Article about my Papa

My Papa is currently battling Alzheimer's Disease and currently lives in a nursing home. I was asked to write an article about my Papa to be published in the Aspen Lakes Echo, a publication that talks about what is happening at the home as well as contains articles about those who live there. Here it is:



John McCloy; an extraordinary person to say the least. John was born in Ayr, Ontario in 1941 and raised in Kitchener, Ontario. You've heard of the girl next door, but how about the girl across the street? In 1959 John married Val, the girl who lived right across from him. Their marriage was and still is full of love, laughter and especially as of recently, support. John and Val gave life to three wonderful children; Chris, Debbie, and John Jr. They are also lucky to have a loving son-in law, Jeff and a lovely daughter-in-law, Katy. All three of their children have grown up to be admirable, influential parents who have done an effective job of passing on strong family values to John and Val's five grandchildren; Stefani, Jourdan, Chelsea, Brett, and Mitchell.

John has had a very successful career. At the age of 11, enticed by the 10 cents an hour, John started working at a bakery. This job quickly turned into a passion which turned into a career. John started working for Weston Bakeries in 1969. With dedication and a strong work ethic, John became the Production Manager of the Weston Bakeries location in Essex, ON in 1975. Johns life-long career has allowed him to work and live in several different Ontario cities including Kitchener, Windsor, Mississauga, and Cobourg. Val always stuck by his side and was extremely supportive of all John's career opportunities. John retired several times, but his love for working couldn't be tamed and he returned to work until he finally retired for good in Windsor, Ontario. John was such an extremely invaluable asset to Weston Bakeries and a short biography dedicated to his work was printed on the bag of Weston Bakeries Hot Crossed Buns and English Muffins.

John, a Toronto Maple Leafs fan, loves hockey as he played it as a kid. He also enjoys bowling; John and Val used to be in a bowling league together. John is also an incredible Euchre player. There is no doubt that John's favourite thing to do was to spend time at his cottage in Katrine, Ontario. He took excellent care of his beloved cottage and here he explored his love for fishing, boating, and campfires. What he most loved about the cottage were the times when the entire family would come up for a week and spend good quality time together.

John, known to his five grandchildren as Papa, holds his grandchildren close to his heart. He is a captivating story teller, especially when it came to bedtime stories. He never had trouble getting his grandchildren to go to bed as he would tell them they would turn into pumpkins if they didn't. Whenever it came time to tuck his grand-daughters in, he always began his stories with “once upon a time in a land far, far away, there were three beautiful girls.” Whenever these beautiful girls would wear their hair in a ponytail, he would always lift it up and look for a horse's bottom. He taught his grandsons valuable lessons including how to fish and how to make it appear as if you are swallowing a whole egg and having it come out your bottom. He is always looking to provide entertainment for his grandchildren, whether it is by pulling out his teeth or teaching us how to beat the next level in Donkey Kong.

Aside from all the jokes and witty lines, John is an extremely loving person and is very proud of his family. His contagious sense of humour coinciding with his admirable wisdom has helped properly raise not only three wonderful children of his own but five well-rounded grandchildren who are so very grateful for the love and creativity their Papa has brought and continues to bring into their lives.

When John was diagnosed with Alzheimer’s disease, his family only grew closer and stronger. The dedicated care John's entire family provided for him proved how tight-knit they are. John's family devoted all of their attention on helping John adapt to the changes and confusion he was feeling. John was admitted into Aspen Lakes in 2011. Val, being the committed and nurturing wife she has always been is a tremendous support and she visits him six times a week. His family is extremely grateful for the wonderful caregivers that provide John with great personal care. They are so appreciative and cannot express this enough.

Thanks for reading :)

xo chelsea grace

Life as a Fire Hydrant

Here is a creative writing assignment of mine from Grade 12 that I found.

I had to write from the point of view of a fire hydrant.

Sometimes I feel as if I am taken for granted. It's hard living a life as a crime against fashion, with my bright yellow exterior and my shiny blue top. I'm constantly being blamed by angry drivers for wasting a perfectly good parking space. Hey, I'm just here to, you know, potentially save lived, but yeah I guess I should just be labelled as a neighborhood nuisance. Is it really that much of a bother to park a few meters up the street? I can't help but be amused by the oblivious people who park in front of me while they “only run in for a second” and are greeting by a parking ticket upon their return.

