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| BENCH PRESSING, ED STYLE: Finally, an exercise my brother would proudly lean into. |
After Norma's oldest son Paul passed away far too early in August 2023, my sister Charlene did the same thing in Paul's honour.
Miraculously--and I mean that--Ed's and Paul's benches somehow ended up in Toronto's spectacular High Park, five city blocks west of our house. (You can ask that a plaque appear in a specific Toronto park but the City of Toronto is quick to point out they can't accommodate everybody's request and there are more than 1,000 parks in the city.)
More astounding? Paul's bench is about 75 steps away from Ed's.
Visiting those benches is one of my favourite things to do. Magic happens each time out.
A week ago, for instance, I set out for the benches but before I reached the entrance, I ran into a friend I've known since 1983.It was sunny out, about 2 in the afternoon, and as hard as it is to believe, neither of us had anywhere else we had to be. We talked for about 40 minutes.
The last time I'd had such a long conversation with the guy was a year earlier when he was in a rehab centre recovering from Guillian-Barre syndrome and wondering if he'd ever walk again.
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| ILLEGAL SMILE: Another Ed- approved bench activity |
Here he was a year later and not only was he healthy, he was riding his bike. We stood on the sidewalk, discussed music--why some people think Wynton Marsalis can't swing--geopolitics--what life must have been like regular people in Germany and Poland in the leadup to Second World War--and, coincidentally, both our Europe-born partners. We agreed the world was moving forward in a positive way and then just before we hugged and parted ways laughing, he said, "Why do I get the feeling that after all this sunny optimistic talk one of us is going to get whacked by a car on the way home today?"
Both Paul and Ed would have approved.
And yesterday's trip?
Once I got to the park, I followed a different path than I'd ever taken before and realized that even though we've lived near High Park since 1987, there's still parts of the 400-property park I hadn't seen before.
I walked towards Ed's bench.
It was being put to its best possible use. A young couple was smooching.
They probably wouldn't have been thrilled if I interrupted their fun with "Hey wait'll I tell you about my dead brother."
So I walked the 75 steps northeast to Paul's.
This next part you have to keep secret: I sometimes have a beer when I visit. When John George Howard bequeathed the property to the City of Toronto in 1873, he did so on several conditions; that he and the missus could spend the rest of their days on the property; that they'd be buried on site, that the park always be free to visit; and finally, no alcohol be consumed with its borders.Ed and I still laugh about that.
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| JOHN GEORGE HOWARD: He sorta resembled the whiskered guy I met yesterday. |
Jeff was with his grade-school-aged son Rio, who, Jeff affirmed, is a very skilful drummer.
"Drummers," I said to Rio, "get all the girls." Jeff said, "I used to think it was guitarists."
The older of the two musicians also politely turned down my offer of a cold Corona. "But if I were going to have a beer, it'd be a Corona," he added before they headed off.
I sat and talked to Paul a few more minutes. Around 3:30 I started home.
At the park's gate, a panhandler with long scraggly white hair and matching tangled beard asked if I had any spare change.
"I got no cash," I said, "but how about a beer" and handed him a tall boy.
"Whoo-hoo," he said, adding, "Happy Thanksgiving!"
I'm already looking forward to my next visit.
