The Oppenheimer Report 10/12/20

When I moved to Canada in 1994, to celebrate the Canadian Thanksgiving was a little weird for me. The American Thanksgiving used to be our big holiday in Buffalo, and from the time I was a little boy, that was always the occasion when my family would gather. For the last 20 years of my parents’ lives, there were always at least 20 to 30 guests at our house for Thanksgiving dinner. Those guests included friends, relatives, and sometimes complete strangers. Our Thanksgiving celebrations were an excellent litmus test for the strength of a budding relationship. There is no better way to vet a potential spouse than to throw him or her into the middle of a bizarre family holiday gathering. If they survive, they may be keepers. I’m not saying MY immediate family was dysfunctional, but some of our relatives certainly fit the bill. Add alcohol to the equation and those Thanksgiving celebrations could be terribly entertaining. Thankfully, I did most of my foolhardy drinking in bars, after the family gatherings and far from the harsh judgment of a camera lens. Still, I sometimes wish I had taped some of the conversations I’d had with our guests. One uncle, proudly boasting of his son’s athletic achievements in high school, turned to me and asked rhetorically, “but you were never any good at sports, were you?” Every Thanksgiving, another uncle asked me how things were going in college, even though I’d been working in the family business for over 5 years. There was inappropriate kissing of the elderly, dogs throwing up after being fed hors d’oeuvres, red wine spilled on the carpet, and food fights at the kiddie table. I often sat at the kiddie table. Once, one of our younger (and claustrophobic) guests accidentally locked himself into the guest bathroom, and began to panic. Kicking the door violently, and screaming: “Open the goddam door!”, he was apparently unaware of the note on the door warning about the lock.  We had to remove to door to get him out. Such language from a child.

My favourite part of the feast were the after-dinner toasts. Every year at Thanksgiving, someone would be called upon to give a toast acknowledging our thanks and gratitude for our good fortune. My father was decidedly the most eloquent of the toastmasters, but no matter who got up to say something, the speeches were meaningful, emotional, and always well received. At the time, I took it all for granted and assumed I was being appropriately thankful. You don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone.

A habitual negative thinker, I am currently reading a book about changing that behavior. Especially considering everything currently going on in the world, the timing might be right for a little emotional tune-up. Two things are mentioned repeatedly as basic tools to combat negativity. One is acceptance and love of oneself. I am reminded of the Stuart Smalley skit (played by now disgraced Al Franken) on Saturday Night Live, wherein Stuart looks at his reflection in the mirror and affirms his self-love. I used to scoff at this kind of Pollyanna approach to life, but to older I get, the less inclined I am to make fun of it. The other main theme of the book is healing properties of gratitude and forgiveness. The fact is, I have plenty for which to be thankful, and the exercise of vocalizing it has been therapeutic for me.  In a song called “Scrapbook”, which I wrote when we began to build this house, and which last week went to #1 on the Hunters Bay Radio Top 20 chart (remember, self- affirmation is good), I speak of storing the good memories to shore myself up against the bad times. I’ve got a long way to go, but I am becoming genuinely more thankful for the good fortune I have experienced. First and foremost, that includes the love of my wife, my family, and friends, and the importance of music and writing in my life. Happy Thanksgiving everyone!    - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 10/5/20

This coming Thursday I will celebrate 65 trips around the sun, and wow is that ever a kick in the pants. Seems like just last week I was the idiot wearing the Lady Godiva wig and drunk dancing to Haircut 100 music at one of my wild Halloween parties. Decidedly no wiser, I am starting to feel older. So much has happened in the past thirty years, and it seems as if the more complicated my life became, the more out of touch I have become with the passage of time. To all you 20-somethings out there, be forewarned: time has a way of pulling the rug out from under you. Lately, when I look in the mirror, I see Festus from Gunsmoke looking back at me. Where did I go? I lost track somewhere in my 30s.  I wrote a song shortly before my 51^st birthday, out in Banff in the now famous room #421. It was a forbidding, cold, grey, wet mountain morning, and the wind was howling through the larch trees. I felt some kind of ominous vibe in the air (perhaps I was 15 years too early), and I wrote “The Wind Begins To Blow.” There’s a verse in the song which reads “Lately I’ve been thinking that my time is passing faster, and I feel some sense of dire urgency/ In a month or so I’ll usher in my 51^st year, and I’m nowhere near where I thought I would be.” Much has changed in the past 15 years; I try not to “sweat the little stuff” as much as I used to. I also try to avoid that to which I allude in the song; I try not to be disappointed by what I have not accomplished. As I write in an as-yet unfinished lyric: “Sometimes you’ve got to change your dreams before your dreams change you.”

Over the years, Shauna has arranged two surprise birthday parties for me. When I turned 50, she threw a surprise party for me at the Oban Inn at Niagara-On-The-Lake, where we first met. That was the last birthday I celebrated with my mom and dad attending, and there a lot of close friends and family at that party. It remains one of my happiest memories.  She arranged the second surprise party for me when I turned 60. I was at the radio station, broadcasting my Lyrical Workers show, and she secretly arranged for some friends to hijack me in the parking lot as I was leaving the station. The problem was, I wasn’t aware that anybody was waiting for me, I lingered at the station longer than I normally do, and people were shivering outside on a cold October night waiting for over an hour. I felt terrible. Both of those birthday parties were wonderful in their own way, but thankfully, I suspect there will be no surprises this year. Once again, I will celebrate this milestone birthday by presenting my Lyrical Workers show. It is something I love to do. This week, I’ve asked my listeners to suggest any unusual birthday songs they’d like to request.

I don’t really have many big regrets so far. Sure, I’ve squandered some of my time in life’s casino, but who hasn’t? I was going through an old photo album the other day, and I saw some photos I have not seen in a long time. One of the positive results of this self-imposed seclusion is that it has given me ample time to reflect. Last week, we Jews just celebrated Yom Kippur, our highest holy day of the year. It is a day we fast and atone for our sins. I am not a religious man, but I take stock annually of how I have fallen short, and that is a meaningful exercise to me. Everything has been going too fast in the past decade. In some strange way I am relieved that the world has slowed down. Now, I am not quite as attention-challenged, and a photograph of a bunch of my merry pranksters, launching a water balloons at the Comet roller coaster in Crystal Beach, makes me smile.  The guy staring back at me in the mirror might look like a grumpy old curmudgeon, but the guy inside those eyes is still waking up the neighbours with loud rock ‘n roll. As my late brother-in-law used to say: don’t postpone joy.