I see the same things day after day; couples strolling down the sidewalk holding hands, drivers with the need for speed zooming past me thinking cops won't catch them on residential streets, even children running past me in an intense game of tag. Today, I was the home-free spot!

Yep, today was a good day. I can feel the warm sun beating down onto my painted top, the surrounding blades of grass lightly tapping my base as they blow in the wind, the dog peeing all down my...wait, not again! Honestly, what makes me so gosh darn attractive to every single canine that crosses my path? Is there some sort of sign painted across me reading, “hello, feel free to urinate all over me”!? Seriously, sometimes I think that my friends and I are more notorious for being the dog's version of the toilet rather than on important object that should be treated with respect! I guess it's true what they say...some days you're the dog and some days you're the hydrant...oh wait, I'm the hydrant everyday!

Eventually, every fire hydrant has that one moment, the one that's worth all the home-free hits and the dog pee showers. My moment was last August, when the house across the street caught fire. As soon as I saw the smoke seeping out of the windows, I knew it was my time to shine! When the, let's just say more than attractive, firemen arrives they took out their hoses (no pun intended) and attached it to my nozzle. I knew I had to give everything I had! I felt more empowered with ever drop of water I forced out of myself and I had that fire out in no time! I was a hero. Of course, non of the recognition went to me, but nonetheless I was a hero.

The Devil Within (a poem I wrote in high school)

So, today I was cleaning my room extensively. I ended up throwing 3 full garbage bags of crap away, including all my work from college. It was depressing because I studied hard and did well and then decided I didn't want to be in that profession. Oh well, that's my journey. Anyway, I found a stack of paper from high school, and in that stack was a few things I had written in my Grade 12 English class and Creative Writing class. So, for the next couple blogs I will share them with you.

This poem is titled “Devil Within” and I'm sure after reading it you will think I was/still am fucked up but I can assure you I am happy and healthy, I just have a poet soul lol. Poetry is about interpreting the words in a way that affects you. My poem can have many interpretations but what I was aiming for when I wrote this was the struggle we all have with ourselves to forget what may have happened in the past and not be afraid to change your future in order to follow your dreams.

The Devil Within

You're not at all loud,

Yet you are never inaudible.

It's overwhelmingly awkward being alone with you.

Therefore, I am always in a state of awkwardness.

You force me to dwell upon my broken past.

You depict images of my desolate future.

You remind me of the crestfallen present.

I want myself to want better things,

but you tell me these things are unattainable.

I want to change,

I know what I have to do,

but you tell me it's impossible.

I say I need to try, I need to see!

You say it's safer not to.

“What will others think of you?” you say to me.

There is no ignoring your emphatic tone.

I try to find sweet solitude in my dreams,

but I ill-fatedly find you there haunting me.

My dreams are private images locked in an imaginary box,

but you always manage to pry it open and interfere.

I've had enough of you!

Stop playing these diabolic games with me!

Unlock these restricting chains you've set upon me!

Wait...you are me.

We're one in the same.

It's me...against myself.

It's up to me to overpower the devil within.

Dear me, please give me the strength,

to repair the damage that “I” has done to “Me.”

My Quest for a Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich

Okay, I like food. There’s not much I won’t eat. I eat like a man and I am always hungry. I appreciate good food. Something I had never tried was a Philly Cheesesteak sandwich (PCS). With my love and appreciation of good food, I refused to eat one from anywhere else except the original Philly Cheesesteak restaurant in Philadelphia, Pat’s King of Steaks. A couple of weeks ago, I had my opportunity to make this life-long goal of mine an accomplished one. My friends Amanda and Dylan offered to accompany me to Philadelphia in my quest for an authentic PCS. When people asked me why I was visiting Philly and I told them about my deep desire for this sandwich, they all responded with “no really, why are you going there?” Sometimes people have a hard time understanding that if I want something bad enough, I will go to great lengths to have it.

So three brave and hungry souls rented a car and set off in search of a PCS suited to satisfy our cravings. To my surprise, the hunt for a PCS was filled with unexpected excitement. I ended up crossing close to 10 things off of my bucket list on this trip. We decided to swing by Seaside Heights, NJ on the way, the home of the Jersey Shore house! Here, I fulfilled many of my hopes and dreams including; getting a picture in front of the Jersey Shore house, buying a t-shirt from the Shore Store, getting a picture of me doing the Jersey Turnpike in front of Karma (the nightclub), and of course writing the link to my blog on the door of the Jersey Shore house.  (Note to Self: get better hopes and dreams). As fun as NJ was, my heart still yearned for the, what I can only imagine would be succulent taste of that shaved beef on a soft bun, oozing with cheese. Philly here we come.

