pay for the meal, and was given that little machine asking for his security code, guess what? He couldn’t remember it. Good thing I had my Visa card with me and I knew my password. Problem solved.

I guess if you put two aging brains together, the chances of someone remembering something are much improved!

High School Reunion Revisited

This weekend I attended my high school’s 60th Anniversary reunion in St. Lambert, Quebec. As opposed to my years’ 25th, this gathering included multiple generations. I applaud the organizers of such events for their devoted efforts and hard work—a job that is surely under-appreciated or, at the very least, under-acknowledged.

Our reunion weekend included golf tournaments, soft ball games, walking tours, meet & greets, dinners, barbeques and dances. Some graduating years organized special activities like go-carting and watching the semi-final NHL hockey game at a downtown bar (a depressing outcome for Habs’ fans).

Regardless of age or graduating year, each person arrived with their own package of pre-conceptions, expectations, and personal experiences. My brother, who graduated two years before me, looked forward to re-connecting with his high school buddies, many of whom he’d known since early childhood. As the kid sister, I knew them all in varying degrees. Tagging along with my brother, we started our weekend visiting with this group at the childhood home of one of ‘the boys.’

The polite salutations were soon followed by sketches of youthful misdemeanours and wild escapades, including playing pranks on students and teachers. I’m sure the tales were tempered for the sake of the three women in the audience, including the host’s mother. As a mother of two young teenage boys, I brace myself as our sons launch into their own high school experiences. But I am reassured by the fact that my brother and his friends have all grown into accomplished, good-mannered and genial middle-aged men.

For my part, the highlight was seeing my oldest childhood friend and her four siblings. They came from many directions, including Switzerland, to attend the CCHS reunion. We grew up four doors down from each other and the three eldest of the brood used to baby-sit my brother, sister, and me in the sixties.

Such sibling gatherings are rare and since this clan is like family to me, I was thrilled to partake in their own reunion. As we sat in Alison and her husband Jimmy’s dining room having brunch, I pictured their father at the head of the table, carving the roast as he had done many a Sunday dinner. The Bruce kids' deep sibling bond is a testament to their wonderful parents, who raised five very fine people.

At the school functions, only about twelve from my graduating class attended, which wasn’t too surprising given the fact that we’d had our own reunion in 2004. Re-connecting with friends from the other grades was a bonus, and we had the opportunity to make new acquaintances. A few teachers showed up too; when I called Mr. Praw by another teacher’s name, he was not impressed. “Mr Howe is dead,” he said, “and I don’t look anything like him!” Oops.

Walking along those infamous Chambly County HS corridors, we found them unchanged except for fresh-painted walls, new floors, and updated lockers. A state-of-the art gym had been built on one end of the school in addition to a renovated industrial-type kitchen and a new cafeteria. Still a relatively small school with 500 or so students, the intimate space suggested a positive learning environment—as was the case ‘back in the day.’

Speaking to some of my old classmates, I learned of a few recent divorces (including our high school sweethearts) and I felt bad for them all. But sometimes change breathes new life into unanticipated situations, and hopefully these folks will find renewed happiness along their separate paths. A few people spoke of early retirement, having done well in their careers, and others talked of mid-life career changes. Several of my classmates’ parents are deceased, a few after having barely retired. I’m grateful that my own parents are still full of verve and in relatively good health despite their senior years and minor ailments.

Before heading back to Toronto, my brother and I drove back to our old house and took a stroll through the neighbourhood. Looking at the past through a new lens, we both commented on how small the houses seemed and how short the distances had become. We snuck into our backyard and were pleased to see my mother’s forget-me-nots in full bloom.

High school reunions are not for everyone. One woman told a classmate that she had no interest in coming because she hated those years; why would she want to relive them? As for me, I didn’t love my high school years, nor did I deplore them. But they were five years of my life that were influenced by the people and culture around me and they contributed to the formation of my worldview. I guess I’ll always feel a little nostalgic for the people and experiences from my youth that played a part in my own life story.

High School Recall

In 2004 I attended my high school graduating class's 25-year reunion. I come from a quintessential middle-class, homogeneous, Wonderbread enclave in Montreal, where not much has changed over the years. I graduated from Chambly County High in 1979 when I was seventeen, and moved to Toronto after university in 1985, returning occasionally for visits.

When I’d first received notice about the reunion I was ambivalent. What was so great about those years anyway? We were just a bunch of teenagers awkwardly weaving our way through our youth struggling to fit in, hanging out, pushing the boundaries, and dealing with insecurities and volatile hormones. My years were filled with sports, parties, and lots of babysitting.

I wish I could say I was greatly inspired by a particular teacher or that I discovered my true calling through some life-altering teenage experience, but nothing about high school left much of an impact on me. The good news is that I passed through my teen years unscathed, an accomplishment in the eyes of some parents.

Despite my apathy about the reunion, I began to feel a sense of nostalgia. With a relatively small graduating class (about ninety-five students) the names and faces are hard to forget. What had become of them? Had they left Quebec like me to pursue a career in a more hospitable environment? Or did they choose to make the beautiful city of Montreal their life-long home?

After completing my degree at McGill, I couldn’t wait to escape the political tension and the separatist angst. With a boyfriend in Toronto and a good job offer in hand, I didn’t think twice. As is often the case, hindsight creates history, and from time-to-time I’d think back on the old days, missing Montreal and wondering how my classmates had fared.

Still, I was reluctant to attend the reunion. The reviews of others who’d attended their high school reunions tended toward the negative:

“The big shots are still full of themselves and the jerks are still jerks.”