                        - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/28/20

 

I watched a video the other day, taken shortly before everything changed, when none of us had any idea what was to come. This pandemic has been a wake-up call for us all, perhaps more for some than others. In our current state of emergency, I am astounded by all the zealotry surrounding the issues, on both sides. Everybody has an opinion about how to proceed, but I take my cues from health care experts. Hunters Bay Radio volunteer Chris Occhiuzzi wrote an interesting article the other day, trying to put this pandemic into perspective. In it, he suggested that the zealots, on both sides, should tone down the rhetoric. I agree. For my part, I’m trying to follow common sense directives in order to protect myself and to keep the virus from spreading to the weakest and most vulnerable in our population.

My wife Shauna reposted an article the other day on Facebook about the nature of viruses, and the gist of the article is that, 6 months later, we still don’t know all that much about COVID-19. The article is worth reading. You can take from it what you will. If what you conclude is that “Science doesn’t know” well, time will tell who has made the right decisions. I’m just as concerned and skeptical as the rest of you. What concerns me are the potential long-term effects of this virus. I do know something about chronic illness, as I am a caregiver myself, and I’d like to comment about that role.

Illness is, by its very nature, isolating and discouraging. Anyone who is living with it will likely agree. Shauna suffers from a chronic pain condition. In her twenties, she almost died after being hospitalized for two months due to a severe case of food poisoning. She had contracted Campylobacter poisoning after eating bad chicken from a fast-food restaurant chain. That dangerous bacteria, together with the powerful antibiotics needed to kill it, virtually ripped apart her digestive tract. As a result, she now has Crohn’s Disease and a myriad of related complications. I suspect that it is her compromised gut that has led to so many of her other immunity problems over the years.  Regardless of the cause, she has been very sick for a long time. In the early days of our marriage, we were more active, but we were often forced last minute to cancel our plans, for travel and social engagements. Friends and family were often disappointed with us because we were always late or unreliable. To our frustration, many of her symptoms were unable to be successfully treated by doctors. The immune system is probably the least understood function of the human body. I’ve read 5 or 6 books on the subject, and I am even more confused now than before  reading them. To those who have told us that “it’s all in your head – there’s nothing really wrong with Shauna”, I say walk a mile in our shoes and then offer your opinions. Ultimately, our decision to leave downtown Toronto,  move up north, and to build our primary residence on the site of the Taylor summer cottage was based on the need to live in a cleaner, quieter environment. We have attempted to move away from the judgment, and the obligations we could not fulfill. Everyone has an opinion about what makes us sick and what cures us. Believe me, one becomes a little less all-knowing and judgmental when chronic illness invades your life or that of someone you love.

This novel coronavirus is still relatively new, with increasingly complicated side effects, for example the long-haul syndrome. When venerated medical professionals are imploring us to be vigilant, I am inclined to believe them. That is my choice. To complicate matters further, a few years ago, Shauna was rushed to Toronto and hospitalized again after suffering a severe neurological attack, and was ultimately treated with steroids for a year. As a result of the two major attacks to her health, my wife is immunocompromised, and I live in constant fear of bringing a potentially deadly virus into our home. We have lived with chronic illness for the past 28 years. It has changed the life of the person I love the most, and it has changed our life a couple. Some of our contemporaries have begun to contend with serious illness in their own lives. As their social lives suffer, they are beginning to relate to what we have already been through and better understand what isolation feels like. Unless you’ve experienced chronic illness firsthand you might not understand the pain you could cause yourself or spread to someone else. May you never learn. I suggest you consider the possibility that ignorance is not bliss. Believe me, you want to avoid chronic illness at all costs. It is at times baffling to me that the generation before mine, often referred to as the “Greatest Generation”, made huge sacrifices  6 year during r world war, and yet in a period of only 6 months, many people these days cannot agree to make some fairly basic sacrifices in order to fight a common and deadly enemy. It seems like common sense to me. Choose to practice physical distancing, wash your hands on a regular basis, avoid large gatherings, and wear a mask when in public. Then again, these days, common sense seems to be on injured reserve. It is no wonder that those elders that are still with us are concerned and afraid.   

                        - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/21/20

 

After almost four years of nonstop verbal diarrhea from the Orange Emperor, the spewer of poo, the prince of prevarication, I did not think that anything he could say would get a rise out of me. I stand corrected. He finally said the dumbest thing I have ever heard any human being say (so far), let alone the President of the United States. When grilled about the wildfires raging in the Western United States, and in response to a question wherein the science of climate change was referenced, his response was that “Science doesn’t know.” Those were his exact words. Disregard for a moment the fact that this jackass has the communication skills of a kindergarten student, and that what he likely meant to say was “science is incorrect”, or “scientists don’t know”, I don’t think I have ever heard even Rump say something so ignorant. Yes, the science of climate change may be inexact, but Rump’s ignorance is dangerous. I don’t want a leader who thinks that gravity is magic. Now that the Supreme Court Justice Ruth Bader Ginsberg has passed on, and may she rest in peace, I fear the repercussions of a Supreme Court Justice picked by this rocket anti-scientist. Will Roe vs. Wade be reversed? Will we reinstate public stonings, perhaps bloodletting? The political climate is changing.

Indeed, climate change is a polarizing subject. Ever since former VP Al Gore came out with the documentary “An Inconvenient Truth” that subject has been a little more in the public eye. My nephew, a meteorologist for NOAA down in Virginia does not like that movie. He believes that climate change has become far too politicized, and he questions the accuracy of the scientific predictions made to support Gore’s message. He doesn’t deny that climate change is taking place; clearly it is. His contention is that climate change is cyclical and not likely to be changed appreciably by man. We have only been keeping climate records for a relatively short time, and these cycles take place over long spans of time. Certainly, our massive generation of greenhouse gases exacerbates the problem, and absolutely, we should move away from fossil fuels.  Still, for our survival, perhaps there are more effective and economical ways to adapt to the coming changes.  A few years ago, my nephew sent me a very interesting book entitled “Cool It”, written by a Danish statistician names Bjorn Lomborg. In the book Lomborg suggests that, among other things, adjusting to the inevitable changes might be a more productive use of our energies. Lomborg believes that it is economically unfeasible and simply unrealistic to think that newly industrialized countries will jump on board to make a significant changes in the global warming trend, at least in time to make any difference. Population control and better land management might be more productive solutions. Rump would probably love this guy, but he likely hasn’t even read the Constitution, so I doubt he will read “Cool It”. He probably doesn’t even know where Denmark is.

As I mentioned in a previous report, with the help of Hidden Habitat Ecological Landscapes, we put in a proper raised garden bed and planted a wide variety of vegetables this season. Thanks again to Laura and Tyler Thomas for making that happen. Tending to a garden has been good therapy during these strange times, and those fresh vegetables and tomatoes taste great. Even if it is only a token gesture, the idea of growing something locally has been a learning experience for us. Regrettably, we did not plant until early June, but we’ve had a pretty good crop for our first year. After the recent cold snap, that season may soon be over. I’ve been tarping every night to save what I can from the nightly dips into the frost zone. Contending with the weather has been a challenge, and an important reminder of the effects of climate change on farmers. Up here it’s a short growing season, and when we have had rain these days, it’s coming in torrents. That is not helpful. My rain gauge is my little folding boat at the dock, and at least five times in the past three weeks it has rained so hard that the boat was in danger of sinking.  

