Toxic Masculinity. Some may be surprised at my thoughts on this. Well, that’s assuming anyone cares what my thoughts are in the first place.

I spend a lot time railing against progressive, politically correct culture. I loathe it. I detest how we use social constructs to view individuals.

So does it surprise you when I say I absolutely believe that there is such a thing a toxic masculinity?

I have been guilty of perpetuating this myself. You don’t spend 30 years in Construction, be one of 5 brothers, and try to earn a living with a Grade 9 education without being a little “tough”. In the past, I would of said I’m tough.

But lately I’ve been reflecting on my life. Am I really tough? Who is actually tough?

Cowboys, they are tough right? I mean they never stop writing songs about it. But are they tougher than the immigrant worker working for 5 bucks an hour at the ranch, sending money home to his family? I doubt he’s that tough.

Those men in the gym, they are tough right? Some sure seem to think so, they admire themselves in the big mirrors at the gym constantly. I often see them admiring their arms as they walk. They must be tough. But are they tougher than the guy who is looking after his young children in the evening, changing diapers after a long day, no time for the gym? I doubt they are that tough.

The CEOs, they are really tough. They make the hard decisions. They can lay off hundreds. They can make a ruthless move to destroy a competitor. Ya, they are tough. But are they tougher than the small business man that goes deeper into debt to make payroll, because he knows his single employee needs the job? I doubt he’s that tough.

How about the guy with the giant testicles hanging from the back of his lifted truck? He’s tough. But is he tougher than the guy driving down snowy highways in a beat up car so his wife can drive the ‘safe’ vehicle? I doubt he’s that tough.

Hockey players, they are tough. They pick their teeth up off the ice, and barely miss a shift. But are they tougher than the kid who never got to play the game, because his parents could never afford it? The same kid who grew up and decided to coach young kids to play the game he never got to play? I doubt they are that tough.

We need to stop judging men. Who gives a shit if they can’t change a tire. Who gives a shit if they can’t hunt, shoot, fight, curse, build, lift etc……

Do they complain? Are they selfish? Are they kind to the weak? Do they help others? Are they the first to pay and the last to eat?

As mentioned I have a lot of brothers. All tough. You mess with one of us, you get us all. But the toughest is Nathan. He gives unconditionally. He’s kind to everyone. He works tirelessly. I want to be more like him.

My son is tough. Really tough. He’s the one who helped me look at this and realize some things. He’s always stood up for himself. I’m so bloody proud of my son. I want to be more like him as well.

If you read this far, thank you. Tris.

My entire life I have often wanted, silently hoped for, a major event. I felt like my generation had never been tested. At least the ones that lived in wealthy developed countries.

It felt wrong. No conscription, no war to fight, no opportunity to lay my life down for those I love. I loved reading accounts of boys who lied about their age to go overseas, jump in a plane they could barely fly and fight the good fight.

I think I once believed I would rise to the challenge. I could push rubbery legs forward and prove myself, to myself.

As my damn luck would have it, so far that major event came in the form of COVID-19, and boy did I fail.

The enemies first wave hit me. Fears of no toilet paper were hurled at me. I wasn’t going to panic buy. Worst case, I could hop over to the shower and resist the enemy. I could use old t-shirts? Slip em in the garbage? I buckled. Before I had even ran out of my fluffy perfectly corrugated 3ply, I had restocked with tissue paper. COVID 1 Tristram 0

Ok, I lost a battle, but this is a war. What hero doesn’t suffer a few blows?

Well the sneaky bastard COVID is a slippery adversary. One of his favourite weapons is faux statistics. I’m a contrarian, so surely I won’t buy into the numbers. I failed. It was not long before I posted a doomsday post about 2% of all Canadians dying, complete with faulty math. My colleague, Mr. Bowman, had to correct my math. In humiliation I thought to myself if I jumped off a bridge in humiliation, I surely should be considered a COVID Stat. COVID 2 Tristram 0

Bloodied, weary, but undefeated after a nights sleep, I vow to fight on. I will rise from the ashes like a Phoenix. I’ll work out, eat healthy, and watch leducational videos. I will become a better version of myself. Do your best COVID, you fooled me twice, shame on me, now I’ll shame you.

