A young man I’m fond of turned 10 last week. It was a weird birthday by most standards: just back from the States he, his sister and mom were in isolation and mom was sick. She rallied to lay on a favourite meal but there was no party, no noisy gathering of little boys in…
(Note: This post will be of zero interest to men. Trust me. Zero.) I don’t do much reflection gazing these days because I’m always a little surprised by what I see. Mom! How did you get there? So I must’ve looked like fresh meat last month when I found myself ensnared in the clutches of…
Happy birthday. I’d been saving for your education, but decided this would be a better time (a fair assumption given I kept skipping final exams to take summer jobs on newspapers). No Pollyanna, my mother was all realist.
When she was three I watched from a viewing platform as she leapt into the deep end of a pool during a swimming lesson. She came up coughing and blubbing and ready to jump again.
It was a metaphor for her life as she makes a difference in this world in ways I can barely comprehend.
I knew in the millisecond of that little leap that this wasn’t going to go well and heard the confirming crunch as I came down on my right ankle.
Driving home along the lake with my friends Di and Cath. It’s 7 a.m. or so and we’ve been at an all-night beach party.
A car passes in the other direction.
That was my Dad! I shriek.
Should you find yourself in charge of a never-before- performed activity, herewith, on the job learning under the tutelage of a nervous Mr WI64. A guide to how shave a man.
When things went whacky, this is how friends responded.
So here I am in Ottawa. In an ice storm. With two wee boys.
Thanks to our flat screen TV and Apple TV box, we have discovered there is life beyond Netflix and Acorn. There is YouTube. Good old, ordinary YouTube provides regular access to our latest indulgence: ancestral searches of the somewhat famous. We discovered the UK version of Who Do You Think You Are by accident (try…