I think someone should get T-shirts printed up with Rump’s bloated face on it that read “Science Doesn’t Know”, or better yet, print it all on red baseball caps.  

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

 

The Oppenheimer Report 9/14/20

 

It’s time for another fuzzy memory.  I told this story many years ago in another report, but it bears repeating. A few reports ago, I posted a photograph of a group of my friends, riding in my old Chris Craft Sea Skiff, and one was wearing an orange pig mask. At one point, I and some of my friends each had our own latex pig mask. They were our official party masks. Because they only covered the top half of the face, they did not interfere with one’s ability to drink beer. That was of the utmost importance in those days. Those masks unleashed our partying superpowers, and perhaps they even transformed our personalities. Anyone who has ever worn a Halloween costume knows the power of a mask.

For sheer debauchery and untoward behavior, one vacation stands out. Back in the 1980s a group of us rented a large rooftop condominium on Grand Bahama Island for a week’s vacation of nonstop partying. The eight or nine of us in this group frequently celebrated together in Buffalo, so moving the party to the Bahamas was a slam dunk. On our first day, we rented a dilapidated, 1970s mint green Cadillac the size of Nebraska, with bad suspension, balding tires, and a badly peeling dark green vinyl top. We drove that beast all over the island, stirring up mayhem and chaos. There was gambling, drinking, and of course, there was an abundance pig mask-wearing behavior. That Caddy was on its last legs when we rented it, and we were the nail in the coffin. After the first night on the town we somehow lost what was left of its decaying exhaust system. There is nothing like to sound of an unmuffled, big block V8 engine to wake the dead. Everybody knew when the pig people from Buffalo were coming, that’s for sure.

One day, we took our loud, smoking, lime green chariot on a road trip to the other side of the island. We’d heard about the fancy Jack Tarr Village resort, far removed from the froth and fray of the other side of the island, and from scofflaws like us. We wanted to see for ourselves how the other half lived, and we had every intention to behave ourselves. We planned to have one over-priced drink, maybe hang out on the beach for an hour or so, and then head home. The day did not turn out as planned.

We got off to a bad start, because our Caddy had a pre-ignition problem. When we arrived at this fancy resort, parked and shut off the car, it shuddered for a good 5 seconds, after which it let out an ear-splitting bang and emitted a huge cloud of blue smoke. That was a sign of things to come. Unfamiliar with the all-inclusive resort experience, we discovered that Jack Tarr Villagers prided themselves on their privacy. If you were not an official Jack-Tarr-Village-card-carrying guest, you were persona non grata. I can’t imagine why a quiet, exclusive, family-friendly resort, would not welcome a group of loud, young adults, four who were wearing pig masks, but regardless, we were summarily rejected. Some of us, not the designated driver, were a little intoxicated, so that rejection, by those pseudo-exclusive resort imposters, just fanned the flames. Indignant, we “pigged” the pool area, then moved on to the bar and lobby. With each rejection we became more obnoxious, until we spent the remainder of our ill-fated stay eluding security guards and photo bombing befuddled residents while they stood for carefully posed family photos. Somewhere I have a photograph of my friend Michael popping out of the bushes wearing his pig mask just as a carefully posed family portrait was being snapped. What did Groucho Marx said about country clubs? I felt like he must have been talking about us. Anyhow, we now had not only had security guards chasing us, but also angry hotel guests as well. We all scrambled back to our rusty land yacht as the gathering crowd of disgruntled people chased us. After what seemed to be an eternity, our designated driver managed to get the engine to turn over, and we beat a hasty retreat with tires squealing. In our wake, shrouded in a thick cloud of blue smoke, were the angry residents and security guards waving their arms and shaking their fists. They reminded me of the angry villagers gathering to lynch Frankenstein’s monster. I do believe that was my last visit to a Jack Tarr Village resort.

As I said, those masks were to blame, I would never have behaved that way if I wasn’t wearing a pig mask. As a final note, when our vacation was over, as instructed, we left the very tired Caddy in the airport parking lot. That very well might have been it’s last rental. By now, on top of the myriad of other mechanical failures, its rear differential was bone dry. It was smoking from the friction of an unlubricated rear axle. As we took off in our puddle jumper to Florida, we could see our legendary beast, our weary dragon in combat, possible about to catch fire in the airport parking lot, shrouded in a gathering plume of smoke. Those Caddys take a lickin’ and keep on tickin’.

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 9/7/20

 

I’ve always had a thing for campy, bad television and movies. Sometimes it drives Shauna crazy. I’m not proud of it, but I have learned to accept myself. I ask you, how can you go wrong watching any Ed Wood movie, or “Attack Of The Killer Tomatoes”? They’re going to make you laugh, and that’s a good thing. Back when I was a kid, I gravitated to the bad sitcoms. I vaguely remember watching the obscure sitcom “My Mother The Car”, which was the Edsel of sitcoms. I also watched “McHales Navy”, “Gilligan’s Island”, “Hogan’s Heroes” (of course), “Gomer Pyle, USMC”,  “My Three Sons”, “Mr. Ed”, “Batman”, “The Addams Family”, “The Munsters” and probably most of the old sitcoms you might now find on Nickalodeon or internet sites like Amazon Prime Video and Netflix. The other day, I was flipping through the thousands of videos available on Amazon Prime and watched the very first episode of “The Real McCoys”. What a time capsule revelation that was! Even as a child, I knew those shows were not intellectually stimulating, but I was entertained. Then came reality television.  

When it first emerged, reality television caught my interest because it was so strange and different. Here was an entirely new genre of terrible television which, by its very nature, highlighted the worst mankind had to offer. There didn’t seem to be anything real about it. “Survivor” and “Big Brother” were the two shows that I followed, but from time to time I’d watch anything and everything that aired. The bar just kept getting lower, (along with my IQ) and the shows kept getting worse. Reality television represented the canary in the coal mine of entertainment, but like the train wreck, I simply couldn’t look away. I remember one show which followed some guy who was roughing it “alone” in some frozen northern wasteland. At some point his snowmobile conked out, at night, when he had to walk perhaps ten miles back to his home. It was so strange watching that guy schlepping home, knowing that an entire camera crew was following him in heated trucks. After a while – and it took an embarrassingly long time - reality television lost its allure, and I gradually weaned myself from it. Well, for the most part. I still follow “Big Brother”. I find the show fascinating; it is like a televised Skinner Box.

