An open letter to our beloved American friends and family:

We’re sorry.  

Sorry that it has come to this.

Sorry that your leaders are determined to crush our economy, obliterate our sovereignty, and annex our country.

And we’re tired of his constant lying about Canada.

It’s not about fentanyl – that’s a lie that your own statistics prove.

It’s not about trade imbalance – that’s bullshit as well. On a per capita basis, Canadians buy $8,500 in US products vs the $1,200 Americans spend on Canadian products.

Cars? At America’s behest, we have worked for generations to integrate our automobile manufacturing economies.

It’s not about oil. The US pays less than the global benchmark for our safe and secure supply – as compared to the unpredictable and at times hostile practices of other petroleum exporting nations such as Venezuela.

Hey, we’re especially sorry you elected a tyrant and have chosen to let him run around unchecked.

We thought we were the closest of friends.

For Plato, the tyrant is a person driven by unchecked appetites and desires, particularly a lust for power and pleasure. The tyrant indulges in his desires, often neglecting his responsibilities and eventually becoming enslaved by these desires. Plato makes the point that tyranny, both in the individual and the state, arises from a corruption of the soul, a lack of self-control, and an absence of otherness. The tyrant has no true friends because the tyrant sees only himself.

And now your tyrant says we’re “mean and nasty.”

On that one, I just have a few questions...

Was Ken Taylor nasty when he and the Canadian embassy staff risked their lives to hide and help 6 American hostages escape from Iran?

Were the Newfoundlanders in Gander nasty when they housed, fed, and consoled the thousands of stranded travelers on 9/11?

Speaking of the horrors of 9/11, Canada wasn’t attacked… you, our closest friend, you were attacked.

In Afghanistan, were the 158 Canadians who gave their lives and the thousands wounded both physically and psychologically – were they nasty? When the allied nations studied the regions of that country and agreed that Kandahar was the most dangerous – the most likely to cause casualties – and Canada stepped up and said – “We’ll take that one” – were we nasty in that moment?

The tyrant says Canada “doesn’t have the cards,” that we aren’t “viable as a country.” 

Well, the list is very long but here’s just a short sample:

This is the country of Vimy Ridge, Joseph Brant, Nellie McClung, Juno Beach, Walter Louie, Marie-Philippe Poulin, Terry Fox, Paul Henderson, Maurice Richard, Billy Bishop, The Medak Pocket, Louis Cyr, Donovan Bailey, Checker Marvin Tomkins, Sydney Crosby (FU Wayne)… oh and Summer McIntosh too!

But betraying a friend – I’d call that nasty.

“Pay no attention to that man behind the curtain.” The Wizard of Oz

The Great Orillia Ice Storm of 2025 struck a nerve and frayed a bunch of them as well. Throughout Simcoe County, this has been a disturbing long dark night.

Hydro One has struggled mightily with shifting goal post estimates for when power would be restored - neglecting a handy (if not obvious) rule of thumb when managing high expectations: always undercommit and overdeliver. I find it’s best to uncover the evidence, find some logical underpinnings, then to tell the truth… and if you don’t yet know the answer, don’t pretend you do.

Following 20+ mm of freezing rain, we lost power early on Saturday, March March 29th and it was finally, reliably restored the following Thursday.

What Sue and I were reminded of most during the interruption is how boring we are - how much we have become creatures of habit. More than the lost contents of the fridge and freezer, more than the darkness, it was the disruption to our routine that was most unsettling.

When power was finally restored, we were almost giddy to take our comfortable positions and hunker down, to try to forget our troubles and watch a classic movie… it was either that or constant news coverage of economic warfare, threats of annexation, loony tunes tarifs, and federal election campaigns…

We turn on the fireplace, uncork a bottle of Two Sisters Unoaked Chardonnay (no more California Cougar Juice in this household!) , pour a glass of whisky (not whiskey or bourbon!), grab our Hudson Bay blankets, and get comfortable to watch a favourite – The Wizard of Oz.

Yet, these days, even a family movie we’ve seen a hundred times seems to carry extra political messages.

“I love everything about The Wizard of Oz – save for the flying monkeys – they scare the bejesus out of me,” Sue exclaims.

The Wizard of Oz was released as the great depression was coming to an end and fear of another worldwide conflict was rising. At the 1939 Academy Awards, the movie won 2 Oscars (both for music), while Gone with the Wind won best picture.

It’s a classic – more than 80 years after its release.

“If IMDB gives sit an 8.1, I’m good to go,” says Sue as Ruby lies at our feet and Squirt (the cat) curls up on her lap.

A writer I admire, Sir Salman Rushdie, is a big fan of the movie. In an essay he argued the film’s driving force is the inadequacy of adults. They fail to keep Dorothy safe. They fail to keep Toto safe. The intimidating Wizard is revealed as a small man of enormous bluster. It’s the weaknesses of adults that force children to grow up and take control of their destinies.

We sit there, engaged in the movie until the moment Dorothy meets the first of her new friends – and I hit pause on the remote.

Sometimes, in 2025, it seems even the starting point - the rules of debate themselves - can no longer be taken for granted. “This year, I’m engaging in political discussions more than I ever have before,” says Sue.

“They’re not always very comfortable, but I feel like it’s more important than ever,” I reply. “I saw a photo on the interweb of a protester’s sign: If you’re avoiding touchy political discussions, you are complicit - that’s likely true.”

In a movie full of compelling characters, I think it’s the Scarecrow (a straw man – or weak opposition argument set up only to be easily confuted) that is the most a propos for our troubled times. Like his two cohorts, the Scarecrow feels he’s limited by a single, glaring weakness.

“With the thoughts that you'll be thinkin'

You could be another Lincoln,

If you only had a brain…”

The Scarecrow is Dorothy’s first and most loyal friend and proof that goodness/honesty exist on an independent axis from brains. In spite of his absence of gray matter, though, he does possess a certain barnyard wisdom.

“How do you talk if you don't have a brain?” Dorothy asks him.

“Well, some people without brains do an awful lot of talking, don't they?”

If we ever want to get through this long dark night, we must all agree on some things:

Facts matter. Words matter. Reasoned, fallacy-free arguments matter. LYING MATTERS.

If you engage in an encounter – a dialogue - should you not be prepared to have your mind changed - your positions evolve? Should you not be ready to come through the experience different from the way you went in?

The norms that govern coherent and constructive debate are tossed aside at our peril. When these are lost – in a maelstrom of lies and alternative facts - the rules become simple and brutal. Force wins every debate – no matter logic or morality.

“We can’t stop listening and talking to each other,” says Sue.

In political debate, as in election campaigns, we must strive for reasoned exchanges on policy, leadership skills, qualifications, and long-term strategies - debates supported by logic and evidence. We should engage passionately - but ad hominem attacks and empty slogans serve no constructive purpose.

When words become nothing more than weapons – to be used according to their impact in the moment – regardless if they accurately portray their adversary, are based on facts, or contradict the ones last used, we all lose and our long dark night will only worsen.

“You know who doesn’t care about the norms of healthy debate? The flying monkeys!” she says. “In the US, they’re taking over. Who’s going to stop them here?”

- 30 -

“It is easier to forgive an enemy than to forgive a friend.” William Blake

We were friends – good friends – for so long. Now suddenly you’ve decided we’re not. And frankly, we’re quite angry about it.

Like our economies, our families are U.S. – Canada intertwined. Sue was born in Beloit, Wisconsin and raised in Ridgefield, Connecticut till the age of 10. On my side, ever since Uncle Don moved to suburban Detroit to raise his family, an entire branch is American.

When we lived in Montreal, Sue formed tight friendships with a group of dynamic women – herself and Shelli born in the States; Ingrid and Cathryn born in Canada; Graciela, born in Argentina and Gillian, born in Scotland, both now naturalized Canadians. Cathryn, Ingrid, and Graciela are still in Montreal – but Shelli has moved on to Massachusetts and Sue and Gillian are in Ontario. The 6 women remain in constant contact by means of regular get-togethers and a group chat entitled ‘The Tribe.’

Every time Trump repeats another falsehood about Canada (about as frequently as he breathes) or threatens us, the group chat begins to buzz… like a lot. The Canadians in the group are panicked and – in a very un-Canadian way – intensely angry. The Americans are both embarrassed and incredulous. 

The repeated threats of economic warfare and border adjustments to force us into an unwanted annexation are no joke. For American readers, this may be below-the-fold news, but it’s pretty much all we are talking about up here. ‘The Tribe’ is up in arms and these events have been like a blacksmith’s bellows on the dying embers of a residual and wholesome small-town Canadian nationalism.

George Grant (1918-1988) is widely regarded as one of Canada’s most important political philosophers of the 20th century. I first read Grant in undergraduate courses in the 80’s at Thorneloe University with Dr. Bruce Ward – who mentored under Grant at McMaster University.

A Rhodes Scholar, political conservative, Christian, and social commentator, Grant came to national prominence in 1965 with his first book, Lament For A Nation. The Bomarc missile crisis, where U.S. President Kennedy pressured Canada to accept nuclear warheads on missiles based in Canada, lead to the downfall of Canadian Prime Minister Diefenbaker’s government. Grant saw these events as a watershed moment – symbolic of our loss of sovereignty and autonomy.

But while Grant lamented, his young Canadian readers (me included) were inspired. Lament For A Nation stirred in a generation a sense that Canada should aspire to be different – that we could have a nobler possibility based on the common good. “The very foundation of Canada was to be something different from the United States. It was to build a society that was more ordered, was more reasonable, that wasn’t so full of illusions that wasn’t so full of violence, that wasn’t so full of dreams as the Americans,” said Grant in an interview.

At the time, Grant did not believe Canadians were willing to pay the economic price that would be needed to assert our independence. “I had hoped that Canada could be a country in the world that wouldn’t serve the purposes of any empire… the extension of power that belongs to humanity by nature is something that must be resisted… Kennedy stated clearly that his allies were going to be brought into line and I think he decided… [with the forcing of atomic warheads on the Bomarc missiles] to bring Diefenbaker into line.”

One reason for Grant’s aversion to empire was that he believed every human should have a chance to partake in actions of real consequences – in political activity that really matters. He argued that in great empires this was impossible. Today, in our sudden upending of geo-political alliances where Putin is America’s friend and Canada its enemy – this chance to partake in politics that really matter (against our will, perhaps) is possible indeed.