What’s that? Tiger King? Sounds weird. What’s that about? Oh… I’ll just watch one episode. Maybe two. Then, you know what goes great with a gay thruple, animal abuse and murder? Pizza, wings and Cinnamon Bun bites. COVID 3 Tristram 0

I feel like a failure. I’m face down on the mat. But I hear Mickey’s voice, “Get up you bum, FIGHT!”

I stagger to my feet, swinging wildly. I’m looking for a lucky punch. But, the virus is toying with me now. It sends in its final blow. Conspiracy theories. Im under its spell. I’m watching Anonymous videos, documentaries on Ruby Ridge, Waco, the Oregon 3%ers and somehow it all connects to the WHO, Bill Gates, and the Federal Reserve. It’s all SO simple, and it’s been there all along. I silently wonder if my former bank manager wore Illuminati ear rings or not. I’m sure she did. That’s why she left suddenly for another branch. It’s official, I’ve lost my mind. COVID 4- Tristram 0

I realize now, that I was born for this war. I can’t imagine myself fighting any other. From what I’ve learned about myself I can conclude I couldn’t storm a beach at the local lake guarded by toddlers, let alone WW2 Normandy. I think I’ll run some toilet paper up a pole and wave it. I surrender.

If you read this far,

Thank you. Tris.

In a small town your dining choices are limited. In Crossfield there are about 4 restaurants, and a few kilometres away there’s a Humpty’s and Tim Hortons. That’s it.

I eat out a lot. Every day. At almost every place I sit down the server will often put their arm on my shoulder and ask, “Do you want your regular?” No menu needed.

What was my favourite place, is now closed. It was called “Michelle’s Place”

I was going through a separation about 7 years ago, I was a lost soul, broken hearted in many ways. Im not sure I’ve ever recovered to be honest, you never break up a family without some deep scars.

A very bright spot in this time was a server at Michelle’s place. Her name was Michelle. For the longest time I thought she was the owner. She was so caring. She treated customers like they were guests in her home. She cared about everything, your food, your refill, your tab. But more than that, she cared about you as a person. That’s exactly why I kept going back. We became friends in our own way. Eventually I met the owner, also name Michelle, who also became a friend of mine.

As everyone knows, I lost my Mother to cancer. I remember the day Michelle told me she had cancer. She was way too young. I remember telling her she would beat it. I didn’t really believe it myself, but she did. We lost touch. After she left the restaurant we had no cause to stay connected, but I missed her friendship. I missed our chats.

We grew apart and we never really spoke. I’d see her from time to time, and it always made me happy to see her.

Last week I was told she was very ill, and was taken suddenly. Gone.

“Fuck, the Cancer came back.” I thought to myself. That’s what had happened to my Mum. I was wrong. Influenza.

She left a huge mark. Not just on me, but on my entire community. She has young children, a husband, and friends that are closer than most families.

The good die young.

I was very lucky to have been a guest at “Michelle’s Place”.

If you read this far, thank you. Tris.

Like most young children I had loved to write. In Grade 3 I won a competition. Of all the things I’ve ever accomplished, maybe that’s the one I love the most. When I started this blog I did it to try to deal with my emotions. I wanted to do something different than getting hammered, doing stupid things, and looking for someone else to love me rather than love myself.

I knew I had some hilarious stories to tell. I sometimes can’t even believe the things I’ve done. The funny thing was though, I kept putting those stories off. I wondered if my kids read them what they might think. Some of the unwritten blogs had titles already picked out. One was, ‘My Ho Ho Christmas.’ You can imagine why I kept putting that one off. It will just remain a humorous memory.

My punctuation was awful. Most times I wouldn’t even proofread them. But, if I had done so, I wouldn’t have been able to pick out the mistakes. Commas, semicolons, present/past tense, capitalization, etc… There’s a lot to know, and subsequently I have a new respect for actual writers. It was obvious I was not one of them.

