In April, 1967, My girlfriend and I started to work on La Ronde, the island amusement park at Expo 67. We were working in a french restaurant, even though neither of us could speak french. Every morning, when we got to the island, at a precise time, like an alarm clock, we were bombarded with sound from every speaker at the Expo. "Un jour, un jour, quand tu viendras...." a lively little song to start the day. That little ditty cleaved itself into my brain where it lives to this day, awaking every so often to drive me crazy.
The job was OK, but I wasn't going to make enough money to pay for my trip home and my next semester at school. I was sitting on a box outside the restaurant, brooding over my situation and not paying attention. When I stood up, my head was pierced by a metal part of an ornate speaker box. Blood was everywhere. Fortunately, the managers of the restaurant knew that head wounds bleed a lot. They bound the wound and told me to go to the hospital. I have no recollection of how I got there, but I did, and was stitched up and made it home, albeit missing a large spot of hair.
Yes, yes, we all feel sorry for you but get to the point. What's all this got to do with PD?
Bear with me. I will find one as I continue. I have a vague point in mind.
Returning from the hospital, I had to pass by two old buildings that were being demolished and there on a wall, in bright red paint, was written in tall letters, "Juden Raus". Even with my limited german, I knew what it meant. I began to write a mental poem as I stood transfixed. My daydream was shattered when one of those balls they use to demolish buildings crashed into the offending wall, turning it into rubble. I was shaken. It was my first realization that antisemitism was alive in Canada. I turned away and headed home. On the metro, I was thinking about the sign and signs in general and the power their messages have, positive and, as in the case, ugly negative. Sheer evil hatred.
But that was long ago and I have stopped thinking about signs. Billboards are less common, Burma Shave signs have disappeared and graffiti is more of an art form than a bearer of messages. Over the past 40 years, society has cleaned itself up and has no patience with hate messages that are removed quickly and their authors prosecuted.
This past week, I saw a hand written sign in bright red, "FIGHT PD". I was in gang territory so it might have meant "Fight the Police Department", but I choose to believe some good samaritan was reaching out and telling people to "Fight Parkinson's Disease. Maybe? Why not? To me, it is enough to know that there are actual serious people, researchers, fighting Parkinson's, looking for a cure. We applaud them all and we should do our part and contribute to their battle; so, here's a sign for today:
Your donation is welcome, whatever the amount. Every dollar helps and you will be serving yourself and all PWP. If you don't have a local organization (I contribute to Parkinson's Canada) try donating to the MJFox foundation.
Yes, think of this as the return of the Burma Shave formula (if you don't remember, google "Burma Shave"),
- there are fewer Signs,
- no Signs,
- maybe just a token sign,
- blending with the scenery,
- blowing your mind.
- Just this.
- Find bliss.
- Won't you read my sign!
- Donate online.
Ok, Ok, so I stretched to find a point, but you get the picture, don't you?
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