Dr. Ward, now retired, recently shared with me his thoughts on Grant and this moment: “It’s a tribute to Grant’s prophetic insight that so much of his analysis in Lament (save for specific political details/ personages) still applies. In one particularly bleak passage, he writes: ‘The kindest of all God’s dispensations is that individuals cannot predict the future in detail. Nevertheless, the formal end of Canada may be prefaced by a period during which the government of the United States has to resist the strong desire of English-speaking Canadians to be annexed.’ I am so happy (he would be too!) that he was so wrong about that desire to be annexed. We are seeing just the opposite. Your anger is widely shared; and anger can be a great motivating political force.”

Grant feared Canadians would not be willing to pay the price of not being members of the affluent society to save our sovereignty and Trump is making the same bet.

But ‘The Tribe’ is motivated. They’re busy registering, voting, encouraging, cajoling, engaging in touchy discussions – not just because they’re angry – but they firmly believe that there is nobility in fighting for the good – even in the face of impossible odds – and there is none in bending the knee to a tyrant at the head of an ‘I got mine’ society.

Grant went on to write the most prescient pieces on how technology had become a comprehensive fate for the modern world – with the US its epicentre – a fate linked to the drive to control. The technology-driven civilizational destiny he foresaw is today fulfilled in our age of reckless, unbridled A.I. investment and an anti-empathy techno-billionaire / greedy narcissist calling the shots.

So, yes, we are angry. And I suppose it’s long overdue that we plot a course without you.

But the question has changed since Grant’s Lament. We are no longer being asked if we are willing to pay the economic price. That price is being forced upon us. Our new question is whether we are to go out with a bang or a whimper.

As another great Canadian, Gordon Lightfoot, wrote in the 60’s about a project of national significance: “Open your heart, let the life blood flow. We got to get on our way 'cause we're movin' too slow.”

There is much work of great consequence to be done.
Bang away, Canada.

Want to learn more about George Grant?
David Cayley’s 3-part podcast is a great start.

Sue and I are visiting with friends Nancy and Ken on their spectacular back porch – complete with outdoor fireplace. Like many other Braestone residents, we have put down new roots and made meaningful friendships – in part because we’re all starting new chapters at around the same time. And as more families move into the community – new connections continue to be made.

The conversation turns to life’s trials and tribulations, and how we ended up here in Braestone. Nancy tells us of her journey transitioning from the city to Barrie and now to our community. She describes how at each stop she reinvents herself and tries to jump in with both feet. “You bloom where you are planted,” Nancy says.

Her words stick with me. And ever since our back porch visit, I think about them.

It’s a 17th century Bishop from Geneva, Saint Francis de Sales, who is credited with the quote. He taught that no matter our career or state in life we can do good. We can aspire to be better people… and better neighbours.

The quote makes me think about the 3 men we have lost in recent weeks who were planted and bloomed here with us in Braestone. 

David and Cheri Warren lived in the Rabbit Hole in phase 1. If you entered the barn for a community event or fundraiser you would find them smiling at the reception table selling tickets or taking registration – volunteering at every single opportunity. Even after moving back to the city – they continued to support The Braestone Winter Classic.

David Warren shared his vast experience in real estate and management with the Braestone community. Together with David Thompson, the three of us were elected to form the very first condo board. David Warren challenged the flakey property management rep (long since replaced) who repeatedly showed up to meetings confused and ill-prepared. He also quickly mastered the finer details of the covenants earning him the affectionate moniker, The Sheriff.

It was at the inaugural Braestone condo board presentation and Q&A held in the Discovery Centre, that I first met Bruce Douglas. The new residents brandished pitchforks and tiki torches as we presented an initial budget and attempted to answer questions on everything from farm vegetable plantings to internationally recognized trail maintenance standards. As the temperature climbed, at the back of the room, a gentle giant with a shock of white hair and baritone voice stood up. Bruce Douglas proposed that the attendees change their tune and thank the inaugural board members for giving their time to try to sort these things out. The tone of the meeting was instantly changed.

Another thing about Bruce – he may not have been the curmudgeon you thought him to be. Sales were sluggish at first when Nicky and Rachel were organizing one of their concerts in the barn and Bruce insisted upon anonymity when he encouraged them to push ahead offering to cover any potential losses on the show. I suspect that – up above – he’s not happy about me sharing this now…

It was a slightly different Braestone in the early years – when Denis and Stephanie were our very first residents. At that time, you heard the coyotes every night, received daily reports of bear sightings, and would regularly find Denis Préfontaine roaming the hills on his side-by-side, stopping to tell a story, to have a drink, and to help a neighbour.

There was the time Robin made the unfortunate decision of asking for my help to assemble his back porch pergola. Following a frustrating four hours of twisted metal and mumbled profanity, Denis was summoned. He happily disassembled the contraption, started over, and did the job right. And the best part was how – while he worked – Denis made us laugh out loud with his irreverent sense of humour. His joie de vivre and love of his neighbours set the tone for the entire community.

Coming out of the pandemic, Jamie and I were walking around the farm, lamenting the frayed social fabric – the tensions and divisions – and we wondered about an event that might bring people together. The Braestone Winter Classic Charity Pond Hockey Tournament was born in that moment.

In 3 years, thanks in large part to the tremendous support of this community, the tournament has raised over $330,000 for The Hudson Regional Cancer Centre at RVH (formerly known as The Simcoe Muskoka Regional Cancer Centre).

And now we’re adding a second annual event to support the same cause. The return of Braestone Endless Summer is another effort to bring our community together – for the greater good and raise further funds for OUR regional cancer centre.

David, Bruce, and Denis didn’t put off to tomorrow the difference they could make today. They didn’t wait on some future fantasy before finally beginning to live their best life. May we all be inspired by their memory.

May we all bloom where we are planted.

Questions about Braestone Endless Summer? email:

info@braestoneendlesssummer.ca

We had to play the 3rd annual Braestone Winter Classic Charity Pond Hockey Tournament sans étang.

Mother Nature forced the Organizing Committee to call an audible and shift action from slushy ice to the asphalt of the Braestone Club parking lot.

But on the day in question, we were graced with sunshine, a cloudless sky, and a record number of supporters (the complimentary poutine bar may have helped). The energy could not have been more positive as together we raised more than $154K for our regional cancer centre.

I am fortunate to play old-timer’s hockey a few times a week with a happy cohort of aging shinny enthusiasts. And while finesse is not a word to describe my game I, nonetheless, make my way around the rink with a wee bit of pep.

But let me be clear about this: road hockey is a young man’s game. I played tonnes of it in my youth with Les and Cookie and Frank and Joe on Indiana and Dunham Street. We were Sittler, Keon, and Palmateer – returning home with scraped knees and war stories.

My biggest rediscovery at the modified Braestone Classic? There’s no coasting in road hockey – none at all – and this removes a core element of my game. The starts and stops on pavement are painful and absolute. Case in point: the imminent loss of a black toenail on my left foot.

The highlight of the day: I am speechless when Kent and Leslie (old high school mates) show up. They drive all the way from Kingston to cheer us on. Truth is, the cause has special meaning for Kent and Leslie. Their son, Dylan, fights the good fight – a recent cancer diagnosis.

Leslie is a mover and shaker – organizer and figure skater – while Kent retired from the Canadian Army not long ago. If Canadian troops were deployed in an uncomfortable zone somewhere on the planet over the past 35 years – Kent was there. Because that’s what soldiers do. They serve.

Just prior to the tournament, I have a long chat with their son, Dylan, on the phone.

To be diagnosed with stage 4 cancer at age 27 is more than a disruption.

“I had to stop working. That was hard. I was at a game shop – and I really loved it,” says Dylan.

I share with him a story of his father and me designing a board game back in high school.

Dylan is pleased to learn his father is more of a nerd than he lets on.

“If so,” I tell him, “That’s my influence. I think I was a nerd before it was cool.”

I ask Dylan what he’s going through.

“When you get a cancer diagnosis – you become part of a community – doctors, nurses, my girlfriend who is a cancer researcher at Queen’s – you become part of this community – whether you like it or not.”

I ask what he does to maintain positive energy.

“I let go of what I can’t control,” Dylan explains. “I stepped back from a lot of social media stuff. I stopped following a lot of things. I’m not doomscrolling anymore.”

I tell him that his stance strikes me as very brave.

Dylan brushes that off and reveals remarkable selflessness. “I don’t see bravery. I just don’t want to see my condition – what I’m going through – to hurt others.” And he changes the subject to his mom, Leslie, who has been his advocate and defender – navigating the ins and outs of a challenging treatment plan. 

“She’s my General, my Chief of Staff, my recce team, my comms team. She’s a one-woman army.”

I conclude there’s more than one soldier that serves in this family.

Several days after the tournament, we’re at a gathering of friends and neighbours. Thoughtful conversation. Tasty snacks. Good drink. There’s a warm and convivial vibe.

Conversation skips from topic to topic until someone brings up Blue Zones, which makes sense, as none present can claim to not having raced through summer to find ourselves in the autumn or winter of our lives.

“Netflix has a series on the topic. Live to 100: Secrets of the Blue Zones – it’s about these special areas in the world where diet and lifestyle lead to the longest lives.”

An animated discussion ensues as we learn the secrets of these regions that increase the likelihood of living as old and comfortably as possible. It appears the devil is in the details: leafy greens, climbing hills and stairs, lots of fish, regular naps, alcohol is okay – but always in moderation, miniscule servings of meat, and plenty of socializing…

We head home, I turn to Sue, and tell her the topic leaves me feeling rather empty.

“I’m not against the notion of staying healthy – and I’m not looking to check out anytime soon – insofar as I control the matter – but if all we’re focused on is living as long as possible – what’s it all about? Is the great measuring stick of a human life longevity, comfort, and well-being?”

Could our sights be set any lower?

Are we not called to serve something bigger than ourselves?

Soldier on Dylan, Leslie, and Kent.

“A man who is good for anything ought not to calculate the chance of living or dying; he ought only to consider whether in doing anything he is doing right or wrong – acting the part of a good man or of a bad.” Plato

A few years ago, while on a walk around the pond with my friend and owner of Braestone Farm, Jamie Massie, the idea for The Braestone Winter Classic 3-on-3 Charity Pond Hockey Tournament was born. My brother, Jeff, had recently passed from an aggressive form of cancer affecting his esophagus, stomach, and liver. Jamie and I talked of an event that could bring the community together and of a meaningful cause that we could support.

Jeff is the inspiration behind the tournament that in its first two years has raised more than $175k for The Simcoe Muskoka Regional Cancer Centre at RVH.

While waiting for his diagnosis – which was ten days of hospitalized dread (sprinkled with teasers of hope) – Jeff coaxed an elderly roommate to take her medication – he charmed a panoply of orderlies, and he disarmed a bewildered Doogie Howser oncologist with his bawdy (read: WAY-over-the-line) sense of humour. He insisted Sheri bring an extra caramel latte for the nurse just befriended and before his discharge, there was a lineup of health care workers offering kind words. Doogie returned, leaned in for a hug, and told Jeff how inspiring he was.

