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the journal of Michael Werneburg

twenty-eight years and a million words

Toronto, 2011.04.16

This morning we visited the house of some new friends to plan a fundraising affair in support of a school in quake-ravaged NE Japan.

Apparently the school is now the home, until further notice, of refugees whose homes have been smashed and who have lost everything. We made signs, cooked food, and, in my case, sat half a dozen small children. It was great to meet the new friends, all of whom Mari met through the programs for which she'd signed up Kenny. Although he's refused to participate in the various programs (swimming, singing, gym time, and art class) Mari and Kenny have met other Japanese mums in the neighbourhood (including one who lives about three short blocks from us).

We'd accomplished everything we'd wanted to by about 14:20, and set off for our second event of the day, which was the fifth birthday of an old friend. We turned up at their place at around 16:00 after having found a card and a bag to wrap the boy's gift, and were there all evening. There was a tonne of food, both Philippine, as the boy's mother is, and Serbian, as is the boy's father. And of course there was cake (three cakes, to be precise) and a piñata. I held aloft the latter as various kids tried swinging at it. They were ultimately successful, of course, and I ultimately wound up with a bloody knuckle.

There were a number of fellows present who were police officers from the city's challenging 51 division, and I shared several opinions with them, fueled on Jägermeister, sangria, and a home-made Serbian drink that tasted like woody grappa.

A fine day. But all three of us were ready for bed by the time we got home at around ten.

rand()m quote

It is not the critic who counts, not the man who points out how the strong man stumbled, or where the doer of deeds could have done better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena; whose face is marred by the dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs and comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error or shortcoming; who knows the great enthusiasms, the great devotions and spends himself in a worthy cause; who at the best, knows in the end the triumph of high achievement, and who, at worst, if he fails, at least fails while daring greatly; so that his place shall never be with those cold and timid souls who know neither victory or defeat.

—Theodore Roosevelt, Jr.