I received some great messages. A few people sent some kind, encouraging words. This meant a lot. I also had some pretty harsh criticism. Some mocked me. This meant nothing to me. I knew that I was genuine, if not always right. I never had aspirations of it being anything that mattered to anyone. I knew my shortcomings better than anyone. This is why after every one, I thanked whoever made it down to the bottom of my drivel. Drivel it was, if you do not know the meaning of that word, please add it to your vocabulary. It’s an awesome word and applies to almost everything we read and hear.

What became clear to me as I wrote was what is important to me. First and foremost, my 2 children. I wanted with all my heart to end this blog writing about them; I could write 1000 blogs about my two kids. I didn’t do that because I think their dad writing so publicly about them is not cool when you are a teenager. They are my entire world. I’m terrified of what life without them will look like. Writing forced me to acknowledge these fears. Writing helped me to look ahead and ask myself how I will fill this void. Obviously, I need a better plan than a low powered plane and a tall mountain. I’m actually really excited to see the adults they will become.

After my kids, writing helped me realize how much I cared about my family. Growing up with 7 siblings is pretty awesome. Remembering the 8th sibling (Sarah) was a wonderful blog to write.

Everyone should write. It’s very rewarding. The English language is rich, and learning how to put words together is not unlike playing and writing music. I’m a Gr.9 grad. That’s it. If I can drivel, anyone can.

Some housekeeping. I spent time in Stettler as a young kid. My Dad wanted me there so I went. This was an incredibly difficult time for me but it was in no way the fault of the kind family that opened up their home and took us in. Everyone has a tough childhood. It’s hard growing up. I heard a rumour that stemmed from this blog that things happened there that were abusive. This is patently false. I got disciplined like every other kid did from that era. I’m often amazed that they were willing to have us stay with them. I remember some good times there.

If I have offended or hurt anyone I sincerely apologize. If anyone wants to start a writing club, or just share writing, I’d like to read other peoples writing.

We’ve all heard enough about about me. It was what it was.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris

So, I go back. I didn’t have time to get Samantha a coffee last time, and Im heading to Calgary anyway.

When I walk through the doors the resident who suggested I shave is there at the front entrance.

“She’s upstairs.” she greets me cheerfully. An out-of commission elevator and a few wrong turns later, I walk through the doors.

“Is Sam here?” I ask.

“I’m here.” A voice comes from the common area.

“Here’s your coffee.”

She starts to talk. I play with my phone. I struggle to deal with my emotions when I see Sam. She asks me about my Christmas, I give distracted answers.

One of the residents in the common area sends a unsubtle message by turning the volume of the TV up. We get the hint.

“Want to come see my couch?” She asks.

“Sure!”

We walk. She struggles to walk because of a medical condition, but with a walker and a few breaks we make it to her room. I sit on a chair and start looking at stock prices on my phone, of stock I don’t and will never own. She is talking,

Suddenly the tone changes and it cuts through my distraction like a razor sharp knife…..

“You know I walk in this room and I look at that sign, it says, ‘LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL’. Bullshit. Life isn’t beautiful. My life is hard. I want what you all have: Partners, kids, ability to get out. I want to work and have a life. Instead I’m here. I see the same people everyday. I’m stuck. I can barely move. I’m in pain. I tell people what they want to hear, I say I’m fine. But I don’t know if I am fine.

I snap out of my cloud. I watch her keenly, hang onto every word. In a world of competing victims it’s extremely refreshing to hear from someone who legitimately needs to be heard. She carries on….

“It’s good that you just sit there and say nothing. Sit there. You listen, I’ll talk. I need to say how I feel. But life isn’t all bad. That day I had my bandages changed was the worst day of my life, but when Jay held my hand and told me I was tough, I felt his love. It has made me happy. I think about it a lot. He’s going to get a room so you all can celebrate Christmas with me.”