That’s Jeff. He made new friends everywhere he went.

Jeff and I loved to play hockey together. We played on outdoor rinks as kids and in old-timer tournaments as adults. At The Braestone Winter Classic, he would have been in his element and the life of the party. Jeff was a very good hockey player (much better than me) – but it’s his sense of humour and camaraderie that would shine. Jeff made people feel good. Be it through laughter (hilarious, salty jokes), the effortless way he made sure everyone felt welcome, or his child-like joy at life’s simple pleasures – you knew it was sure to be a good time if Jeff was there.

After Jeff’s service, we gathered at the family home for what Jeff requested: a big party in his sprawling back yard. Like most Markle family gatherings it was boozy and jam-packed with a full spectrum of emotional outbursts.

In the wee hours, I toasted whisky tumblers with two of Jeff’s best friends: Chris Hergott  and Shane Henkel. I knew them through Jeff but was taken aback when they suggested that we, too, were to become great friends. I immediately felt the need to manage expectations: “I’m not nearly as good a friend as my brother.”

Sadly, I believe that statement holds true to this day. But, inspired by Jeff’s example, I want to do better.

When I think about it, Jeff mastered three essential elements of friendship. a) He built trust by telling the truth and being the one you could always count on; b) He was famous for his hospitality – his unlocked front door – great food and drink – and warm, authentic welcome; and c) He cultivated an atmosphere where friendship reigned – old ones and new ones – by the way he paid attention. No pretentions. No hierarchy. Everyone mattered.

Shane and Chris have joined a few other friends, family members, and me each year in the tournament. Our on-ice performance has been less than stellar, but we don’t mind. We’re there to celebrate Jeff’s life, to support a worthy cause, to have fun, and to make new memories.

The Braestone Winter Classic Organizing Committee is busy planning the 3rd edition of the tournament (February 2-4, 2024).

Pond hockey stands apart from other sports in its appeal to primal instincts.  For me, the intensity begins with simply tying my skates. It’s rare this rite is completed without sweated brow.

The game has special moments when time and space are experienced in an elastic manner. There’s an intense satisfaction of the imagination when artists are magically on the same wavelength and give-and-go plays come to fruition. The glimpse of sequential actions happening almost all at once in the natural setting of a frozen pond surrounded by forests is a thing of beauty.

Sweaty players trot back to the barn or the sugar shack where bravado and reinterpretation of recent events are parts of the ritual. The sharing of either a few farm-fresh beers or local spirits with a hot dog or slider represents the best of the experience and it is in this aspect of the tradition that my performance can finally be described as dominant. 

I’m eager to play in The Braestone Winter Classic once again. I hope to see some familiar faces and to meet some new ones. I hope to have another great time on the ice and off the ice. But most of all, I hope to honour my brother’s legacy and be a good friend.

The Jeff Markle Memorial Award is the only individual prize awarded at The Braestone Winter Classic. The award is given to the person who most exemplifies camaraderie, humour, and passion for the game. 

We want everyone at The Braestone Winter Classic to be inspired by Jeff’s example. After all, it’s a neighbourly pond hockey tournament to raise funds for OUR regional cancer centre. You could say, it’s the best of small-town Canada.

So, please come to The Braestone Winter Classic as a player, sponsor, or spectator and do as Jeff would have done: Make someone feel welcome. Make someone laugh. Make a new friend.

Sponsor Ted in the 2024 Braestone Winter Classic Charity Pond Hockey Tournament in support of The Simcoe Muskoka Regional Cancer Centre at RVH

I suppose with an effortless ‘click’ people can share a Spotify playlist these days – but there was a time not so long ago when the effort that went into the creation of a mixed tape or burning of a custom CD made them rather thoughtful gifts.

Sue’s brother Brad took the time to curate for her just such a mixed CD. We still have it somewhere… It’s got a bit of everything – from Kim Mitchell’s cover of Sudbury Saturday Night to Shaggy’s catchy rendition of Angel, and that earworm Abba song with meaningless lyrics, Take A Chance On Me.

Sue would crank Brad’s creation on the sound system of her Honda minivan (she plays her music in the car way too loud). Although there isn’t much on there to my taste, the kids like some of the tunes – and we can all agree on one particular track: Wear Sunscreen.

It’s a hypothetical commencement speech written by Mary Schmich of The Chicago Tribune full of sage advice, wisecracks, and wisdom – all set to music by Baz Lurhmann.

There are several gems in the song that have stuck to the point of becoming family touchstones – regularly cited to challenge, comfort or cajole.

One of Mary Schmich’s pearls from the recording: “Do one thing every day that scares you…” Which is used nearly every summer to convince a family member to jump off the railway bridge at Whitefish Lake in Algonquin Park.

And recent events have me thinking about the truth from the song in these lines:

“The real troubles in your life
Are apt to be things that never crossed your worried mind
The kind that blindsides you at 4 p.m. on some idle Tuesday…”

and

“Whatever you do, don't congratulate yourself too much
Or berate yourself either
Your choices are half chance, so are everybody else's…”

You see, it’s late. Like, after 9 o’clock. Everyone knows that Sue and I have been in our PJ’s long before this hour.

And my phone rings.

“Who the hell calls at this hour?” I grumble.

Sue looks up from her Kindle and gives me a “sucks to be you” expression.

In a huff, I throw off the blankets, get out of bed, and stomp to the kitchen where my phone is plugged in.

It’s dear friend Vicky. And as is the case with most off-hour calls, it isn’t good.

Paul has fallen.

And it’s serious.

We often think we’re winning our race – fair and square – all thanks to our skill and effort. And while I’m a big believer in sweat-off-your-brow and in the difference that hard work can make, I’m an even bigger believer that – by orders of magnitude – chance matters more.

Imagine yourself at the starting line of your life’s marathon obstacle course. You’re one of 100 at the line – you look to your left, you look to your right – and there’s 99 other hungry, bloodthirsty competitors.

The Starter has his pistol in hand – but before he fires, some adjustments need to be made.

Let’s start with a biggie.

Were you born in Canada, the U.S., the E.U. or an Oceanic country? Out of a world population of just under 8 billion, a very fortunate 890M or about 11% were born in these wealthiest of countries. The Starter directs 89 of your adversaries to move back 800 metres. Left standing at the start line: You and 10 others.

Hang on, the Starter’s not yet ready… were you born to parents who lived above the poverty line? 10% of Canadians were not. The Starter directs another runner back 500 metres.

Are you white? 30% of Canadians are people of colour – 3 more contestants are shifted back 300 metres. Now it’s just you and 6 others.

One more thing, have you lived your life free of major disease or serious chronic condition? Have you suffered an accident severe enough to limit normal activities? No? Good for you! And 4 more of your competitors have just been moved back 200 metres.

Finally, the Starter is ready to pull the trigger. You look to your left and right. It’s you and 2 other world-beaters. May the best one win…

Paul is working hard to recover from a spinal cord injury. He is such a determined man that my money is on him. We visit Vicky and Paul at the rehabilitation centre in the city. Paul is craving a deli sandwich – so we pick one up on the way (Editor’s note: Montreal Deli > Toronto Deli… not even close).

Vicky is constantly by his side. She’s a fixer. Like the very best fictional fixers, Vicky’s resourceful and resilient (Think Mike Ehrmantraut from Breaking Bad or Ray Donovan).

But this is a situation Vicky can’t simply fix.

A couple things you should know about Paul: for one, he truly sees the good in people. After an initial encounter, I can be guilty of focusing on what I perceive as a person’s flaws. Paul instantly corrects me and describes what he sees as the individual’s more desirable qualities.

And Paul thinks that when you’re with someone, they deserve your full attention. We often start our day with a walk together with the dogs around the Braestone Farm. Paul never brings his phone. And if, in my pretention/addiction, I foolishly bring mine, he raises an eyebrow in such an exaggerated but silent manner that I get the message – loud and clear.

On this day, we share corned beef sandwiches, diet Pepsi, fries, Cole slaw and kosher pickles. We talk about our respective journeys – what makes them meaningful – and the challenge that both Paul and Vicky face. Paul confides that his condition provides him with ample time for contemplation.

In an attempt to inspire optimism, I draw a chart showing progress over time and speculate on the progress yet to come. I express hope to once again walk around Braestone Farm with my friend.

But chance is an encounter with what we can’t control. And as demonstrated by my little calculations above, life is dominated by chance. I’m glad there’s interference with chance – modern medicine being the best example – I’d be long gone without it and Paul’s challenge would be even more daunting – but we’re kidding ourselves if we think we will ever master chance.

And so it should be.

Is the ultimate goal of life overcoming chance to achieve comfortable self-preservation? Or does Paul – faced with his challenges – remind us of a higher good by which we are measured and defined – in the way we seek the good in others and pay attention to them?

On our way home, Sue pulls out Brad’s CD and pops it into the CD player.

She cranks it up – REALLY LOUD – and it’s the kind of song that I can appreciate with meaningful lyrics…

“If you need me, let me know, gonna be around
If you've got no place to go, if you're feeling down
Take a chance on me… Take a chance on me…”

“Take what you want said God. Take it and pay for it.” Old Spanish Proverb

Sue and I are preparing for a short Algonquin Park anniversary getaway. It’s been a busy period and we both feel the need for a break. Ruby is coming along – so there’s that.

Just prior to our departure, I witness Sue’s calls, text messaging, scribbled notes, and snakes & ladders spurts through the house. It’s something else.

“I’m never doing just one thing. You can’t multitask like I do,” Sue tells me as she flies past, phone in one hand and bag of cat treats in the other. “And I’ll tell you this much, multitasking is exhausting!”

She’s right. I don’t multitask nearly as well as Sue does. And like her – as I try to squeeze in my daily Wordle before putting our suitcase in the truck – I find multitasking utterly exhausting.

If the ‘Devil is in the details,’ life these days is downright demonic. We’re overrun by digital distraction and dozens of dastardly details.

The 21st century doesn’t have any industry, renewable energy, or even information driving its economy. It’s all about attention.

In the 1970’s Nobel Laureate, psychologist, and economist, Herbert A. Simon, first came up with the term “attention economy.” He argued that attention is the “bottleneck of human thought” and that “a wealth of information creates a poverty of attention.”

His prescience was remarkable. But I would argue that instead of a ‘wealth’ of information what we have today is a cesspool-tsunami. Case in point: hundreds of hours of video are uploaded to YouTube every single minute while millions of comments, posts, and photos are added to Facebook. Dare I say, it doesn’t amount to a single Michener nomination?