I’m not proud of myself. This whole pandemic thing has caused me to make some even more terrible television choices. Sometimes it’s not a choice at all. Most of the time I’m too distracted and anxious to sit through a feature length movie, so oftentimes, we just have the television on in the background while we’re doing other things. I’m trying to limit myself to an hour or less of “news” per day, because that has become reality television on steroids.

Last week, I might have inadvertently watched an entire episode of the worst reality television program I have so far encountered: “Love Island.”  I was preoccupied writing something on my computer and the television was on.  I wasn’t paying attention, but then the sheer stupidity of the program reeled me in. That show might be too awful, even for me. Keep in mind, I have watched more than one episode of “Jersey Shore”, so clearly my bar is pretty low. The old addiction came back, and I’ve put a call in for RTWA (Reality TV Watchers Anonymous). I could not turn away. “Love Island” is another one of those musical chairs shows wherein young adults couple up and one by one are eliminated from “the game”.  In this case, a bunch of singles pair up in a Las Vegas villa, and the drama unfolds from there. People are required to choose a mate on day one, and then, as time goes by, they swap partners and trash talk each other. Oh the drama! Eventually, someone is deemed the odd man out and is summarily thrown off a high-rise balcony. Ok, I’m kidding about that part, but people get voted off.

 

I have no idea how dating works, Shauna found me eating scraps out of a dumpster behind Burger King and took me home, but intellectually, I might be just a notch above these lovers in the romance department. The thing that most astounded me while watching those young adults discuss their matters of the heart was their anemic communication skills. I needed subtitles to follow the dialogue. What has happened to the English language while I wasn’t paying attention?! I know I rant about this a lot, and I also know I wasn’t the king of communication when I was in my twenties, but the English language has really taken a tumble in the last decade or so.  When I watch television now or read copy in an advertisement, I feel like I am on another planet. Example: “Hey Bro did like you like, like her, or what? She was chill, right? Hyuh! Wha? Hyuh! Like, whoh, right? I know. Whuh? Yuh!” I believe that was, verbatum what I heard on “Love Island” the other night.

I’m sure most of you have judged me harshly at this point, and what can I say in my defense? I yamwhatIyam. In about one month, I’ll celebrate my 65^th birthday, and I seem to have stalled in the maturity department. Nevertheless, I am slowly learning to accept and embrace my inner 12-year-old. Yuknow, that being said, like whuh, you know bro, like, it is what it is.

 Mr. Ed is beginning to sound like Shakespeare these days.  Whuhh!

- Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/31/20

When I was young “funnelators” were popular.  They are basically slingshots on steroids. We used them to launch water balloons, and they were typically made out of surgical tubing attached to a medium sized funnel or pouch for launching the water balloon. In my high school days, many a water balloon war was waged with these giant slingshots, and I’ve been on the receiving end of one of their watery projectiles. They decidedly take water balloon fights to a new level.

Jump ahead fifteen years, and I am now a young adult (I use the term “adult” loosely). One of my friends who was an avid sailor told me of a commercially available version of the legendary funnelator. Marketed as a “Winger” it was much more sophisticated than the primitive makeshift weapon I had once used. Sailors liked them because, when there was no wind during a race, water balloon wars were a popular distraction. Wingers made the delivery a lot more accurate. Of course, I immediately ordered one, and over the years I had a lot of fun with it. Together with my crew (it takes 3 to operate a Winger) we did some crazy things with it. One hot summer day, armed with my Winger and a bucket of water balloons, half-filled for maximum distance and velocity, my scofflaw friends and I motored over to Crystal Beach Amusement Park in my 1957 Chris Craft Sea Skiff, “The Ahoy Vey”, and terrorized unsuspecting amusement park attendees. It was an assault by lake. We moored about 200 yards offshore and started catapulting water balloons at the Comet roller coaster which, if you remember Crystal Beach, was located right along the shoreline. After some test shots, we became quite proficient at shooting water balloons directly over the peak of the coaster. Imagine their surprise when coaster riders reached the top of that first drop and saw a water balloon fly by just above their heads at 70+MPH. I suppose some people in the park, waiting in line to ride the Comet, were hit by these balloons. I’m sure they had no idea wherefrom those water missiles came.

There were countless incidents of lawless behavior; cocktail parties invaded, unsuspecting beach walkers attacked, bonfires destroyed. One night we performed a stealth night attack on two bonfires which were situated about 100 yards apart. We sat out in the boat in the darkness, and launched balloons at one bonfire, then on the other. As we were invisible to our victims in the darkness, the people at each bonfire thought the other participants were the attackers. We watched in delight as the two parties began to argue. No one suspected that water balloons were coming from 150 yards offshore. One night, fueled by a combination of reckless abandon and boredom, we got the bright idea to shoot balloons straight up into the air. Again, we did this on my Chris Craft utility, out on the lake, in the dark.  The surprise of not knowing where one of those balloons would land was remarkably exhilarating. Once launched, the balloon took what seemed like an eternity to come down, and it was always exciting to see how close to the boat the rogue balloons would land. It might not have been the stupidest thing I ever did on a boat, but it was close.

Speaking of fun, I have one final note in the nostalgia department. Cynthia Doolittle, one of the iconic mothers from my old neighborhood in Buffalo, passed on last week, and I miss her already. The woman was the personification of fun. I was reminiscing with her eldest son about his mom, and one of my favourite Cynthia stories involved that elder son and another friend roughhousing with the younger Doolittle brother down in the basement. The younger brother came upstairs and complained to Cynthia that he was being abused, to which she replied: “You’ve got to be tough to play with the big boys.” The Dootlittles were hands down the most entertaining family on our block. Cynthia would have approved of the Winger. - Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 8/24/20

https://muskokaradio.com/news/article/the-oppenheimer-report-august-24-2020?fbclid=IwAR1vy-77NZ3FFhd1WckCwKmHVyM-qJ6ffZtMUUMH6agcONRlonlnA5S7CFA

The Oppenheimer Report 8/17/20

Click on this link to see today's Oppenheimer Report:

https://muskokaradio.com/news/article/the-oppenheimer-report-august-17-2020

The Oppenheimer Report 8/3/20

I wrote about the unlimied class hydroplane, “Wildroot Charlie”, a boat my grandfather’s company sponsored. That boat was racing when I was a toddler, and it was quite successful under my grandfather’s sponsorship. I’ve always been fascinated with hydroplanes and other fast boats. The sensation of speed is considerably greater on water than on land. When I was a kid, I loved going fast on the water.