I follow instructions. I sit there. My phone is off, and I’m 100 percent present and listening. She tells me all about her sadness, fears, and hopes. I stay way longer than I was planning. When it’s time, I get up to go. She walks me out. Its painful for her to do so, but she insists. On our way out my favourite resident, the one whose son never comes to see her, asks me to put a fallen angel on top of a Christmas tree. She can’t reach the top. Fallen angels are my favourite angels, and I oblige. We say our goodbyes.

Later that night Sam calls. I actually answer. She thanks me for listening, for coming again. She starts to apologize for complaining. I stop her and truthfully say how much I enjoyed listening to her be completely raw and honest.

“Ok then,” she says laughingly, “In that case, Good fucking night!”

We both start to laugh. Through my laughter I reply, “Good fucking night to you too, Sam.”

The call ends in laughter. I feel connected to my sister. Life IS beautiful.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris.

It’s Christmas. I’m infamous for hating Christmas. Want to know why I hate it? I think it’s a time where we are reminded that life is not perfect. The emptiness in us is most acute. The plight of those with less, most glaring. We also keenly miss those we’ve lost.

My sister Samantha couldn’t make our family Christmas. My Dad could not attend as well. This hit me hard. Everyone in my family has done more for and with Samantha than I. Samantha has done more for me than I’ve ever done for her. Samantha lives for her family. When I was told she wasn’t well enough to make our Christmas I was overwhelmed with feelings of shame. I decided Sam needed a visit from me. I went to see her the next day at an facility she lives in, and shares with many seniors. she’s not a senior, but this facility accepts and cares for my sister.

“I don’t know this brother.” an elderly resident remarked as we sat at the table.

“This is Tristram, he works very hard, he doesn’t come very often, but he loves me very much and I love him very much.” Samantha explained in my undeserving defence.

“I don’t work hard, I have no excuse, I’m just a fucked up person.” I said to myself.

I sat there for a while. But, as often is the case, I was emotionally shut down. Deriding myself with guilt, and robbing myself yet again of good quality time with someone who has more courage and strength than I will ever have.

“I haven’t seen my son in 6 years.” the resident continued.

“I think you’d look better if you shaved, you’d be handsome if you did.” She pointed out.

This made me grin, if she knew how little I cared about how I look, she’d of saved her breathe. In a moment of pure self loathing, her criticism was welcome, but my mind was on her son. Why didn’t he come see his mum?

“Does he live far away?” I asked.

“He lives here in Calgary.” she answered sadly. I saw the pain in her eyes. I can’t imagine an unrequited love quite as painful as a mother’s.

I wondered if my mum was alive, would I be taking her for granted? After all, isn’t it fair to say I take my Dad for granted? With my Dad though, I can’t honestly say he’d want it any other way.

So, it’s Christmas. My mind is on aging and the change that comes with it. I see the thing that scares me the very most. The end of my usefulness. I watch an elderly woman stare at a sandwich. I try to picture myself in that place, that age, but I can’t. If God permits or insists, I will be there one day. I have ideas on how to avoid it, but I know I should leave it up to God.

I need to wrap this up. I’m not a skilled enough writer to tie shame, aging, Christmas and emotional unavailability into a neat bow. I’ll just end it with this,

“Well, I should go Sam.”

“Ya, it’s ok.” She smiled.

I give her a hug, as I pull away she pulls me back in and gives me a kiss on the neck. She whispers, “I love you very, very much Tris.”

You see, Sam didn’t need a visit from me, I needed her. She knew what I needed to hear. I walked out of that building with tears in my eyes. Good tears.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris.

Do you ever hear that voice? The voice that seems to come from out of nowhere? Often times when we are about to do, or continue to do something we know is wrong?

It’s never too late to do the right thing. The things we choose to do when we know we shouldn’t, kill us. They kill our minds, bodies and souls. Often times, when we do them, we are giving up on ourselves. It’s self harm, and deep down we are aware of it. It’s why in these moments we leave a grounded place and act irrationally. We become the antagonist in our own life’s story.