We are choking on an ever-expanding firehose of information on addictive portable devices – digital data is estimated to double every two years – yet our human capacity to drink it in remains finite.

The tension between the abundance of information and scarcity of attention makes this attention economy ferocious and utterly ruthless. With no barriers to entry, the imperfect standards from the ink-on-paper era of fact-checking and good reporting are a thing of the past. The Internet weed bed, loosely attended to by duplicitous algorithms, has no norms, guardrails, nor moral compass.

A behemoth of the attention economy, Meta (parent company of Facebook and Instagram), knows exactly what it’s doing. Founder, Mark Zuckerberg, knows what his products do to the mental health of teenagers. He’s known it for years. But in the cut-throat competition of the attention economy, he dares not take a step back and think of the common good.

Meta whistle-blowers have even handed over the smoking guns. When Zuckerberg was told long ago about the addictive power of his platforms and the damage they do, did he blush? Did he even shrug?

No, he did neither. In fact, when faced with legislative projects to force social media companies to vet their products before rolling them out to children, he didn’t embrace the opportunity to create a new, safer level playing field. Instead, he hired more lobbyists to strangle any efforts in the crib.

But today, I’m not going to fix social media.

No, today, we’re on a lovely drive and the weather could not be better. We wind around the curves and hills of The King’s Highway 60, surrounded by lakes and forests, and our cell signal becomes spotty. Sue and I agree that this must be a sign. We’re meant to disconnect in order to reconnect. As we arrive at our Algonquin cabin, Ruby sits up from her back seat slumber and nods in approval. So does Sue.

White wine, whisky – and finally, a chance to pay attention.

Two Muskoka chairs on the deck face the beauty of creation. A glass of Chardonnay for Sue and a tumbler of whisky for me. We appreciate the serenity of the lake and the hummingbirds that periodically dance in and out of our view.

Ruby lies down in front to stare at the vista. Her movements limited to a periodic raised eyebrow at a sound from the bush or the loon on the lake.

Away from the concerns of daily life – and without a reliable wi-fi connection – my inner thoughts turn to the idea of really paying attention. I look at Sue and make eye contact. I smile. I hold my chin in my hand. I tell myself: I’m really paying attention… aren’t I? Then I worry… Am I simply performing what paying attention should look like? I wonder, is it possible to pay attention and think about paying attention at the same time. I conclude that even the most honourable of intentions are mixed.

Sue notices my lost gaze. “What are you thinking about?” she asks.

“You’re right,” I tell her. “I don’t multitask like you do. But I think the entire notion of multitasking might be a myth. Can we ever do more than one thing at a time… Maybe we’re just shifting between tasks at an unsustainable pace. Like just now… I’m paying attention to you and thinking about paying attention to you – but I can’t do both at the same time. I can’t even multitask these two related ideas.”

Sue grins and pats my hand. “Honey, I’m not sure if you’re thinking too much or not quite enough.”

“It’s not that complicated,” she adds. “If you’re paying attention to someone. You ask them questions. You look at them… don’t you?”

“I wonder,” I say to Sue. “How often at social gatherings do I stay inside my head avoiding the risk of awkward conversation instead of asking questions of others? Or, worse, how often do I ask a question only because I want to tell you my version of the answer? In fact, how often am I guilty of not even listening to your reply or even cut you off midsentence so that I can dazzle with my own story?”

Am I paying attention? 

What does it mean to truly pay attention? We all think we know the answer to the question. But do we really?

French philosopher, Simone Weil, saw attention as the cornerstone of our humanity – she called it ‘the rarest and purest form of generosity.’

“Attention consists of suspending our thought, leaving it detached, empty, and ready to be penetrated by the object… Above all our thought should be empty, waiting, not seeking anything, but ready to receive in its naked truth the object that is to penetrate it.” Simone Weil

How can we expect to achieve Weil’s level of mindfulness when we’re bombarded by the addictive distractions of the attention economy?

Inspired by Weil’s writings on attention, British writer & philosopher Iris Murdoch wrote of the need for our ‘fat relentless ego’ to get out of the way. In other words, to truly pay attention, to receive and be open to someone else, we need to silence our inner thoughts, neuter our preconceptions, and shut down the insecurities of our ego.

Weil saw her pure interpretation of attention as the substance of both divine and brotherly love. “Not only does the love of God have attention for its substance; the love of our neighbour, which we know to be the same love, is made of this same substance.”

The sun is setting and the loon wails – both haunting and gorgeous. We polish off the first round of wine and whisky and position a charcuterie board on the table between our chairs. Ruby sniffs the air and gets up to move closer. Sue gives her a cracker.

“Ruby only ever does one thing at a time,” I observe. “The attention she pays and the love in her eyes, while disturbingly effective, is certainly not performative.”

“We need to learn to love and pay attention like Ruby does – like a child,” Sue replies.

It’s true. The attention economy pushes us away from one another. And the price we pay for it is our humanity.

It’s my first day in Grade 2 at Suddaby Public School in Kitchener, Ontario.

Our family moved over the summer and on this early morning – let’s just say – I’m less than enthusiastic.

I take a plastic bag (as big as I am) from the cupboard and fill my bowl with puffed wheat. A few weightless particles float in the air until static electricity pulls them to my sweater – where they will spend the remainder of the day.

I fold the Sports section from the previous day’s paper to dissect game summaries. That the Leafs lost an exhibition game to the Red Wings doesn’t help my mood, but it’s okay I suppose, game doesn’t count, and my hero, Davey Keon, wasn’t even dressed.

I look up at Mother and sigh.

“Am I going to know anyone at all in my class?”

She sits at the head of the kitchen nook, lights her du Maurier, scoops out a heaping teaspoon of sugar and adds an ounce or two of Carnation to her mug. Cigarettes and evaporated milk are her essentials I regularly purchase at Fisher’s Variety. Mother doesn’t process much dialogue before the first cup so I must repeat my lament.

“You’ll make friends,” she says.

Since the move, we have driven past the school several times and, from my perch in the back seat of the Bel Air, I have already drawn my conclusion. “Suddaby looks like a prison.”

Mother gets up from her perch at the nook, puts on her glasses, pulls a wad of Kleenex from her sleeve, spits, and wipes a remnant of powdered milk from my cheek. She reminds me: “Mackenzie King, Canada’s longest-serving Prime Minister, attended Suddaby.”

At least her expectations are clear.

Suddaby is a bit of a hike from our home on Indiana Street. Upon arrival, students (inmates) gather in the school (prison) yard where the Principal (warden) – a humongous, broad-shouldered man – knowingly nods at his teachers who herd us like sheep destined for the abattoir. We enter the school and shuffle to the far end of a creaky, dimly lit hardwood hallway to the grade two classroom.

Positioned near the head of the line, I’m pretty sure I’m the first to lay eyes upon her – and I’m mesmerised.

Miss Gillard has shoulder length auburn hair feathered down each side and a smile to melt the hardest heart.

This prison guard is definitely not what I imagined. My first day of school is a carnival of new feelings and experiences. Miss Gillard is full of compassion – and when I speak, she pays complete attention.

Upon arriving home, I query Mother.

“How old do you have to be to get married?”

“Eighteen.”

Okay, that’s doable. My reluctance for Suddaby is replaced by an earnest project – to win her heart. I acknowledge that 11 years of courtship will be a challenge – but, for Miss Gillard, it may be worth it.

Up to this point in my life, my affections are limited to the Toronto Maple Leafs and, more specifically, their Captain, Davey Keon, but Miss Gillard stirs in me a passion to rival my Buds obsession.

There’s a spring in my step as I walk to school each morning. Seeking ways to spend some one-on-one time, I observe that classmates who repeatedly misspell words are requested to stay after class to write lines on the blackboard.

And I instantly forget how to spell ‘VERY’ – inserting an ‘A.’

Miss Gillard smiles, shakes her head, and announces the details of our first date – this afternoon at 3:45 pm. I’m VARY happy.

During the glorious detention, Miss Gillard asks about my interests and I confess to her my love of the Leafs and of Davey Keon. I describe my hockey card collection – how I almost have the cards of the entire 1971-72 Maple Leafs team – I’m only missing that of the Captain himself.

I figure we’re growing closer when Miss Gillard shares some of her personal information. She’s not a shinny fan, more into The Beatles – especially the ‘dreamy’ Paul McCartney (UGH!). I tell her about the box of Beatles collector cards that sits right beside the hockey cards on the shelf at Fisher’s Variety. She’s impressed.

Miss Gillard sparks my seven-year-old imagination because she’s so different. Apart from my hostile sisters, most women I know are from my mother’s side of the family – Great Aunties, Grandmothers, Great-grandmothers – the kind of women who long for tragedy (in any of its forms) to strike just so they can rise to the occasion. They’re resourceful, highly judgemental – and pay little attention to me except to periodically identify familial origins of my oddities and assign ambitious career objectives that may one day bring the family positive notoriety.

Miss Gillard asks me questions, listens to my answers, is into hippy music, and she’s got that smile.

My obsession grows. While staying after class writing lines for a vary long time, I spy a book of poetry on the shelf. How it came to be in a grade two classroom, I’ve no idea, but to me it screams opportunity.

I open the book, scan the pages, and spot a few familiar words of devotion.

Grabbing my pencil and a sheet of paper, I rapidly transcribe two stanzas and position my handiwork on the corner of Miss Gillard’s desk.

She glances at the transcription and is over-the-top with enthusiasm. I immediately sense that I may be overplaying my hand. At her insistence, we hurry down the creaky hardwood hallway to the (really big) Principal’s office. He studies the sheet and repeats the question first posed by Miss Gillard: “Did YOU write this?”

I know I’m skating on thin ice. Feeling pressure, I explain that I DID write it out – without being its original composer. 

Our heads down, we’re sent back to the grade two classroom. Miss Gillard is embarrassed that her child prodigy is revealed as a precocious plagiarizer. I worry that my recklessness may negatively affect my longer-term goals.

Fall turns to winter, the Christmas break nears, my fever has yet to break. I finish a creative writing assignment before my other classmates and daydream of Miss Gillard. Almost subconsciously, I begin to doodle… sketching on the margins of my assignment what lies in my heart.

“What are you drawing, Ted?”

The voice startles me. It comes from above and a wave of terror flows through me.

I look up, see her, and try to hide the sheet with my hands.

Miss Gillard gently grasps the edge of the assignment, takes it from my desk, and returns to hers. At the end of the day, the school bell rings and the class empties, but Miss Gillard asks me to stay.