As a high school student in Buffalo, NY around 1970, I built a small Glen L design “Minimax” boat in shop class, with considerable help from my shop teacher, Mike O’Connell. I remember almost passing out from paint fumes one afternoon while spray painting it in the basement shop at school. I also remember launching it in the school pool, accompanied by a large crowd of curious onlookers. The problem was, I had not yet mounted the bolts for the motor board, so it started to take on water as soon as we put it in the pool. That was a little embarrassing, but it floated, and I had a lot of fun with that little boat over the years. It wasn’t terribly fast, but it was so low to the water that it felt fast. Of course, I had to experiment with overpowering it, and one day, mounted a friend’s 18HP Evinrude on it. The motor was much too heavy for the boat, and there was approximately 2” of freeboard off the transom. We took it out on a glass calm day, and it was definitely faster than it had been powered by my 5.5HP Johnson. It was a little tricky to drive, especially when coming off plane. The motor was so heavy that it would swamp the boat. Last weekend, I was at our dock on Little Doe Lake, and our next door neighbour Matthew Misler motored by in the same boat I had owned. Imagine my surprise! He called his watercraft a “Sea Flea” but it was the exact same Glen L designed boat. I’m not sure I still have any photos of mine.

Another memorable boat in my fleet was my 13’ Boston Whaler. That boat was bulletproof, but not particularly comfortable to ride in on a rough day. My friend Bob Miller and I used to take our boats “jumping” off Point Abino, near

Crystal Beach Amusement Park, Ontario, Canada

. As I’ve said before, Lake Erie can be a treacherous lake for steep chop, because it is the shallowest of the Great Lakes. The waves off the

Point Abino

lighthouse were notoriously steep and deep. Jumping is a young man’s sport, and especially in a 13’ Boston Whaler. No one ever wanted to go for a boat ride with me when the lake was rough, because those Whaler wooden seats were hard on the back. Bob and I used to joke that the Boston Whaler company should have sponsored me because I proved the unsinkability of their boats. Their ads used to feature one of their boats sawed in half and still floating, but I think they should have demonstrated what the boat can do in rough water. Regrettably, we have no video or photographs of some of our wilder jumping experiences, but let’s just say we both scared ourselves a few times. I remember jumping a freighter wake once and almost flipping my boat backwards. The wind came up under the bow, and for a good 2 or 3 seconds, I did not know which way the boat was going to land. There are moments of sheer terror when one commits to jumping a swell. As well, there is a certain Zen to it. Once you’re in the air, there’s really no turning back. I suppose it’s a rush similar to what a surfer feels when he or she drops off a big swell.

These days, our jumping boats are a little more seaworthy. Bob has a vintage 27’ Magnum Sedan Cruiser with twin V8s and a deep V hull. As I mentioned, I have a 20’ Hydra-Sports boat which puts the Whaler to shame. The last time I went jumping with Bob was several years ago in his Magnum. We were offshore, south of Buffalo, and the swells were perfect for jumping. I (we) probably won’t be doing that much longer. Oh, to be young and immortal again. That’s the myth isn’t it? When we were young, we weren’t immortal; we were just young, stupid, and lucky. I feel truly blessed to have come out of my ill-spent youth relatively unscathed. Every so often, I still get the urge to drive a 3-point racing hydroplane at high speed. Perhaps when I turn 70.

Written by

Jamie Oppenheimer

©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED JamieOppenheimerSongwriter@gmail.com

The Oppenheimer Report 8/12/20

As I’ve mentioned before, I’ve been writing this report and publishing it every Monday for almost 30 years. In 1992, when I started writing it, I had a mailing list of “12 loyal readers” and I printed the reports on both sides of original photo postcards, using a very loud dot matrix printer. Every postcard was hand stamped with a signature comedic image of me looking goofy, wearing a wig, and an antler headband. Someday (and time’s running out), when I become a famous writer, those printed cards are going to be collectors' items, worth tens of dollars. The point is, those first reports were an effort to connect through writing.

Over the years, and depending on the subject of that week’s report, my readership may have grown a little from the original 12. Certainly, the internet helped increase my distribution. I don’t know how many people actually read the report, but I do sometimes get feedback from strangers, ranging from “Great report!” to “You are an idiot!”. “Flamers” and “trolls” come with the territory and I expect that. Still, I am always encouraged if my words inspire any dialogue, and I am delighted when readers take the time to respond to the reports, be their responses positive or negative.

Over 20 years ago, while I was still working in Toronto, I wrote a tongue-in-cheek report about bagels, suggesting that nobody in Canada knows how to make a good bagel. I said that the Montreal bagels are no better than dinner rolls and that none of the Canadian bagels I’ve tried, remotely compare in taste and texture to a good Manhattan bagel. Believe it or not, my blasphemous proclamation stirred up the ever-brewing bagel debate, and I even received a little hate mail. People apparently have strong opinions about their bagels. I’m not sure why that particular report was so well circulated by fax and email, but it seemed to “go viral” as they say.  I figured that was the end of it, but a few weeks later, I was working at my cubicle at Royal LePage, when I was summoned to the reception desk. In response to my report, some anonymous reader from New York City had sent me a dozen fresh New York bagels via FedEx, with no return address. I asked 3 of my friends in Manhattan, with whom I shared the report, who they think might have sent me the bagels, but to this day, it remains a mystery. Let it suffice to say, I was flattered that someone went to the trouble and expense to do that.  I’m not exactly sure how they found out where I worked, which was a little spooky.

Jump ahead to the recent past, when I wrote a few reports about fast boats. Especially the Sea Flea Oppenheimer Report elicited a lot of responses. One of our friends from Banff, Alberta, a guy named Bob Barrie, used to be one of the owners of Bumpers Beef House, a well-known restaurant in Banff. He wrote me in response to my “Wildroot Charlie” article and asked during what period she raced. It turns out that his friend's uncle had a hydroplane named “Miss Supertest” that raced in the same class and around the same time. Coincidentally, I’d just received an email from my cousin Harry Lehman III, my grampy Harry Lehman’s other grandson, informing me that he had located the last surviving member of Wildroot Charlie’s pit crew. He provided me a link to that man’s Facebook page, which I immediately visited, and there in the photo sections, was an old photo of Wildroot Charlie and Miss Supertest, racing side by side on (I think) the Niagara River. Of course, I immediately sent the photo on to Bob in Banff. It’s fun to connect the dots.

Writing, both songs and these reports, has always been my way to connect with other people. At a time when communication is on injured reserve, I hope the things I write inspire some kind of positive dialogue. I’m not so full of myself as to assume my words will change the world. I do think that any dialogue, any story told and heard, is a step in the right direction. The next time you are inclined to write “RU OK??” or some other inane abbreviation for real communication, in a tweet or text, consider writing an entire sentence. Better yet, write a letter (or make a phone call) to an old friend or family member with whom you have not communicated in a while. Make that connection, because it’s good for the soul.