You are about to, or perhaps you already have, told a lie. Or, maybe you are an alcoholic and reaching for another drink. It’s so easy to just tell ourselves it doesn’t matter. We aren’t worth it. We don’t deserve better. Who cares. Just because we can do and perhaps get away with it, doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.

It matters. It matters a lot.

Sure we can hurt others with a lie, a drink, an affair, an addiction, or whatever your vice might be. But who you are really destroying is yourself. When we do these things I believe we all hear that voice, “It’s not too late.”

If you ignore it and do it anyway, guess what? It’s still not too late. You will have just knocked yourself down another rung. Step up. Change how you think about it. Start fighting for yourself. Start climbing the ladder by listening to the voice and stopping. Immediately you will feel a sense of pride and self worth. Not an arrogant pride, just a happiness and hope in yourself.

I imagine myself walking across a very dangerous terrain. All around me are traps and snares. Bright flashing lights light up signs trying to lure me in, and crowds of people petition me to leave my path. I leave my path, instantly I hear the voice. I then ignore it at my own peril. I keep going and the voice follows me. With every wrong turn I take it speaks up, only to be ignored. Every-time the outcome is the same. Pain. Hurt. Sadness. Every-time the only path back to peace is the simple road I left.

I’ve lied. I’ve cheated. I’ve drank myself near death many, many times. I heard the voice a thousand times and ignored it almost every time. But more and more I am listening and turn back sparing myself heartache and pain.

The voice was right, it was never too late. It’s never too late to do the right thing, or at least try.

For those of you who find it humorous I hear voices in my head, are you surprised? I’m grinning too, but maybe just a little from a sense of self worth as well.

If you read this far, thank you.

Tris.

Alastair. My Son. One half of my world and lately someone I try to live up to. Isn’t it supposed to be the other way around? Not in this family.

In the last two weeks he has been formally recognized at community and academic levels. It’s been anxiety inducing, a sign he’s getting ready to start his own life. Then came more great news, the University of Alberta and University of Calgary sent him letters of acceptance. I have been a bit shaken by this all to be honest.

It’s coming to an end. Or, at the least, it’s changing fast. The memories have been flooding in.

I want to do it over. I want to relive it all. I can’t, and it’s killing me.

I remember him falling asleep on my chest as an infant, as we watched the Oilers.

I remember playing with him in the ball house we bought at Ikea.

I remember walking beside him as he’d trike to Wendy’s on a hot summer night. Ever great trip, no matter how short, needs a reward at the end of it and ours was always two malts.

I remember his first goal scored as a hockey player. He was 3.

He was an amazing hockey player. As always, too smart for his own good, and often understood the game better than those that coached him. I was one of those coaches he was smarter than.

I see my Brothers with their sons. My oldest brother’s son serves in the Armed Forces. As a family we are all proud, but no one is more proud than his Dad.

My youngest brother has a 2 year old. My favourite day in the last few weeks was a day spent with them. He loves motorbikes. I love airplanes. After a 3 hour drive that produced nothing of value, we decided the trip shouldn’t be in vain, so a toy at Walmart should be purchased. I was walking the aisles with him and his dad,

“Motorbikes!” He exclaimed. “I want this one.”

“How about an airplane Oscar?” I queried.

“How about NO.” He firmly asserted.

Always looking for a way to buy this boys affection I promptly found the biggest motorbike I could find.

“This one?”

“Yes.”

I predict one day the Cottier bloodlines will make a triumphant return to the famous TT motorcycle races that take place on the Isle of Man; An Island we descend from.

This may seem like a silly story, but I can’t tell you how much happiness this day brought me.

As I think about these things it’s hard not to get emotional. I’ve completed many, many projects. I’ve built some homes that are really special. But somehow I don’t care about any of that. THIS is the stuff that matters. Life is so beautiful.