I shuffle up to the front of the class where the damning evidence lies before her. She points at my sketch with her pencil.

“Do you know what these are called, Ted?”

I turn the sheet upside down. “They’re ice cream cones – with cherries.”

Miss Gillard looks at me. “No, Ted. They’re breasts. These are called breasts.”

With those words – I am light-headed and slip into a front row desk.

In what I can only describe as an act of betrayal, she sends me home with a note requiring Mother’s signature. Her vague description of my transgression likely saves me from the worst possible punishments.

It’s only a few days before Christmas. The entire school gathers in the gymnasium to sing carols. Students bring gifts to Miss Gillard: Avon soaps, coffee mugs, and fruit baskets.

After school, I lie on the floor of the living room reading the paper. Mother counts coins on the kitchen table while Father drinks Five Star whisky (the plastic logo doubles as Sheriff star that I will find in my stocking on Christmas morning). He plays Perry Como on the Electrohome stereo.

Mother sweeps the change from the kitchen table and passes the pile to me. It weighs down the pocket of my corduroys. I tighten my belt a notch and head off for Fisher’s Variety to place the standing order: “One large Du maurier Regular, one small Du maurier King, one can of Carnation.”

Each pack is 75 cents, the condensed milk, 43 cents. There’s a dime left over and that’s all I need!

I look up at the shelf where the trading cards are found. Beside the hockey cards is the box of Beatles collector cards. Miss Gillard would surely be impressed.

And I have a decision to make.

All’s fair in love and war.

The next morning, I place the Christmas gift on her desk.

My waiting is over.

11 years is a long time.

Miss Gillard gets the box of Avon butterfly soaps that Mother bought, and Davey Keon is finally mine.

Merry Christmas Miss Gillard!

No amount of regret changes the past, no amount of anxiety changes the future, any amount of gratitude changes the present. – Ann Voskamp

The Braestone Winter Classic 3-on-3 Charity Pond Hockey Tournament is back for a second year.

And I’m determined to achieve a better outcome.

Truth be told, our team didn’t fare so well the first time around. Three games… three losses.

So, I’m playing old-timer’s hockey three times a week in the hope of being a little less winded after every 15-second shift.

These days when I bend over to tie my skates – and I mean every time I do so – I’m just a little nauseous, but I’m entirely present. For once, my mind doesn’t wander. Even with laughter and banter tossed around the dressing room, in my mind, I’m able to step back and take it in. In this moment, I’m flooded with a sense of gratitude and I think about three specific people.

I think of Sue – the rock of my life. We couldn’t be much more different in our makeups – but that’s why it works. Before I ever loved her, I admired her. And still do. On our shared journey, I’m blessed to be riding shotgun beside her.

I think of my brother, Jeff. When he received his cancer diagnosis a year and a half ago, there was discussed, however briefly, the possibility that with treatment he may have another 12 months. So, we spoke of a short list of things he hoped to do with the time he had.

The 12 months were not to be but, thanks to his drive and his loved ones, he did get around to a few items on the list. Some he did not.

Jeff’s memory is the inspiration behind the Braestone Winter Classic. He would have loved it and been the life of the party. Jeff was a good hockey player – honestly much better than me. But it’s his sense of humour and camaraderie that would shine. Jeff made people feel good. Be it through laughter (hilarious, salty jokes), the effortless way he made sure everyone felt welcome, or his child-like joy at life’s simple pleasures – you knew it was sure to be a good time if Jeff was there.

And I have a confession: The third person I think of while tying my skates is the other woman in my life.

But I think it’s okay… because Sue knows all about her. In fact, Sue just might have a crush on her, too.

Every three months I make the pilgrimage (actually, it’s a short 15-minute drive on country roads). And upon my arrival, she smiles and we get right to business. A review of my blood test – check for lumps – and she asks me a few pointed questions.

Dr. Lauren Gerard is my haematologist/oncologist and I struggle to express how good it feels to know she’s in my corner.

In fact, the entire crew at The Simcoe Muskoka Regional Cancer Centre at RVH is a remarkable model of compassion and professionalism.

From reception to chemo nurses to radiation tech’s to credentialed staff, we’re fortunate to have such an organization right here where we live – serving cancer patients and their loved ones from across the Simcoe Muskoka district.

In the fight against my blood cancer, we talk about the bullets Dr. Gerard has in her pistol... She's used some of them – and she's got a couple left in the chamber. She’s a reason I'm able to play in The Braestone Winter Classic. 

And that’s half of what the Braestone Winter Classic is all about: professionals like Dr. Gerard. The monies we raise keep Simcoe Muskoka cancer patients closer to home, expand the types of cancers that can be treated, and attract world-class talent.

The other half is community: The spirit of smalltown Canada.

There is a unique energy when people come together and roll up their sleeves to achieve a common good. The Braestone Winter Classic is a microcosm of Canada at its best. Family, neighbours, new friends, all collaborating for a meaningful cause.

The event wouldn’t be possible without dozens of volunteers from the Braestone community and the generous support of Jamie & Wendy Massie, Georgian International, and our many business sponsors. While my team may have struggled on the pond, overall, the inaugural event raised more than $75K. We’d like to do even better this time around.

It’s an awareness of life’s limits – of our inevitable, eventual destiny – that illuminates a sense of gratitude. If inventory is seen as limitless – there’s little appreciation - and a lot of waste. An understanding of their scarcity is what makes one truly appreciate life’s magical moments.

May the Braestone Winter Classic 2023 be one of those magical moments for you and your family.

Click here to Register for the 2023 Braestone Winter Classic

Following two pandemic cancellations, I find new meaning in our family’s annual fishing weekend

We call it the BMO (Bush Markle Oatway): our traditional family fishing weekend.

Since 1997, the male descendants of John Samuel and Alice Bush (originally of Salford, Lancashire, later Gill Street, Orillia) gather for a summer weekend of fishing, fraternity, and festivities. The first couple of BMO’s took place on Stratton Lake outside Sudbury. It then moved to Uncle Richard’s Algonquin cottage – originally constructed by Walter Louie (also of Orillia).

Officially, it’s a tournament – with a trophy awarded for the biggest fish (determined by weight). Foie gras-style force-feedings of sinkers have been alleged over the years – unfortunately, with insufficient evidence – but to this day many view Cousin Glen with suspicion. Like the Stanley Cup, layers have been added to the coveted prize to make room for the next generation of inscriptions.

Our family’s diaspora reaches across the continent with participants coming from far and wide and who can number up to 30 or more.

Uncle Richard succinctly sums up the meaning of the tradition. “It’s a tangible way to show love for relatives, hopefully create fond memories for people, observe inter-generational antics, and have some fun.”

Current senior BMO member, Uncle Jack, recollects the event’s origin: “The first gatherings at Stratton Lake included cousins from Michigan, plus Bill and Richard. Plans were discussed at evening informal gatherings as to regularize the event. To include everyone (Bush’s, Markle’s, and Oatway’s) required referencing back to our common ancestor which was Bampie Bush. You can appreciate how detailed our discussions were. Richard has carried on the BMO tradition in style and now it is definitely an annual event. Louie’s Landing in Algonquin is perfect because it has such a family history. There have been periodic suggestions to expand to include the “fairer” sex, but so far, this has been vigorously opposed.”

Like everything else – the BMO was cancelled the last two years. And as I contemplate this summer’s edition, I admit to mixed feelings.

There’s excitement but also trepidation. Like many activities these days – a hint of melancholy dampens my anticipation. It’s not just grief. It’s a spiritual malaise hanging in the air. I find the past two-and-a-half years have left us feeling uprooted and disconnected.

I nonetheless pack my swim trunks, deep woods OFF, sleeping bag, whisky, and Montreal-style smoked meat brisket. You see, for me, the BMO is more visiting, food, and drink than any actual angling. My phone buzzes. It’s a text from 20-year-old nephew Ben. He’s on his way to the BMO and his pickup’s broken down outside Gravenhurst.

I decide to call him – much quicker than trying to decipher emoji’s and text messages.

“It’s the gas line. Sprayed all over the place,” Ben says matter-of-factly.

Of course, I’m happy to pick him up and I’m even happier to spend some one-on-one time.

Ben’s a behemoth – with a heart of gold. Like his father (my brother, Jeff), Ben likes to arrive at the BMO as early as possible.

“It won’t be the same without Jeff,” I say.

Ben silently nods in acknowledgement of my stunning grasp of the obvious.

Jeff’s name is inscribed on the BMO trophy more than that of any other participant. Last year, when we knew he would not return, and despite that second consecutive pandemic cancellation, a posse (including his father-in-law, Ian, and daughter’s boyfriend, Steve) gingerly brought Jeff to a lake closer to home so he could cast his line one last time. The BMO Organizing Committee (a shrouded and impenetrable secret society) met, suspended some bylaws, and arranged to have the trophy once more awarded to Jeff.

Ben and I complete our journey and pull into the long lane that leads to our destination deep within the primeval Algonquin bush. 

Pine branches scratch and squeal along the sides of my truck as we slowly negotiate the forested tunnel that leads to Louie’s Landing. “This is the best feeling,” Ben insists.

The fact is, the BMO is a place where Ben is the best – where others measure themselves against his performance. To beat Ben is something else. While his father’s name dominates BMO history, it’s been clear for a few years now that the student surpassed the master.

This year, I observe Ben pay it forward and coach Keegan – a Nova Scotian cousin a few years his junior. They’ve been a regular fric and frac since Keegan attended his first BMO as a toddler.

There’s something unique about connections made at such a tender age. I suspect you truly know the other person because you’ve experienced them before any self-consciousness affected their behaviour. You trust because you feel you’ve witnessed the essence of their character.

I scan the scene and conclude that the BMO succession plan looks pretty solid.

There’s a gregarious cohort of active kids. From the cottage, we observe Tobin, Quinn, Sam, and Connor on the sparkling lake – paddling, laughing, and burning up in the sun all day long. Yes, we may have forgotten the sunscreen but then again there’s no screen time either.

Evenings are for Euchre, Risk, and snacks under the ethereal light of propane lamps. Corrine’s popcorn is highly anticipated and Ben’s venison summer sausage is to die for.

Out on the screened porch we gather. Pipe tobacco, whisky, and red wine, with John Prine, Jim Croce, and Gordon Lightfoot playing softly in the background.

It’s our time to check in on one another. “What are you going through?”

Over decades, the replies become more unguarded and our connections more robust.

Roast lamb and mint sauce is the weekend’s traditional final supper as Glen tells a tall tale around the dining room table. After a dessert of apple pie with sharp cheddar, with the sun setting on Algonquin, we gather on the dock. We have a job to do.

