THE 2020 METAPHOR - PART I

I.

I’ve been increasingly annoyed with the anticipation of 2021.

As if a shift in luck will be bestowed in the moment where our phones signal the new decade. This isn’t without a desire for such a thing but I’ve come to see my optimism akin to my “sobriety”; a healthy non-commitment. The relationship with alcohol, however, is finding its own structure of moderation - some type of internal understanding as to when it is time to pick a random date and go cold turkey until the successful discipline is celebrated with...a drink. An intentional to-and-fro that is perpetuated by one solid drunk spooking me into facing a wicked hereditary trait and a period of grace in which I refuse to take on the guilt of my lineage. However, my optimism sways much more freely and unregulated - the spouse to substance usage, never knowing when a good run is side-swiped by an impending doom.

So what was 2020? Well, a Metaphor. There would be an obvious agreement that the year itself had a shock value of historical proportions but again, I struggle with the concept of a new year bringing an automatic shift. I wholly know I am not cynical so at its most accessible level this outlook could be masked as pessimism, but even then, strip away the shock and what’s left is imposed growth. A perspective that annihilates bad luck yet forces discomfort, uncertainty, difficulty and insight. Screenshot December 19, 2018, my eve to 2020.

A week remaining of final wedding preparations and Melanie and I are gathered with my family as my sister hosts a night of Christmas appetizers in her new home. My brother’s boys are the main entertainment, all three under the age of five, commandeering the space with a remote control car, bouncing from lap to lap and igniting the home with their youthful energy. We’ve as much as intentionally lost our phones to remain present when a late evening check has Melanie’s exploded with missed messages and calls. A water break in the suite above us has a frantic condo board, one which she is a member of, in need of opening our walls - and thus began a transition.

Despite the immediate dismantling of our home wedged into a winter wedding, we left for a small prairie church on the edge of Saskatchewan’s northern tree-line where my wife was baptized, confirmed and about to be married. No head table, no matching outfits, and our siblings standing up on our behalf in an unequal representation. 88 of our closest, braving the wicked cold to cozy up as our own band provided instrumentals of classic country, a free bar, and a charcuterie spread fit for the Ghost of Christmas Present.

At home a sawzall shreds our bathroom wall as the drywall sponges. We return home with the plan of joining our friend Colter for a low-key New Year’s with his grandparents, parents, sister and girlfriend in Swift Current when as we are about to leave a second helping of waterworks opens up through the ceiling of our bedroom. We line up the empty Rubbermaids used to transport wedding supplies, end to end, and walk out the door.

Proving the old adage true, we spent our 2019 as we spent its New Year’s alongside Colter and further dealing with water damage. As Melanie shared his stage in Britain, Scotland, Ireland, The Netherlands, Germany, Switzerland, Italy, Denmark, Sweden and Norway we dealt with insurance agencies and old pipes. A massive year of touring included our own ventures throughout the United States and Canada as we dawned a set of matching denim jumpsuits, I took that desired role of bass support and we hammered out a living with the family band.

Colter continued to include us in his whirlwind as I flew to Texas to contribute my vibe as he laid Western Swing & Waltzes to tape then followed by an invite to join him at the legendary Cain’s Ballroom in Tulsa, Oklahoma for the coming New Years with himself and Corb Lund.

Intuition is like water to always flow in the path of least resistance, however, if ignored, it is gravel in the gas tank. With the Cain’s offer sitting in my inbox, a voice screamed indifference. Blake Berglund, Cord Lund and Colter Wall at Cain’s Ballroom, December 31, 2019. To honour instinct, I declined. The next day we were given the news that my brother’s middle son, three year old Clyde, was diagnosed with Hodgkin’s Lymphoma, a cancer of the lymphatic system.

Our family, having our mother’s journey of breast cancer in our rear view was to face a similar yet completely different experience. Another display of courage ushered in through the warriorship of a child, sharing the date of his first chemotherapy treatment with that of his grandmother. His desire to have Maple Leafs’ star forward, Auston Matthews, in the know that he would be unable to make the trip to Winnipeg to watch his idol. Twitter proved its humanity as TSN’s Jim Duthie took the reins to channel an astounding amount of love and energy in Clyde’s direction. The Maple Leafs’ community strengthened our family. From team fanatics and the organization's general manager to Doug Gilmour and Auston Matthews himself, we were uplifted watching a tired little boy glow.

Clyde had his second treatment on December 31, 2019. Melanie and I spent New Years at home making soup.