My wish for my son, is not money and an amazing career. He’s likely to achieve that easily. I want him to have what I had. I want him to have a family. I want him to fall in love. I hope God blesses him with a son or daughter. Maybe he’ll be as lucky as I and have both. Daughters are just as special.

I’ll be there with a toy airplane.

If you read this far, Thank you.

Tris.

Music! There’s not many things I love more than music. This would come as a shock to the music teachers that had me in their class. Detention was much preferable to singing. You couldn’t pry a note out of my mouth with a crowbar. As mentioned in past posts, I grew up in a Mennonite culture. They love to sing. It’s all A Capella, all the time. They connect with the God they love through it. They sing hymns, praise, and worship songs. Everywhere they go, constant singing. I hated it to be honest. However, late at night I’ll sometimes find them on YouTube and listen. I find it comforting now. If you want to experience this music, search To the River (I am going) on YouTube.

My Mum loved music. I miss her. I believe she’s in a very musical place. I remember listening to the famous Vangelis‘ song, Chariots of Fire, with her. I also recommend Conquest of Paradise. When she died, the song Go rest high on that Mountain by Vince Gill was just coming out.

When my Cousin came from Scotland, he introduced me to U2. I remember listening to the Joshua Tree album. It was the greatest thing I had ever heard. I listened to it on my yellow Sony Walkman.

Working on the framing crews in the late 90s and early 2000s CJAY92 was the Classic Rock station of choice. Only on Saturdays would would we listen to Country 105. I preferred the Country. I think it’s because I want music to calm me down, not fire me up. I remember being deeply offended by some of Nickelbacks‘ lyrics. However, I’m not cool enough to renounce them completely; I like many of their songs. What Father doesn’t connect with Never gonna be alone?

Somewhere along the line I fell in love with Classic Country:Vern Gosdin, Conway Twitty, George Jones, Emmylou Harris, Don Williams. There’s so many more. I’m always craving a simpler time and existence, and romantically I imagine life was simpler in the 70s. I once sent a message to Emmylou, thanking her for her music.

When I became a Christian there was music that I started to connect to. The same music that used to make me angry, now comforts me. With that being said, Kanye Wests’ Gospel album momentarily had me considering atheism. I jest.

Enjoying Nickelback and cringing at Kanye are not my only faux pas in music. I share a birthplace with, but dislike the Beatles. I’m not sure if it’s the arrogance, or the music that I dislike. Is it wrong that I would switch them places with the band on the Titanic if I was God? Then the band that thought they were bigger than God, could’ve gone down on the ship like minded people thought he couldn’t sink. They could have bopped their heads and played Yellow Submarine as they slid down the deck into the icy Atlantic.

Peoples’ musical taste and DNA are alike. There are no two playlists alike. I think this is because we connect to music based off of our life experiences. We share music, it’s a way to connect to each other. We can give people clues about who we are by telling them the songs that hold meaning to us.

There’s no point to this post. I write when I’m struggling, stressed, whatever. It’s my therapy. I’m laying in my bed, listening to music as I write. I do not recall my mum saying this to me, but I was told by my siblings that before she died, she mentioned a song. She wanted us to listen to this song and think of her when we did. The song was by Roxette. The track was Go to Sleep.

Ok Mum, I’ll try. I love you.

If you read this far, Thank you.

Tris.

I’m stealing a line here. My favourite band has a song by this title. I don’t know why, but I’ve always loved the song. The band is Blue October. Here’s a lyric:

Hate me today
Hate me tomorrow
Hate me for all the things I didn’t do for you

Go for it. Hate me. Spew it. Get it all out. You are not alone. You want to hurt me? Go ahead. You want to destroy me? Its ok. Guess what? I often feel the same way towards myself. I doubt anyone could be harder on me than I am.

I will never hate you back. I will never forget the good. I’ve won, I’ve lost, but always I learned. I don’t want to regret every good memory I have. One doesn’t take from the other. Because something isn’t, doesn’t mean it never was.

So go ahead, Hate me.

I don’t care.

If you read this far, Thank you.

Tris