And whoever sent those bagels, 23ish years ago, if you’re reading this, thank you, they were delicious and please, identify yourself!  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 7/27/20

https://muskokaradio.com/news/article/the-oppenheimer-report-july-27-2020

The Oppenheimer Report 7/20/20

https://muskokaradio.com/news/article/the-oppenheimer-report-july-20-2020?fbclid=IwAR10ATQ0rc-sMaSMOKs3qhsbBqwQG6R1LbWq4ELr2bHMJjEusbbQzjv_Rgk

The Oppenheimer Report 7/13/20

Please click on the below link to see this week's report. Thanks!

https://muskokaradio.com/news/article/the-oppenheimer-report-july-13-2020?fbclid=IwAR3jBmDUK--oqg6jFyPTGs6rBab5CbPHWXpOTdJMT0ipyb-FpLxBvXxhP8Y

The Oppenheimer Report 7/6/20

https://muskokaradio.com/news/article/the-oppenheimer-report-july-6-2020

The Oppenheimer Report 6/29/20

A short while back, Hunters Bay Radio welcomed a new volunteer host into the fold. Laura Thomas from Kilworthy now hosts an interesting show that airs monthly, entitled “In The Dirt”. She talks about landscaping and ecological issues and is a well-educated expert on the subject.  A graduate of the University of Waterloo’s Environment and Resource program, Laura runs a landscaping company called Hidden Habitat which focuses on developing landscapes that are ecologically sound, while promoting sustainable land management. In other words, she creates landscapes which are healthy and natural for the environment. Largely from listening to her show, Shauna and I decided to hire Laura and her husband Tyler to do some of the landscaping work on our property. Tyler, a Lieutenant in the Gravenhurst Fire Department, has for the past 10 years operated a company called Muskoka Cottage Services, and his skills compliment Laura’s well. Tyler builds everything from decks and docks to kitchens, and he too is knowledgeable about growing things.

For a long time, Shauna has wanted to add raised garden beds at our home to grow vegetables and flowers. As well, we never really finished landscaping our property after our log home was built. We needed a few trees planted and several trouble spots addressed. We required someone to come in and provide us with guidance as to what types of vegetation would look good, grow well, and at the same time require little maintenance. About a month ago, Laura came up for a consultation, and we immediately found her to be informative and personable. Within an hour or so we had mapped out a plan according to Shauna’s rough drawings. Laura assessed our property and decided what would grow well given our soil conditions, locale, and personal preferences. She listened carefully to our directives, and then provided us with several attractive options which would not only beautify the property, but also provide plants native to the area. Again, we were hoping was looking for vegetation that would grow well and require an excessive amount of maintenance. Within a day or two of our meeting she provided us with estimates for the various options, and we quickly agreed on the work to be done.

We can’t say enough for the work ethic and professionalism of both Laura and Tyler Thomas. They did exactly what they were hired to do, they were accommodating, easy to work with, and they completed their work in a timely fashion. As promised, shortly thereafter, they were on site to plant four trees and began working on the raised garden beds. Tyler assisted in the planting of the trees, handled the construction of the raised garden beds (see photo), and levelled off some of the low spots on our property. He and his crew were professional. We could not be more pleased with the results. This was not a small project and, despite bad weather, within two weeks we had an aesthetically pleasing, large raised bed vegetable garden (complete with vegetables), four new trees, and two attractively landscaped areas which had previously been eyesores.  Without any hesitation we would hire Laura and Tyler Thomas again to do other landscaping or carpentry work at our home. These days, it’s always refreshing to find hard workers who are professional and exceed our expectations.  Hidden Habitat and Muskoka Cottage services did a great job for us. Laura’s show, “In The Dirt” airs once a month on Hunters Bay Radio.  

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 6/22/20

Last week, I wrote an Oppenheimer Report but did not post it on the Hunters Bay Radio page, because I felt it was a little too depressing. I’ve struggled with depression through much of my life, and while this report has over the past 28 years historically reflected my state of mind, I am a little more mindful about what I “put out there”, now that more people may be reading it. I did post the report on my blog site.

Yesterday was Father’s Day, and I’ve been thinking a lot about my dad lately. I wonder what he would make of the current state of the world. He was a smart man, and I relied so on his guidance. Dad was 98 years old when he passed. He died May 18^th 2009, and while I don’t usually keep track of these morbid anniversaries, it was one of the entries on a voice recorder I keep in my car. I have several voice recorders, because I have a lousy memory, and I make notes all the time. Especially when a lyric idea comes to mind, I need to record it before it disappears. When I turned the recorder on the other day, and scrolled back to a random entry, it happened to be a record of the date of Dad’s passing. That took me by surprise. First, it didn’t seem as if more than ten years had passed since Dad had died, and second, I found it strange that I ended up listening to that particular entry, less than a week before Father’s Day. Was it my dad sending me a message from beyond?

About 5 years ago, I wrote the first draft of an as-yet unfinished song entitled “Bassett’s Farm”. The song is about the first time I was reminded that my dad was vulnerable like the rest of us. I was perhaps 7 years old, and we were on a farm in Crystal Beach, near our summer home in Ft. Erie. My parents kept and rode their horses there during the summer months. I was alone with my dad in a barn and I was helping him by “muck out” a horse stall. Suddenly, I heard him calling for me from the other side of the barn, and the call sounded urgent. He had been operating a mechanical manure spreader hanging from a ceiling track, and something happened which caused his thumb to get caught in the gears. While he wasn’t badly injured, he might have lost his thumb had I not been there to release the pressure that allowed him to free his hand. It was a very strange and frightening experience, and I never forgot it.

My dad and I had a complicated relationship when I was younger. He was my mom’s second husband, and he was in his mid-forties when I was born. I was his only child. He was a good dad, and he spent a lot of time with me when I was young, but by the time I was a young teenager, we fought a lot. I resented him at the time for not understanding me better. In hindsight, I feel bad about that.  I think he did the best he could. Now that I have the benefit of perspective, I better understand some of the things that made him who he was. Thankfully, we worked out our differences and became good friends after working together in family business for 20 years.    