Jeff’s name has been added to a roll call that grew far too quickly. We lost some BMO soldiers over the past few years.

Ben stands at the end of the dock with a small jar of Jeff’s ashes and asks me to say a few words.

“The BMO was Jeff’s favourite weekend of the year. He made us laugh. He paid attention to every person. Jeff made people feel good and made the BMO a better place.”

It’s time to add some of Jeff to Whitefish Lake. But Ben can’t do it.

I gently take his hand and we do it together.

Then hug it out.

Mark and Glen do the same with Uncle Don – Bampie Bush’s last surviving son. Don was a loving father, talented artist, Bristol Beaufort tail gunner, and deadly lacrosse player. His ashes are mixed those of his wife, Jean.

And we remember the others.

The act of remembering is our form of time travel. We reach into the past, concentrate, and tug it into the present. Each memory is tied to an elastic that can snap it back at any moment.

Jamie remembers Reid – we miss him for the purity of his soul and his talent as cook and shepherd for our motley crew.

Cousin John and I remember Bill – his insights and sage advice. At the BMO, you sat beside Bill when you wanted a pearl of wisdom.

Richard remembers neighbour Keith, the ultimate fishing companion with a salty sense of humour.

No, the BMO isn’t the same – and never again shall be. But Jeff is with us. As are Don, Bill, Reid, and Keith. They’re forever one with Algonquin and our acts of remembering make us better.

We’re blessed by the memory of these men. It reinforces our sense of belonging and our responsibility to rise to the challenge of the examples they set. 

Finally, it’s Sunday morning – time for presentations and group photo. Ben is beaming with pride for his protégé: Keegan’s name is the next to be inscribed on the BMO trophy.

Handshakes and hugs. We pack up, say our goodbyes, and Ben and I slowly drive out through the forested tunnel.

For Ben, and for the rest of us, the passage through the entry lane to Louie’s Landing is ‘the best feeling’ because the BMO is where we feel rooted and connected. It’s where our traditions inspire us – and our ties to the past remind us of what we owe the future.

Facebook is just a bunch of Hacks

Sue tosses her smartphone on the chesterfield and crosses her arms. “My Facebook’s been hacked,” she says.

“How do you know?”

“I received a message… says my account’s been suspended due to inappropriate content.”

“You’re kidding me,” I reply. “Animal adoptions, garden beds, and family photos are inappropriate? With the tsunami of hate, lies, and misinformation on that site, this is what warrants a suspension?”

Sue discovers there are few things in this world as hopeless as trying to get someone’s attention at a digital monopoly. Humans don’t answer your emails. That’s a job for the algorithms. As for getting a person on the phone? You’re kidding me, right?

Sue shakes her head. “It’s like they created an enormous public garden but no one to tend to it. Why don’t they take care of their site? Noxious weeds sprout everywhere. Their negligence has turned what could have been beautiful into something completely toxic.”

Surveys show that 50% of us get most of our news on social media. And with three billion active monthly users, Facebook does not appear too concerned about conspiracy theories and hate groups – these kinds of hot topics generate a lot of “engagement.”

In the name of free speech and “bringing the world closer together” … blah, blah, blah – it’s really just mind-numbing profitability – Facebook has no customer service. In fact, proportionate to revenues, barely anyone at all works for the Internet “platforms” that dominate our screen time. (Facebook generates more than $1.8M USD per employee.)

“The algorithm told me to scan my drivers’ licence and send it to them,” Sue tells me.

“Send it to whom?”

“The algorithm.”

“Did you do it?”

“Six times!” Sue replies.

“Sounds pretty sketchy.”

She abandons the effort and creates a new profile. Years of family photos (mostly four-legged) are vaporized.  

Ink-stained wretches…

Sue’s exasperation with the overgrown gardens gets me thinking. In today’s social media landscape, it sounds almost Smithsonian to say it (‘cause I’m not that old), but I’ve spent most of my life in the ink-on-paper world of newspapers and magazines.

Early in my career, I remember sitting with Bob Verdun, the mercurial Editor/Publisher of the Elmira Independent. During my brief tenure, I learned a few lessons from Bob. Thanks to him, one of my goals in life became attaining enough fortune or fame to be referred to as ‘mercurial’ instead of simply an asshole (I’m still working on that one).

Another lesson came way of Verdun’s custom of sitting beside us lowly reporters in the cramped, stale newsroom to edit our work.

I had just returned from covering a soft piece – one that I humbly thought might warrant my first Michener Award. A certain wildlife-loving type had donated five Peregrine falcons to the University of Waterloo – and I had not only taken some snappy photos with my K1000 but had also written a dramatic lead – sure to hook even the most casual reader.

Verdun read the opening line of my article aloud. My more experienced newsroom colleagues turned to witness what they knew to be an imminent train wreck. “Soaring down at speeds up to 200 miles per hour?” he said with a cadence and volume reminiscent of a burned-out high school teacher.

“Do you like it?” I asked sheepishly.

“Soaring DOWN?” he repeated. “Are you a fucking idiot? Birds soar up and they SWOOP DOWN!”

Of course, Verdun was right. And while I might not share his communication style, I haven’t forgotten the lesson.

Because that’s what editors do. They stop stupid stuff from going to press – and great editors can turn good stories into important ones.

And newspapers used to employ a lot of editors and reporters… alas they’re almost all gone.

Editors are the canaries of the newspaper business – among the first to be nearly choked out of existence. Early on, the Internet seemed exciting for newspaper folks – but eventually we learned that the hoped-for information economy was, in reality, the attention economy. And trust me, in the age of social media, these are not the same.

Sue’s untended garden analogy makes me think of dear friend and long-time newspaper editor, Kevin McIntosh. He passed a few years ago – far too soon – and I recall at his service former colleagues referring to him as a “good newspaperman.”

Kevin was one of those special people who rarely had a bad word to say about anybody – as pure a heart as you’ll find. But this is not to say he was a pushover or didn’t take sides. Kevin was on the side of the truth – and of relevant stories well told. He hated lies and he despised political office behaviour – the kind where a person takes credit for someone else’s work or stabs them in the back. (Kevin had absolutely no time for a certain Circulation Manager who played such games. “As profound as piss on a plate,” Kevin once said. I remember explaining to Kevin that it must be because the fellow’s eyes were far too close together.)

If Kevin’s newsrooms were gardens – they were not only well-tended but had impeccable edging. He knew he was responsible for every word that went to press and he took his duty seriously indeed. Weeds would surely grow – they are inevitable – but Kevin would go out, yank up the invasive species with roots intact and hold it high. He’d call the dastardly hogweed* by its name – because a lie is a lie and while perfection may not be of this world, that’s no reason not to maintain its constant pursuit.

Because algorithms and burnt-out content moderators aren’t up to the task

News feeds on Facebook or Twitter operate on a business model of commodifying the attention of billions of people per day. Facebook has hired (directly or through outsourcing) a smattering of content moderators… What’s a content moderator, you ask? They’re a bunch of burnt-out, underpaid, PTSD-suffering zombies often paid not much more than $2 an hour in low-wage countries around the world. 

Content moderators see a fraction of the most appalling content that gets flagged by the algorithms and take it down.

Simply put, content moderators are not editors.

I wonder how we can better appreciate what’s been lost in the culling of editors. What makes a good newspaper person? I turn to some friends for their thoughts.

Jim Bruce was a long-time Editor at The Windsor Star – and eventually named Publisher. Jim’s newsroom covered Essex County like the dew… and his piano-kicking, exuberant performances of Sunday Morning Christian at company parties are legendary. Here’s Jim’s thoughts on editors and “Newsmen:”

“The digital platforms have resulted in a free-for-all where anyone can vent, and there is no longer a role for the traditional editor… The EDITOR first and foremost must have the confidence and respect of the other newsroom staff which means he or she communicates effectively and is viewed as fair and objective in his or her decisions… they must have a curiosity like no other. I have been accused of being “nosey” since I was a child, which I guess is a less polite way of saying curious... but a good newsman must be interested in everything and have the ability to ask lots of questions. A good newsman must leave his/her biases, political and religious beliefs at the door and act as objectively as humanly possible.”

André Préfontaine began his distinguished career as a hunting & fishing columnist. He worked for Canadian Press, was an Editor, a Publisher, and media company President. One of the things I keep with me from my time with André is his definition of respect – a word so often overused that it can lose its meaning. André kept it simple. Respect, he said, means telling the truth – to everyone – including yourself. André told me this story:

 “When I was a young reporter at La Tribune de Sherbrooke, I was digging into the causes of a suspicious fire (the official report indicated that the origin was unknown but likely nefarious) that had destroyed the club house of a golf course owned by the City of Sherbrooke. Due to the risk of litigation, my article was submitted to the newspaper’s Publisher, Yvon Dubé. You can imagine that I feared my story would not be published at all. Much to my surprise, M. Dubé walked into the newsroom, tossed the article on my desk, and yelled: ‘Préfontaine, you can do better than this. Dig deeper and get me the whole story!’ After pushing my sources at city hall, the city controller slipped me a file (the traditional brown envelope) containing an audit report showing that the administrators of the golf course had carried out tens of thousands of dollars in questionable and unauthorized expenses. Of course, the golf course accounting books as well as the supporting documents had all been destroyed in the fire. After much debate in Mr. Dubé’s office, (that included the newspaper's lawyers who were reluctant), Mr. Dubé decided to publish my story on the front page of the next day’s edition. All this to tell you that good journalists need experienced editors to not only edit their work but also, and more importantly, they need their support in taking risks to publish controversial news that’s in the public interest.”

Phil Jackman is a great editor. I can say this with confidence for two reasons: First, he was universally respected at The Globe and Mail – Canada’s last bastion newsroom. And second, he once edited a piece I was working on and gave me brutal (yet accurate and well-deserved) feedback… Phil began his career on weekly newspapers in the U.K., progressed to The Guardian and then came to Canada where he worked at The Star before spending the bulk of his career at The Globe and Mail. This is what Phil has to say:

 “The basic problem is the sheer volume of the stuff. It’s impossible to vet everything. The Internet is the Wild West. When I was the Op-ed Page Editor, we looked at submissions and assessed if they were good, fair, and if they got the facts right. I was once challenged that what we were doing was censorship. It wasn’t! It was rejection. And there’s a difference. People don’t have to identify themselves online but, prior to publishing a Letter to the Editor, for instance, we would make every attempt to verify the identity of letter writer. These days the nut cases have limitless resources to publish anything online. And if enough crazies latch on, it goes viral… there is no fact checking. The whole process is broken. The forces of reason need to fight back. Why can’t we go viral with reasonable views?”