We finally arrive in Philadelphia, a beautiful place I must say. We drop our luggage off in the hotel and as tired as we were, we decided to explore the city’s night life. It’s about 10pm and way past dinner time, looks like the PCS will have to wait until tomorrow. After we walked around the city, in what I believe was a giant circle, we decided to get a “few” drinks. Being the classy clan we are, we chose a karaoke bar for our first stop. Singing karaoke is something that terrifies the absolute crap out of me. Therefore, I put it on my bucket list. Amanda suggested I do it, and Dylan backed her up. I refused to the point where I was about to cry. My friends made some strong points. “Nobody you know is here.” No. “You can pick the song.” No. “The person before you was horrible.” No. “We will buy you some drinks.” Fine. I ended up choosing one of my all-time favourite songs, “Son of a Preacher Man.” I was shaking a sweating and wanted to be anywhere else in the world but there. My friends said I did “well.” I feel as if the cute bartender was flirty until after I sang karaoke so I’m assuming it couldn’t of been that “well.” Oh well. After I shook off the embarrassment and returned to my seat, an Asian man who had sang earlier in the night came up to me. Now, he was AWEFUL. I think it caused me to lose at least %5 of my hearing. He says, “Wow! You are an excellent singer. I was so impressed. You were awesome. High five!” Cool. The WORST singer I’ve ever heard just complimented my singing abilities. I decide I am too embarrassed to stay at this bar, so I get out my visitors guide. I flip through the pages and an ad catches my eye. “Best Margaritas in the City.” Sold. It doesn’t take much convincing to get Amanda and Dylan to make the 20 minute trek to this bar.

Now, I am not racist whatsoever and this paragraph is not meant to be offensive in any way. We arrive at this margarita bar, called Cocobananas. We look inside. It is packed. There is not one single white person. Every person in the bar is of the African American descent. My friends and I are the whitest white people you can find. After contemplating outside of the bar for a few minutes, we decide that Amanda’s ghetto booty is enough for us to be socially accepted in this bar. We enter. It is obvious that everyone inside is wondering who we are, where we came from, and why we are here. We pick a table in the corner and drink our margaritas in our tiny martini glasses while everyone around us is booty poppin. Amanda and I need to go to the bathroom. We get up and make our way through the crowd, getting stares that could pierce through a brick wall. The bathroom is disgusting. The sink is filled with throw up, with large chunks accenting the walls. There is no toilet paper. I like to think I am a crafty and creative person, especially in a jam. I get an idea. I pull out my visitors guide and we use to pages as toilet paper. Yes, I know it is gross but we’ve already drawn enough attention to ourselves without hunting someone down who could replace the TP. After that experience, we decide it’s time to leave.

We head down the street, wasted. We find a sports bar that is a little more on the quiet side, so we go in. We are the only people sitting at the bar and we quickly make friends with the bartender, Kylie. She was super cool and kept up conversation for the rest of the night. I can’t really remember what we talked about but she let us take home two glasses from the bar as souvenirs, which was cool. It is now closing time and at this point, I have mixed several kinds of beer, vodka, tequila, and various other liquids. Someone suggested it would be a good idea to go to Pat’s King of Steaks right then and there, at 3 in the morning. I may have been to the point of no return, drunk wise, but I have not lost sight of the sole purpose of this grand adventure; a Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich. It is time. I nobly agree to hail a cab and take the 6 minute ride to my destiny.

We arrive. It is more beautiful in person than on the internet. It is my time to shine. Now, there is a certain method to ordering a PCS. I did my extensive research on PCSs and discovered the following:

How to Order a Steak

Step 1: Specify if you want your steak with (pronounced wit) or without (wit-out) onions. (If   you are not a rookie, this should come naturally).

Step 2: Specify plain-cheez whiz-provolone-american cheese-or pizza steak

Step 3: Have your money ready

Step 4: Practice all of the above while waiting in line. If you make a mistake, don’t panic, just go to the end of the line and try again.