Like Joni Mitchell sings in “Big Yellow Taxi”, “Don’t it always seem to go, you don’t know what you’ve got til it’s gone”.  When I was younger, I didn’t appreciate my mom and dad half as much as I do now that they are gone. Things could have gone terribly wrong with me, and both my parents guided me through some troubled times. I am thankful to have had my dad for a father. He was a good, kind man, and his mentoring helped better prepare me for future tribulations. I love him and I know he loved me. Someday maybe I’ll finish that song.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/15/20

As the first day of summer fast approaches, more than ever I feel as if the weeks are flying by. I was in the kitchen last Saturday morning, thinking about what songs I would request for Dale Antcliff’s weekend radio show on Hunters Bay Radio. That was my feeble attempt to distract myself from all the toxic thoughts swirling around in my head these days. Suddenly, it occurred to me that I felt as if I had done the same thing less than a day ago. I never had such a palpable feeling that a week’s time had simply evaporated into thin air. Poof! Gone. I spoke last week about my anxiousness. Do any of you feel that way as well? The other day, my usually stoic nephew from the States texted me and asked (and I paraphrase) “Is it just me or does it seem as if the whole world has gone nuts?” I am reminded of the commonality of our problems.

I was listening to Ben Harrison’s TECH 5 show today on Hunters Bay Radio, and he spoke about the history of pandemics. There have been hundreds over the centuries. He recited a staggering statistic: the bubonic plague, or The Black Death as it was called at the time, wiped out 200 million lives, or about 26% per cent of the world’s population in the 14^th Century. I wonder what it was like to be around then. Draconian quarantines and social distancing eventually ended that plague. By some accounts The Spanish Flu at the end of WWI killed 50 Million people worldwide and infected as many as 500 Million. This latest COVID 19 pandemic has so far killed about a half million people worldwide. .  We live in such a different world today, or at least I thought we did. I lived with delusion that we North Americans are somehow immune to pandemics. After all, we have science and technology on our side.   

While Shauna’s chronic illness has somewhat isolated us, and we have lived in relative seclusion for much of our marriage, I’m not handling this latest isolation well. I was in Huntsville the other day and there was a long line outside the liquor store, so I suspect some are turning to self-medication to “handle” their isolation. No judgment here. Been there, done that.

In some ways I am reminded of the way I felt after our friend James Carroll died. Shauna and I were in contact with him a lot in his last few months, and we put on a brave front at the time. When James died, the grief crept in slowly, and insidiously. All the feelings I’d suppressed while I was helping to care for him finally came bubbling to the surface, and it was a sucker punch. James and I were the same age, and when he died, I did not handle it well. Eventually, I sought a grief counselor to work through my feelings. I think that in some way, that was similar to how I’m feeling now.

Shortly before James died, I did a personal concert for him in his apartment. The other day I found and listened to the recording I made of that performance. Music has always been my go-to therapy when I am lost. It re-connects me to others. Around the end of March, I began to post short live performances of my original songs on Facebook. I’ve done so weekly ever since; my way of connecting with anyone who is out there listening. I’ve been playing a lot of my old songs, ones that most people have never heard. I wrote so many songs when I was in my 20s and 30s, and I wanted to get them out there in cyberspace for posterity. My songs are the stories from my life, and I want to share that. I guess every songwriter wants that.  Some of the performances are rough, and they are always unrehearsed. It’s me saying, “here I am, warts and all.” They are my honest attempt to connect with friends and strangers alike. I think we’re all looking for that connection right now. Music and the love of my family works for me. I hope you have something that works for you.

Written by Jamie Oppenheime+r ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report - 6/8/20

A few random thoughts …

I have been very confused and distracted this past week. I’m not sleeping well, partly because my conscience troubles me. What is going on in the world today is disturbing to say the least, and I am not processing the uncertainty very well. I wrote to one of my few black friends the other day. I told him I feel complicit in my complacency, and I vowed to better understand the systemic racism that has obviously affected him and his race. I needed to say that, even though my words don’t mean much. I needed to acknowledge my part in all of this. For my own peace of mind, I need to start this dialogue, especially coming from a country which (at least used to) claims to value freedom. My African Canadian friend wrote back and said perhaps we’ll discuss the issues some day, and he can share his reality with me. I don’t know where I fall on the racially tolerant vs. intolerant scale, but I know I have implicit biases. I am, after all, a white man, born and raised in The City of Buffalo, where more than 50% of residents are black. I have never known racial profiling. I have never feared that someone might kill me because of the colour of my skin. I cannot imagine that. The one thing that has become apparent by all that is happening right now, is that I can no longer look the other way. The issues have never been more obvious. The videos and news reports are hard to ignore.

The other day, I wrote to a friend in our community who is a retired policeman, and I asked him for his take on the recent George Floyd murder. I’d just read and re-posted the opinion of a Massachusetts policeman who is considered to be an expert in the use of force by policemen. His reaction, not surprisingly, was outrage at the brutality of that Minneapolis murder. It is his job to instruct young police officers on the proper use of force, and in his opin

ion, the Minneapolis police officers exhibited an horrific abuse of power. My local friend felt much the same way. I ask myself how did it get this bad? I’m sure a lot of people are asking the same question. While this is not a popular opinion right now, I think it is simplistic to blame racist cops for all of this. This evil goes much deeper than just law enforcement. This is our societal problem. We demand accountability, we blame our leaders, but who is it who elects those leaders? When do each of us look in the mirror and ask what WE did to propagate this evil? I don’t pretend to know how to change any of this, but I am going to start with ME. I feel that if we don’t start talking about and dealing with this problem soon, we’re doomed.

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 6/1/20

To see this week's Oppenheimer Report, please click on the below link:

https://muskokaradio.com/news/article/the-oppenheimer-report-may-25-2020?fbclid=IwAR00yya3ckvKiKhIsMkwT1amGnE3QGXwNxCEKZDczDBW15Yr6O41W-KSiec

The Oppenheimer Report 5/25/20

For some reason, something has changed in this blog, and I can no long post the way I used to. If you would like to read this weeks entry, please click on the following link:

https://muskokaradio.com/news/article/the-oppenheimer-report-may-25-2020?fbclid=IwAR00yya3ckvKiKhIsMkwT1amGnE3QGXwNxCEKZDczDBW15Yr6O41W-KSiec

The Oppenheimer Report 5/18/20

High 5 from Sydney on Day 3

As I begin writing this report, Sydney, our 9 week-old Miniature Schnauzer is currently out cold on her Granny Ethel “ET” Taylor’s chest. She is named in honour of Shauna’s late dad and ET’s husband, Dr. Sydney Taylor, and her official name is Dogter Sydney Taylor. Her namesake loved the breed and took wonderful care of his dogs. After a two month stay with us, today ET is returning to her home in Toronto to resume whatever sense of normalcy one can imagine in this much-changed world. While she does have a wonderful caregiver, she has remained, much to the consternation of her over-protective children, remarkably independent.

The journey to our new pup Sydney has been a long and crooked one. We lost Jasper a little over a year ago. For all of us to whom pets are family, you know that there is grief involved. I’ve spoken with so many people in the last year who have lost a pet, and their common advice was always “Oh, you’ve GOT to get another dog, and do it soon.” When a little time had passed we contacted Jasper’s breeder, who is one of the best in North America, because we wanted the best chance of acquiring and raising another healthy dog. The Taylor family had once had a horrible experience with a pup from an irresponsible breeder, and that dog had a constellation of health problems. Jasper was a healthy dog and lived a good, long life, and we wanted another dog like her. By the way, we went through a comprehensive interview with Jasper’s breeder before she would accept US.