We need the ink-stained wretches more than ever

I’m not particularly optimistic but, if you search enough through the gardens, you may find some green shoots of hope.

Filling the void left by the middle-of-the-night dirty deal between Torstar and Postmedia (that slit the throat of The Packet and Times) Orillia Matters and dozens of similar sites have sprouted. Dave Dawson, a Regional and Community Editor with Village Media says his company is actively hiring editors. It remains to be seen how digital news start-ups will flourish as local merchants become more sophisticated digital marketers, but the Orillia Matters crew is definitely fighting the good fight. 

Recently, Dawson also came to the decision that the comments section on his news sites had become too toxic and had to be shut down:

“This was not an easy decision as we strive to provide a variety of viewpoints but the comment section was no longer a safe or a sane place… We will no longer be a platform for toxicity and wild conspiracy theorists… Our hope is that it also serves another purpose, allowing us to get on with what should be our top priority: informing you on the critical issues that face our community.”

Front Porch Forum is a Vermont-based platform used by roughly a quarter of the state’s residents for all sorts of community activity and discussion. Front Porch doesn’t push users to post as much commentary as quickly as possible. Instead, it tries to slow it all down: Posts appear online the day after they were written. Sometimes, people reach out to the moderators to retract something said in anger. There are no avatars, and users must register with a Vermont address. People on the site interact with real neighbours, not anonymous mudslingers.

Their gross margins will take a hit, but behemoths like Facebook and Twitter have been leading us up the garden path for long enough. Isn’t it time we put a stop to their free ride and demand they weed their gardens in earnest?

There’s no reason, as citizens who care about our communities, that we shouldn’t demand tighter standards, require them to submit content to fact-checking before it goes live, and hold them accountable for every post on their sites – just like the ink-stained wretches have always had to do.

Ask your elected representatives what they plan on doing about it and support your local news organization.

*hogweed is a health and environmental risk. In humans, contact with hogweed sap together with exposure to light causes skin lesions similar to burns - kinda’ like lies and misinformation.

How vulnerability and humour can help repair our frayed social fabric

Sue and I sit at the dining room table scribbling dozens of phrases and movie titles on strips of paper.

“We’re out of practice with this whole socializing thing,” she says. “It takes quite an effort.”

“Sure does,” I reply. “But it beats zooming. Screens tend to filter out exchanges of energy and these days we need real-life connection.”

The strips are for charades. We’ve been invited by a group of friends to join their games night ritual – and it’s our turn to host.

Our company arrives and as I explain the rules of engagement, there’s a certain anxiety in the air.

That’s because charades means putting it all out there – being completely vulnerable. You’re at risk of bombing – not only losing the game – but looking the fool as you do so.

There’s nothing quite like standing in front of a group with the stopwatch ticking, pulling a strip of paper from the bowl, and having to instantly perform.

“Charades pushes you in the deep end,” Tara says with a mischievous grin. Tara’s a ruthless games night enthusiast, part-time wildlife saviour, and full-time partner to John-Deere-in-the-headlights Brad (more on him later).

Tara’s got a point. In charades, you sink or swim. When it’s your turn, the only thing that could be more embarrassing than your incomprehensible contortions is to freeze and do nothing at all.

Tonight, it’s women against men. In turn, we each do our very best Billy Van or Dinah Christie and, truth be told, none – save perhaps the aforementioned Tara – is a candidate for Party Game stardom. But do we ever laugh. In fact, perhaps because we’re so out of practice, our jaws are sore from laughter.

The competition is intense. The men should be winning – but sadly we aren’t. And while I’m personally against the blame game – this is clearly Kathleen’s fault. She can’t tell time. After much debate, Kathleen grudgingly accepts that two minutes is not ninety seconds. Freddie, her partner, nods in agreement – with what, no one can be sure. But whatever it is, he’s definitely in agreement.

As it tends to do around here, the humour turns rather bawdy. Poor Al is seated closest to the front of the room and although the rules state that props are verboten, fingers are frantically pointed by muted performers at various parts of his anatomy.

This controversial technique permits Tara’s team to guess the forgettable Dennis Quaid/Winona Ryder movie ‘Great Balls of Fire’ in under 15 seconds.

There’s finally a break in the action – drinks are topped up – and we chat… about our lives in 2022.

“This season, I feel like we’re a bunch of prairie dogs sticking our heads up to see if the coast is clear,” says Sue.

“That’s it,” replies Pamela, Al’s better half. “But it’s not just the next wave we’re wary of – it’s the stories of division and strained relationships.”

“So many threads of connections are snagged – some are completely torn,” chimes in Kathleen.

And on this theme, everyone has a story. Sisters who have stopped talking; friends lost in dark tunnels of cabals and tracking technology; disputes over mandates and civic duties. There seems to be more distance between us than anyone can recall.

I offer my two cents: “The past two and a half years have been hard on us – on our connections. Whatever stresses we may have had pre-pandemic, another layer has been added – as if one of those weighted stress blankets has been tossed on top of whatever we were already dealing with. Instead of reducing anxiety, it’s in addition to our previous burden.”

There’s a moment of silence and Brad, who has been quiet, changes gears and speaks up.

“My John Deere lawn tractor’s in need of major repairs.”

“I thought it was brand new,” says Al. “What happened?”

“It’s only broken because Brad doesn’t like farmer’s tans,” insists Tara. “You know, those red forearms and white shoulders?”

“You lost me on that one, Tara,” replies Al.

Brad clears his throat and confesses: “I was wearing my new cowboy boots and the tapered toe fits perfectly between the accelerator and the brake. It got lodged in there and I crashed through the horse fence.”

“We still don’t get it,” says Freddie with a chuckle, shaking his head.

“That’s all Brad wears when he does the lawn – boots and Stetson,” Tara deadpans. “That way, there’s no risk of farmer’s tan.” 

With those words, our shared laughter reaches a peak. Sides split and tears flow.

And Brad’s courageous story becomes my epiphany for the evening.

Laughter is one of the answers to our crisis of social cohesion. Not the laughter that ridicules the other – but rather self-deprecating humour that exposes our vulnerability.

Common laughter can be our virtuous circle – cultivating trust and enhancing our sense of social support – inspiring the confidence to share more vulnerabilities.

When we open ourselves and seek to understand what others are going through – be it trials and tribulations, challenging charades, or horse fences – we invariably build connection.

“Did you learn anything from the experience?” Al asks Brad.

“Absolutely,” he says. “Gotta’ lose the boots. From now on, it’s just flip-flops and the Stetson.”

“Took a lot of guts to tell that story,” I say to Brad.

“Not really,” he replies. “When you play charades, you find out who you can trust.”

Our greatest strength is found when we choose to be vulnerable, to pay attention – to empty our minds of preconceptions and allow others to be truly discovered. Shared laughter cultivates this strength and can be the best medicine for our troubled times.

We’re coming up on the anniversary of my brother’s passing. It’s been tough – and I’ve been working on a few things through my grieving.

One of these things is to remember someone the way they would want to be remembered. Contemplating my own eventual demise has helped with this reflection.

I would want family and friends (Sue especially) to remember me at my best – my side-splitting wordplay, dominant hockey performances, irresistible charm, disarming humility… you get the idea. I would not want them to remember my moments of weakness or any nasty details surrounding my exit.

With this in mind, I remember Jeff after his diagnosis insisting on purchasing a new vehicle for Sheri. Upon delivery, although he was of limited strength and mobility, Jeff assessed the powerful Audi by racing up and down the road at about three-times the speed limit. His grin said it all. The car passed his test and – as always – Jeff passed his.

I find the world can be organized into two categories of people: those that get cars – and those that don’t. My brother was always much more of a car person than me. He understood how they worked and had insight into the right vehicle for the right circumstance. Me – not so much.

For the life we left in Montreal six years ago, with its mad-scientist-designed highways, downtown commutes, falling bridges, narrow streets, and constant construction, I drove what I thought to be an appropriate car: a white Prius hybrid.

Now Jeff may have used it as a proof-point for my lack of virility and Sue made snarky references to its hamster-powered engine, but for urban conditions my little Prius was easy to park, stingy, and dare I say, a wee-bit peppy.

Our move to Oro – small town Canada – soon made it clear, however, that I faced the risk of ostracism if I continued to drive such a subversive vehicle. Jeff warned me: “You’re not going to make a great first impression driving that thing up Horseshoe Valley Road. You’re not even gonna’ make it up the hill.”

My new neighbours greeted my hybrid with deep suspicion. When I asked my trusted local mechanic to certify the car, he admitted he had heard of such vehicles, had never actually seen one, and wondered out loud if I wasn’t a communist.

One’s choice of automobile says a lot about who we are – or so marketers would have us believe. Advertisers have been getting into our heads about the cars we should be driving for more than a century.

In case you haven’t seen one, television ads for the Prius are, I admit, a little freaky: Rolling green hills, butterflies, sunflowers and talking animals. Perhaps a little too much “Animal Farm” for my grease monkey.

In 1898, the Winton Motor Carriage Company was the earliest known advertiser for an automobile. Their call to action was simple and compelling: “Dispense With A Horse.” The return-on-investment, when no longer saddled (pun intended) with the “expense and anxiety” of keeping your old mare, highlighted the small print.

Since those days, we have seen advertisers take their research and their message to both highs and lows.

Volkswagen raised the bar with startling candour in its 1959 “Think Small” campaign that featured a mostly white page and a compact, economical image of the humble Beetle. It stood in stark contrast to the majority of contemporary car ads that hyped such attributes as power, size and manliness.

In efforts to move an inventory of pre-owned vehicles, BMW altogether dropped the bar with its 2008 Playboyesque image of a seductive woman, and the not-so-subtle copy, “You know you’re not the first, but do you really care?” (Kind of makes you want to spray the seats with Luminol before any test drive.)

Under pressure to make a jalopy switch, and at the mercy of those automobile marketers and their subliminal ways, I was bombarded by multimedia messages in my car-shopping journey.

Following a couple of innocent Google searches on different models, I was creepily followed around the Internet for weeks with display ads matching my exact syntax. (GO AWAY!)

And that TV spot of Matthew McConaughey’s mumbled, drug-addled, midnight existential rant from behind the wheel of a Lincoln scared the shit out of me.

It was finally a line from my local Ford dealer as I gazed upon a pickup that lured me in. He took a glance at my Prius and his wisdom was incontrovertible. “Fuel economy without power is like fishing without bait.” (From an actual 2013 Ford print ad!)

I pulled my new, black F150 4X4 Lariat into the driveway. Sue swooned. Jeff asked if it came with a penis. Then he bought my Prius.