“No big surprises except for the men. They’ve really gone downhill with middle age. The women aren’t so bad.”

“Beware of the drastically transformed. A tiger doesn’t change its stripes.”

After trading emails with a few old friends, I decided to go, regardless of the bad press. Why not? I’d consider it an adventure into the past.

The experience overrode my negative expectations. The men were handsome in their suits and ties and the women were radiant. Beyond appearances, I found the group to be affable, charming and fun. Conversation was mature and intelligent and I connected with people I’d barely spoken to during those years. I chatted with the guy I’d had an undisclosed crush on in grade eight, and laughed at myself for having avoided him that entire year.

Were these the same people with whom I shared five years of classrooms, lunchrooms and infamous dances in the gym? As I sipped my wine in that very same gym, my mind wandered to the days when "Stairway to Heaven," the last slow dance of the night, often clinched the deal between newly formed couples.

About 50% of the class had stayed in Quebec, a much higher proportion than I’d expected. The rest were scattered across the continent, many having settled in Ontario, but few in Toronto. A few had married their high school sweethearts and were still together, despite the negative odds (Quebec has the highest divorce rate in the country).

There were no brain surgeons, nuclear physicists or CEOs of large corporations. But there were accountants, engineers, salespeople, small business owners, teachers, and stay-at-home mothers and fathers. No criminals or derelicts, as far as I could tell. I listened to stories of family challenges, unpleasant divorces, and circuitous life journeys. I was impressed by those who showed up despite lousy life circumstances. One man, whom I’d remembered as a gregarious type, explained that his gaunt appearance was the result of his current “divorce diet.”

I’d expected some divorces, second marriages and blended families; and I’d expected a few wrinkles and grey hair, and a wayward character or two; but the high percentage of people suffering from serious health issues shocked me.

Yet there they were, cheerful, courageous, and uncomplaining. The camaraderie, the positive energy and the caring amongst the crowd were truly inspiring. A man in his last stages of colon cancer was friendly, conversational, upbeat and outgoing—the antithesis of his frail and sallow appearance. I hope he felt the compassion and admiration of his peers. Sadly, he passed away soon after.

Who would have thought that by age forty so many from our class of ‘79 would be dealing with such challenges as cancer, diabetes, and multiple sclerosis? As members of the sandwich generation, caring for young children in addition to aging parents, who can afford to get sick? One of the take away lessons for me that weekend was never to take good health for granted, or let a day pass without appreciating the gift of wellbeing.

My classmates and I were all born around the same year, grew up in the same community, and were educated under the same roof, all with dreams of copious amounts of joy and adventure gracing our futures. For some those hopes were dashed too soon. Illness, death, divorce, unemployment, disabilities and depression played havoc with their dreams. But the spirit fights hard and life plods on; we do the best we can, hope for the best, and wish the best for others.

This coming weekend I’ll be back for another reunion, encompassing all graduating years since the school’s founding sixty years ago. I’m bracing myself for some sad news, but I also look forward to hearing some happy news replete with new beginnings and second chances. I don’t know if I’ll return with any revelations, but I look forward to another snapshot into the past and a renewed glimpse of the present.

Hot Shot on Wheels

On a balmy Sunday evening not long ago, my husband and I took our dog for a walk in our neighbourhood. We did the usual loop—through the park, across the junior school grounds and back home along the residential streets. It was 8:00 in the evening and there were many people still out, enjoying the last few hours of the pleasant weekend.

As we walked along Princess Anne Cres., a beautiful tree-lined street that borders the school, a grey Porsche raced by at about 100 km/hr. The engine roared and as the car barrelled past, I held out my arm gesturing to the driver to stop. He waved in arrogant defiance. Then he whipped around the corner, screeching his wheels, with obvious disregard for his surroundings.

If we’d had a chance, my husband and I would have taken down the licence number and called the police. The guy was either drunk or crazy, or both. A few blocks ahead, just as we were walking by a yard where a group of people were congregating for what seemed a family gathering, the same car pulled to the curb on the other side of the street. The driver, in his early thirties, got out of the car and strutted past us with an air of haughtiness.

“Hey,” he said, peering through cool shades. “Didn’t mean to scare you. Are you all right?” He spoke in a condescending tone.

“Lucky you didn’t kill someone,” I said. “This is a residential neighbourhood, you know.”

“Yeah, I know. I grew up here.”

“Incredible,” I said.

My husband walked to the other side of the street to get his licence plate number.

“Look, my cousin is visiting from B.C. and I haven’t seen him for twenty years,” the guy said.

“And that makes it all right to tear through this neighbourhood like a maniac?”

“You’re all right, aren’t you?”

This exchange happened in front of his family and friends on the front lawn of a charming bungalow; I had to wonder how the audience perceived the encounter. Were they impressed by this cool Porsche driving dude burning rubber in a school zone?

“I wasn’t worried for us,” I said, “we were on the sidewalk. I was worried for the cyclists and children that you could have hit.” More like murdered, I thought.

He made a rude gesture and joined the crowd on the lawn.

In the guy’s mind, his desire to show off for his cousin justified his actions; and the fact that he’d grown up in the area and knew the demographic was obviously inconsequential. Sadly, this attitude of entitlement seems rampant these days. The media is full of stories demonstrating an increasingly pervasive lack of values and judgement.

I don't have anything against Porsches or the people who drive them, but when I see a privileged and educated grown man behave in such a manner, it’s difficult not to feel enraged. When this kind of attitude of self-importance is so blatantly displayed, one has to question where society is headed, and what can be done to stop the madness.

I don’t know the answer. Do you?