Regrettably, we were not able to acquire another pup from the same breeder, but it was a year of hoping we would. First, we had to wait for one of her bitches to go into heat. Then, when that happened and she was inseminated, the pregnancy did not take. The next possible window of opportunity was months later, and when the insemination was to take place, there was a terrible snowstorm which prevented the two parties from getting together. Our final hope was for a pairing with one of her males and a champion bitch, but when that mating was to occur, there was another complication.

Shortly before we got the news about the last failed pairing a strange thing happened. A Canada goose landed on Jasper’s grave, which is overlooking the lake in front of our house. It stood there for the longest time without moving, then flew away. Shauna took it as a sign, and called the breeder, hoping for good news. When it became apparent that another pup was not in the cards, and that we had now waited just over a year, the breeder put us in touch with one of her respected colleagues, a woman in Ontario whom she trusted to be a responsible breeder. In a Serendipitous turn of events, we were just in time to acquire one of the three pups from her latest litter. The pup had been spoken for, but the buyer turned out to be unacceptable, and the breeder had just returned the deposit. Had we not called when we did, that pup would have been sold to another acceptable owner within an hour. 

5/19/20 - We posted a short video of Sydney last night on Facebook and I think it made a lot of people smile. I think we could all use a little good news. I don’t usually believe in signs, but perhaps that Canada goose knew something we didn’t know. 

Written by Jamie Oppenheimer ©2020 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

The Oppenheimer Report 5/11/20

Did you ever have one of those “Oh yeah!” moments, wherein the stars aligned, and all was right in the world? It seems like a long time ago since I last felt that way. With all the stress and uncertainty swirling about right now, sometimes it is hard to remember those moments.

Yesterday was a weird Mother’s Day. Many people are separated from their families and cannot be with their mothers. Like me, many more were reminiscing about their mothers who are no longer alive. I’ve been poring through a lot of old photographs in the past few weeks. Sometimes it is helpful to get a little shot of perspective. Shauna posted a photo she took of me with my Mom over twenty years ago. It made me smile, and then I cried a little.

The other day on TECH 5 broadcast, Ben Harrison read the transcript of a mock bedtime story he gleaned from YouTube, and I found it amusing while at the same time, true. It involved a little boy imploring his dad to once again tell him the story of the COVID-19 pandemic. The gist of the story, told in a fairy tale style, was that everyone in the world was forced to change and sacrifice. Then, once the pandemic had passed, those people realized they were happier remaining in the more connected, less technology-driven, fast-paced world that they had left behind. I’ve been pining for that world for some time, snarled and tangled as I have become in the land of trolls, reality TV, bad news channels, social media, and “labour-saving” technology. As I read the 500 page owner’s manual for my Honda (only available in CD form by the way), trying to figure out why my key fob now only unlocks one door in my 4-door SUV instead of all the doors, it occurred to me, once again, that maybe I don’t need 4 different methods with which to lock and unlock my car doors.

I’ve had a song on my mind of late, written by the Drive-By Truckers, entitled “The Sands Of Iwo Jima”, and it is about a WWII vet. Last Friday marked the 75^th Anniversary of the end of WWII in Europe. From the dwindling population of WWII vets, one elderly man was interviewed on the news that night, and his optimism was refreshing. He and so many of his fellow soldiers had seen unspeakably horrible things, but many of those who survived went on to be selfless, humble, remarkable citizens. They prevailed. Of course, there was collateral damage. Some came back mentally scarred, and undoubtedly, all of them returned from battle changed. That old vet’s words stuck in my mind. He spoke of the current pandemic, and his attitude was the same as it probably was in the 40s. If we fight through this thing, we will eventually prevail, and we will survive, stronger for having endured the challenges. This is a war, make no mistake about it.

It’s been a long time since mankind was called upon to unite against a common enemy. There is no doubt the world has never been a sicker, more divided place. It’s so easy to point to Rump, the go-to scapegoat. He is a walking, talking turd emoji, The Commander-In-Tweet, and few will disagree he is a boorish, ignorant fool. Still, I think he is just the canary in the coal mine.  We as a species have a long history of making mistakes. There is progress and there is technology, and sometimes the two are mutually exclusive. Social media, spin-driven news, and the resulting erosion of social values have fanned the flames of hatred. Who wants to be a leader in this world today? Look at our priorities. Big shot athletes and famous actors are revered, while true heroes are marginalized, or ignored altogether. Right now, the focus is on extolling the right heroes: the doctors, the nurses, the PSWs, the firemen, the emergency first responders, the front line workers in essential services, but why now? It is because, for the moment, they are newsworthy; they are dying to protect us. My heart breaks every time I hear a story about some minority bus driver or PSW who was snatched by COVID-19 because we as a society did not have his or her back. I take partial responsibility for that, which probably sounds hypocritical coming from an entitled white man. Think about it though, isn’t it simply a matter of time before we will all perish if we do not reset the way we think? Turn the other cheek, forgive, figure out a way to look beyond your own personal needs, and try to help someone else who is not like you. I am no evangelist, but I do feel we can’t save ourselves if we can’t help each other. Whether you can identify with the poor, the homeless, and/or other minority groups, as Pogo the cartoon opossum said: “We have met the enemy and he is us.” The current status of my faith in a higher power is unsure at present, but lately, it feels as if there IS some kind of cosmic reset occurring. Mother Nature, or the entity with a white flowing beard, or pick your universal puppet master, has started to pull the strings again. The clouds are parting, and a reverberating voice from the heavens booms: “Hey, human race, you’ve come off the rails once again. It’s time for yet another painful history lesson. Boost the empathy and compassion a bit, and hopefully you can all learn to play nice with the other kids. You snooze, you lose, mankind. It’s up to you, wake up or perish!”

I have been terrified of death all my life, but for some reason I am a little less afraid of it these days.  I still don’t want to die, but I’ve had a good life so far, and I don’t have too many regrets. Perhaps I’ve become a little more fatalistic with all the fear, anger, and heartache surrounding me. These days I am concentrating on doing more than ever on doing much more for others than I ever have before. I am reminded of and thankful for the courageous people around me. I recognize their sacrifices. They too may be fearful, but they manage to do the right thing in spite of it all.  I salute them, I admire them, and I want to emulate them. I want to do more good than harm, until the Grim Reaper points its orange, bony finger at me and mutters, “You’re Fired!”.

  Written by Jamie Oppenheimer  ©2020  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED