Help Me Win Please / THANKS I WON!

THIS IS HOW THE BLOG POST BEGAN ... "I need your Vote. I entered a Painting into a Contest with some of Canada’s best artists. There is an important sequence to vote. If enough people Vote for my painting then I may well win."

NOW I AM ANNOUNCING THAT I WON, THAT IS ONE OF THREE PEOPLE WHO WON.

Press the link (url) and go to the ART in Canada Facebook page,
then on that page at the Upper Right press LIKE the Art Page site,
and then you are permitted to scroll down until you find my painting - to Vote or like my work.
I need your Vote.

The painting that I submitted for this contest is this one.

THE COLOSSEUM

The Colosseum

In my life a second time I have walked here trouble free,

A spectator unlike those who populated benches

When once luckless creatures died.

A skeleton almost, imposing still with ancient strength,

Noiseless now but for the clicks of shutters, thousands daily,

Where once voices brashly cried.

Images of early stone for the people back at home.

Imagining the macabre carnage in the name of Rome.

A reformist culture, progressive we presume to be.

We wince that a society could delight in death as sport

Amusement at little cost.

Globally our race still honours those who contest to win

Risking injury and inflicting pain, applauding them,

Savagery - little is lost.

Images in high def and digitally screened at home.

Diffident revisions of first century sport in Rome.

Written by Ron Unruh, October 18, 2012 reflecting upon a visit to historic Amphitheatre of Rome.

SEA TOWN

SEA TOWN

Overcast day – overnight rain
Most pleasure crafts moored.
Marina life slow but for sailboats heading out to catch the wind,
Crews of eight.

Trawlers dockside on Saturday,
A work day still, not on the waves but in port,
Repairing nets and ropes, scrubbing, maintaining,
A steady pace, some heavy but untiring, efficient
With animated Italiano, strong-voiced conversation
Through lips tightly holding cigarettes, always.

Ready for a new week here in Fiumicino,
Home for fisherman, out early each morning
Returning at 1800 hours to waiting locals and merchants
Eager for the day’s catch,
Transferred to patrons in Rome and nearby ristorantes.
The fragrance of sea mingles with the smell of diesel and tobacco.

Shortly it looks like a rain again, announced by sizzling lightning,
Crashing clamor and rain storms like a veil dropping
Moving shoreward, and the sailboats turn and head for home.
Waiting, all of us, long enough and the sun appears once more.




Written by Ron Unruh, October 13, 2012 watching from a Fiumicino window on a typical day in the Italian port.

ME

ME

Where did I go, the Me I remember?

That Me with his slender and sinewy torso,

Legs like mainsprings could spring and sprint;

Hair thick, hardened to shape and cool.

Where did Me go?

She whimsically asked me one morning

Eyeing me closely

Was I still in there?

By which she meant beneath the folds and lines

Was her young man present?

Did he still exist?

Charming but painful the question,

That it could be asked is life

As it happens

To celebrities and everyone and Me.

written by Ron Unruh

October 15, 2012

I'M NOT A NARC

Tell me how you think I feel ... sitting in the dental hygienist's chair, my mouth open as she worked and I dozed off. Following that appointment I drove to Army & Navy & noticed an 80 year old man in the shoe department sitting with a boot in his hands and he was sound asleep, head bobbing. How far am I from that?

I mentioned this to a few people. One person calls it narcolepsy. Great, now I have a neurological disorder. I don't just catnap. You can call me 'Narc.' However, I am convinced I do not have narcolepsy.

I like what my wife said. She told me that she could never just doze off, suggesting to me that I was fortunate. I can grab ZZZZ's anytime and any place obviously.

I am pretty sure I have an explanation. There has to be some connection between daytime drowsiness and early morning rising. I love my early hours, quiet, productive, but I likely pay for them by zoning out or getting drop dead weary when it's convenient.

No, I don't have narcolepsy. I can contr.......ol my.. sleeping................. and... waking......... cy..cles.............................

I WONDER WHERE HE IS

I WONDER WHERE HE IS.

He has not been there for a few days.

For months he sat on the bench inside a covered bus shelter, a shopping cart, ‘borrowed’ from some grocery outlet, packed high with his belongings.

Bearded, usually wearing a cap, he sat for hours, both day and night. He couldn’t venture too far, not with everything he owned left unattended. Not that anyone would touch, never mind take his stuff. He slept on that bench.  Occasionally I might see him exit from nearby bushes where he had relieved himself.

I AM A SEPTUAGENARIAN ACTION FIGURE

It's September 13th, and once again as it does every year, my birthday celebration has arrived. This year the day has substantially more significance for me, in that while I have been enjoying a few of the perks of my senior classification, I am now a confirmed codger. I have turned 70 years of age today. I am a septuagenarian. Can you see the numerical French root 'sept' in yet another English term?

The term might be used in the following manner but I will not let this be true of me, 'He sat there, a portly septuagenarian sunk deeply into a leather chair." Rather, I intend it be said of me, "Ron was the first septuagenarian action figure." I may have a long way to go since although I go to the gym each morning at 6 AM, I am failing to lose any significant weight. My tummy although still muffin topped is hard. Because of that, although Christine knows that I leave for the gym, she suspects I am stopping for a fast-food breakfast.

The world continues to be obsessed with youth and beauty and success and that won't change. The fashion world gravitates to 20-somethings and that too is predictable. However, I have earned my sartorial stripes and I am a fabulous septuagenarian as is my wife Christine. Our style is timeless and it has little to do with fashion or skin-care. We are simply sensational and have the confidence to prove it. We own our looks and at 70, I am cool.

What a Wonderful 70th Birthday I had.
I went to the gym, shopped for a rose bush and a plum tree, took my grandchildren and daughter Cari for after-school pre-dinner ice cream cones at Andy’s in White Rock, walked the beach, came home for aperitifs & Lasagna supper with my family (11 of us) courtesy of Christine, my requested dessert (my mother’s Egg Custard Pie Recipe) went on a scavenger hunt organized by my grandchildren, sat while family read blessings to me capped with a prayer, then to each of my children’s home to plant the rose bush and the plum tree. And all children to bed. And then the grand finale, a serendipity … en route home I decided to drive past our old home and there we saw our kitchen stove, only 3 years old sitting on the front lawn available to any claimant of garbage collector … nothing wrong with it … so, I quickly returned to my son Jeff’s place, we hooked up his utility trailer, picked up the stove and delivered it to a family with four small children whom we knew could benefit by having it.

THE INTEGRAL VALUE OF WHISTLING

Whistling. We must preserve the whistle.

My father whistled. I remember his whistle, musical, on pitch, pleasing to hear.  Only much later upon reflection did I associate his whistle with his temperament and his state of mind. Dad whistled most of the time, and he was predictably content. Only on the rare occasion when life was stress-filled, was there a conspicuous absence of the whistle.

I remember learning to whistle as a boy and the habit, I prefer to call it the ability, is identified with me almost as much as with my father. It is a virtual compulsion, an addiction perhaps. I whistle when I am feeling positive and comfortable and I also feel well when I whistle. Whistling is an expression of pleasure with life and how I relate at the moment to my place in the world.

My brother Murray similarly displays the aptitude. It requires no external stimuli but a radio, CD or iPod will certainly inspire the whistle.  When Murray and I have enjoyed the privilege of painting together, we are invariably engaged in a symphonic duet.

I do not otherwise hear much whistling around me. People seldom whistle. That’s an indicator I believe of the quality of life and how it is being experienced within this information laden, distracted, digitized, driven and frenetic world.  So I am determined to foster the art of the whistle with my grandchildren. Each of my grandchildren has come to me at one time or another to demonstrate with pride an ability to generate a sound with curled tongue, over teeth and through pursed lips. Last night I asked Kale and Kadence to let me hear them whistle. Even with a missing front tooth Kale could do an abbreviated scale.  Certainly there are assorted and significant contributors to life fulfillment but the whistle is still one of the most personal and sincere confirmations of peace within.  Listen for the whistle.  

45 YEARS AGO CHRISTINE MARRIED ME

It was on the Twelfth of August 1967 that Christine married me. She was a beautiful bride. She could be nothing less. I was bronzed from summer work on a road building crew. It was sunny and warm Garden City Day (St. Catharines, ON).

Months earlier, Christine had accepted my marriage proposal offered at nearby Niagara Falls. In the company of our many college friends and our family members we exchanged promises that we intended to keep as long as we each would live. Now 45 years later we are still on track. She has been a patient woman, a resourceful wife, an enthusiastic partner, a devoted mother. I have loved her eyes, her smile, her positive outlook, her generous spirit and her independence. Much of my reputation and accomplishment is due to my relationship to Christine Frances May Langlois. She meant what she said to me 45 years ago and I am grateful. I love her.

REUNION TOUR - Stage 6 - PETERBOROUGH AND THE BUNN HOSPITALITY

Monday was travel day again. We said goodbyes to Jeff and family as they prepared to drive directly back to St. Catharines where they stayed until their flight back to Vancouver on Wednesday morning. Wednesday is Gina’s and Jeff’s 13^th Wedding Anniversary.

Ferndale Bible Church

Christine and I instead took Hwy #7 to the city where I pastored Ferndale Bible Church from 1974-1981. Our children began their schooling here at Kawartha Heights Elementary School. We lived in a parsonage separated from the church by the church parking lot. The parsonage has now been sold and pastors are provided a stipend that enables them to purchase their own homes. The church appears much as it did when we were here but with some interior design changes. Christine and I had opportunity to speak with Pastor Peter Keniphaas and Pastor Jim Welch.  We knew Peter from his years serving a church on Vancouver Island. Jim was a small boy when I pastored the church. He grew up, married, has a family, became a realtor, and then as it turned out was invited to become an associate pastor here. There are so many friends in this city whom we wish we could have arranged to meet.

 

During these two days we have enjoyed the friendship of our dear friends Paul and Janice Bunn. Paul is employed as the long-time manager of Queen's Crown Antiques, a high end store of collectibles, furniture, porcelains, paintings, you name it from the UK. He is a gifted antique assessor, millinery practitioner, dress maker and through the years he has been very kind to us. Their lakeside home at Upper Chemong Lake provides a pristine view of the water in all seasons, and a respite from the city at any time. I have visited them here on numerous occasions through the years.

Queen's Crown Products