I stood in line, hear pounding. I whispered the order to myself several times, praying I don’t mess it up. The person in front of me pays and walks away and I know it is my time to swallow my pride, step up to that dirty window and order the crap out of that cheesesteak. I got the classic. Cheez Whiz wit onions. Now, being me you would think I somehow messed this up horribly. However, my ordering skills were flawless. I did beautifully. It was as if the food Gods blessed me with the gift of flawless drunken speech. The counter attendant even called me sweetie. I was proud of myself. I couldn’t wait to get it home, rip off its packaging and have my way with it. The 8 minute cab ride back to the hotel felt like an eternity. I imagine it is similar to a bride walking down an aisle. She’s thinking, “five years of dating, 2 years of planning a wedding, and finally the moment is here. I cannot get to the altar fast enough.” Finally we get to the hotel, we rush up to the room and I lay my PCS on the bed, slowly unwrapping it, one corner at a time. I can feel my mouth becoming heavy with drool. The aroma that fills my nose sends child down my spine, similar to the ones people get when they have a very anticipated first kiss. There is nobody else in the world right now except for me and this cheesesteak. I take a quick photo shoot with it and then before I decide to end the teasing, I congratulate myself. This PCS is something I really wanted. I could of went to a local Windsor restaurant and tried one, but I knew I deserved better. I really did it, I travelled all the way to Philadelphia for this and I was very proud. Anyway, back to the cheesesteak. I lift the heavy sandwich to my mouth. My lips quiver and I decide, it is time. I take a big bite of the PCS and my heart sings. It is so fucking delicious. It is EVERYTHING I imagined it would be. I feel so overwhelmed, I almost want to cry. I finish almost the whole thing and we all pass out. What could have been either 10 minutes or a few hours later (I was wasted, therefore had no sense of time) I woke up and felt a strong urge…to throw up. I ended up throwing up my entire Philly Cheesesteak Sandwich.

The next day we did touristy things such as; getting my picture next to the Liberty Bell with my butt-crack sticking out, eating a hangover breakfast, purchasing a colonial hat and wearing it around town, etc. We ended up driving back to Ohio and slept at Dylan’s house that night. The next morning he drove us to Cleveland, where we were to catch a Megabus to take us home. We were exhausted from the previous days adventures, and just wanted to have a quit, smooth ride home. Yeah right. First of all, our bus stop consisted of a sign that said “Megabus Stop.” We planned on taking our final bathroom break at this bus stop, which we expected to be an actual building. So, we enter the nearest hotel which happens to be the fanciest hotel I’ve ever seen in my life. We frantically search for a washroom, and eventually find one. Of course you need a hotel key to use it. After out hunt continues, we find a washroom being cleaned by the housekeepers, therefore it is open. I really hope these poor ladies hadn’t already cleaned out stalls. We quickly do our business, just in time to hop onto the bus.

We are travelling for an hour or so and stop at a truck stop. A young, scrawny white teenage bends over to pick up his bag, and an older African-American gentlemen gets pissed because the kids “ass is in his face.” So, the older gentleman punches the poor kid in the face. The kid gets the bus driver, who then comes to investigate the situation. The older gentleman tries to defend himself by saying “that damn kid had his ass in my face.” I am outraged. If there is one thing in the world that bothers me to no end, it is people who get away with treating innocent people like shit. I cannot contain my anger…

Me: “THAT POOR KID DID NOTHING TO DESERVE THAT. NOTHING. HE WAS SIMPLY BENDING OVER TO PICK UP HIS STUFF!”

Old Man : “SIT DOWN, U AINT SEEN NUTTIN.”

Me: “UHH YEA, I DID. YOU PUNCHED HIM IN THE FACE FOR DOING NOTHING.”

The State Troopers are called and I am asked to get off the bus to give a statement and answer questions. Two hours later we are on our merry way again. We finally reach Detroit where my great friend Dan is there to pick us up and take us back to Windsor. On the way to the border, I realize I have Dylan’s passport and mine must still be in Ohio. Great. THANKFULLY I brought me birth certificate and several other pieces of i.d and THANKFULLY the lady at the border decided not to be a huge bitch and let me back into my country.

Well I did it. Not only did I fulfill my conquest of eating an authentic PCS, but I faced my fear of karaoke, I saw things I’ve always wanted to see, I stood up for an innocent person, a talked my way back into my own country, and I made some wonderful memories with wonderful people.