FIRST PUBLISHED - August, 2016

“Do I dare to eat a peach?” – The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock, T.S. Eliot

Jim is my father-in-law.

He marches to the beat of his own drummer, just turned 80 years old, and was recently diagnosed with cancer. He is also rapidly becoming one of my heroes.

Jim is tall, broad-shouldered and, perhaps due to a partial hearing loss, has a deep inner life. If the stream of conversation eludes him during gatherings he will often smile and remark, “Sorry, I was at my own meeting.”

He is good-natured and his emotions run deep. Proof of this is evident at every family event when he says a few words. After fits and starts as he struggles to hold back tears, we usually nominate someone seated nearby to offer a simultaneous translation of his intended message.

Preferring solo endeavours, Jim’s lone wolf philosophy has served him well in a successful career in wastewater equipment sales (“It might be shit to you, but it’s my bread and butter.”) and in myriad projects around the home.

Moving from one obsession to the next, Jim’s current preferences are apple cider vinegar and avocados – consumed with Swiss-watch punctuality and Internet-based claims of extraordinary benefits, from blemish removal to improved regularity.

His diagnosis hit us all pretty hard. All of us save Jim. After surgery, they discovered some more of the bastard cells and proposed chemo as the next course of action.

The medical team emphasized that for many 80-year-old men chemo would not have been an option – but Jim keeps himself in remarkable fighting form.

In spite of his affliction, his lawn and garden have not suffered from neglect. In 36C degree weather, usually on the days after chemo, Jim is out there mowing the grass, tending to his tomatoes, and endlessly tinkering with his homemade irrigation system.

After his first couple of rounds, when he was advised that he’d better pace himself or risk a prolongation of the treatments, I took it upon myself to lecture Jim. I chided him for his never-ending activities and begged him to spend more time in his La-Z-Boy.

The very next day, Sue and I were walking along the waterfront, appreciating the beauty of a summer’s day when we heard a shrill whistle.

We turned to see Jim in his kayak, grinning from ear to ear. Ignoring the request to pace himself (but heeding the nurses’ advice that he avoid the sun) there he was paddling along in a long-sleeve woollen sweater.

Sue began to panic as she imagined him tipping and struggling to stay afloat with the absorbent garment weighing him down.

Not hearing our impassioned cries, (or choosing not to hear them… hard to tell) he kept smiling, turned and paddled away at an impressive clip.

It was then I realized that my lecturing of Jim was misguided and pointless. What I first saw as stubbornness I now see in an entirely new light.

At age 80, his golf game is actually improving and his ardour for my mother-in-law, Carol, appears more intense than ever. Jim is fighting – and he’s eating the peach with gusto. He cares not where the juice may run or on which woollen sweater it may drip.

No complaints, no self-pity. Just a zeal to live life to the fullest – every detail, every moment, every day.

May we all be so stubborn as Jim - my newest hero.

“The joy of meeting and the sorrow of separation … we should welcome these gifts … with our whole soul, and experience to the full, and with the same gratitude, all the sweetness or bitterness as the case may be. Meeting and separation are two forms of friendship that contain the same good, in the one case through pleasure and in the other through sorrow… Soon there will be distance between us. Let us love this distance which is wholly woven of friendship, for those who do not love each other are not separated.” ― Simone Weil

Sue and I decide to make a quick trip to visit Sister-in-law, Sheri.

It’s the first Christmas since Jeff passed and we all feel the void. We’re sad. We miss him. And we cherish the memories because, especially at Christmas, Jeffy never missed a chance to make us laugh. 

Sitting around the kitchen island, Sheri tells a story: “Jeff always made sure Santa had a special gift to him under the tree. It was usually wrapped in a towel and hockey tape. But the best part was how Santa took the time to inscribe on the card how Jeff was such an exceptional person.”

The conversation flows. We share a drink and talk about other memories. Niece, Erin, comments on Jeff’s approach when she faced some tension with a life-long friend. Erin wanted to get into the weeds – review the accuracy and legitimacy of each perceived slight.

Jeff had no time for it. “Don’t overthink it. Just apologize, forgive, and move on,” he said.

“Maybe there’s a lesson in there for us,” I suggest to Erin. “Maybe Jeff understood – in his bones – the importance of special friendships. That sometimes you need not bother with calculations and contemplations. I know that I tend to mull things over much more than he ever did.”

Erin seems unconvinced.

The next morning I’m off to a pre-Christmas visit with Bernie at his Long-Term Care home. Technically, he’s the father, but functionally it’s something else. I’m not really sure what to call it.

Jeff has been Bernie’s primary caregiver.  For the past couple of decades, he was the go-to fixer. And Bernie’s pretty well always been in need of fixing. Somehow, through a busy family schedule and running his own business, Jeff made time to visit Bernie and advocate on his behalf.

One of Bernie’s issues used to be called melancholia. As a youngster, I overheard whispers of Manic Depression. These days, Bernie’s main course is Bipolar disorder – with a generous side dish of “wet brain.”  (You can look it up.) Thankfully, the Doc’s at his LTC dispense a daily cocktail that mostly dampens the rage (unless he’s on the prowl for chocolate) and keeps him social – if not a little gregarious.

Jeff was neither sentimental nor apt to overthink things – at all. He saw Bernie in his brokenness, knew he was unable to care for himself, and stepped up with never a hint of self-pity or self-satisfaction. And I think Bernie’s survival instinct was strong enough for him to realize his good fortune.

Upon my arrival at the LTC, I provide proof of three jabs and check a dozen CYA boxes on a greasy iPad. Bernie’s sitting – head down – on a sofa in a common room. Everyone else is masked – except him. I think about it for a second but quickly conclude he’s not an anti-masker. Just forgetful.

Bernie’s a specimen. Not so much how he looks for his age, although he’s got a full head of hair – and no grey whatsoever. It’s more the mileage on his vessel. Few chassis hold up after so many years of reckless off-roading with little-to-no preventative maintenance. (Sadly, Jeff and I did not inherit his constitution.)

I’m masked – but Bernie recognizes me instantly. My peace offering – a chocolate Wagon Wheel – sets the tone and our visit begins. I look deep in his eyes and can tell right away. He’s all here.

As some folks age, their conversation topics atrophy. You may still go deep on a given subject – but the playlist has dwindled. They stick to their greatest hits.

With Bernie, however, it’s something completely different. It’s the working memory that’s shot – his RAM has been acid-washed. We live and relive a Groundhog Day snippet every 20 or 30 seconds.

But, as the conversation flows from topic to topic or person to person, his mind dances along. It’s not so much a dialogue – he’s not interested in that – more a saucy stand-up performance. Like all great improvisors, Bernie swings in real time with quick wit, one-liners, and sarcastic banter – returning my lob balls and verbal volleys with spikes and backhands.

He knows he’s on fire and decides to break out in spontaneous song. Decades of du Maurier, 5-Star, Old Vienna, and Percocet have not hampered the vocal cords. It’s hauntingly beautiful. His singing comes from somewhere else – not so much deep inside – more far, far away. It’s the only time I know I’m getting the authentic, emotionally-honest Bernie – a glimpse from the alternate world where his spirit had not been stunted by whatever unexplored trauma. But it’s only a glimpse.

We each have a perspective on family dynamics.

As a young kid, I judged Bernie and he knew it. For reasons that were unfathomable at the time, he looked at me with terror in his eyes. Later, my interventions (finding his stash and dumping out bottles) only enhanced Bernie’s paranoia.

We lock into the iris of each other’s eyes. This is the fabric of our relationship – the palpable tension we feel as he polishes off the Wagon Wheel. For all Bernie’s cognitive issues, in this moment, he knows. We both know. It’s always been there. It always will be.

I’ve spent enough time getting into the weeds of this relationship – contemplating and calculating. I break our gaze, lean back, cover my face with my hands, and then I hear it. It’s my brother’s voice.

“Don’t overthink it. Do your duty and move on.”

I look up and see Bernie through Jeff’s eyes.

Nothing sentimental. It’s simple, actually.

Jeff put charity before contemplation.

And I think I’ll continue unwrapping my brother’s latest Christmas gift for some time.

“I often begin a story with the intention of making it brighter & gayer than usual; but the question of conscience soon comes in; & it does not seem right, even in novels, to wilfully belie one’s own views. All comedy, is tragedy, if you only look deep enough into it.”

― Thomas Hardy, Letter sent to John Addington Symonds in 1889

My brother, Jeff, died at the end of July.

And, ever since, I’ve been thinking about grief, humour – and trees.

Jeff’s soulmate, Sheri, together with the kids, planted a tree in the yard this week to remember him.

For me, the most tormenting part of grief is pondering what’s no longer possible: The shared family dinners, fishing weekends, beach vacations, old-timer hockey tournaments, and those little late-night moments of whisky-truth.

When I contemplate certain trees, I can be overcome with a similar feeling.

This does, however, depend on the tree.

Saplings are kind of like tadpoles – you look at them with the knowledge that only a lucky few will ever make it to maturity.

Adolescent trees – those eight to fourteen foot leafy, lanky, puberty-laden possibilities – well, when you think about them, they can break your heart. They’re all promise – and of absolutely no current use or aesthetic value. I know it’s highly unlikely I will ever sit beneath their shade or be humbled by their majestic grandeur. Those are gifts that belong to future generations. And, sadly, I know for certain that Jeff will not come by and appreciate their seasonal growth and gradual transformation.

That’s because trees exist on an entirely different timeline. They play the long game. Tree metabolism is such that, in comparison, we humans must seem like mosquitos living a buzzing, brutally short existence.

That is, unless of course, what I told Jeff turns out to be true.

Near the end, at his bedside, I confidently told my brother that the flesh and the spirit are distinct. I’ll admit to having said it with more certainty than I truly feel, but I definitely wasn’t lying. Jeff, however, remained unconvinced.

His old-soul nephew, Taylor, told me there are two days that a person passes. The first is the obvious one. The second is the last time someone thinks of them and mentions their name.

Since my daughter, Christal, passed a few years ago, every Monarch fluttering by is a startling reminder. For Uncle Bill, who passed a few years before that – it’s shooting stars that solicit successive waves of melancholy and wonder.

Thus far, for Jeff, it’s when I consider a tree. I know it will take some time but, eventually, I hope to feel his presence and keep him alive every time we laugh.

Because Jeff made people laugh – a lot. His spontaneous expressions are legendary, unfiltered, and hilarious truth-zingers. And – as those who have long pondered the depths and origin of humour have proposed – “comedy is simply tragedy plus time.” (They say it might have been Steve Allen - could have been Carol Burnett who came up with that. I’m fine either way.)  

Case in point: This week, Sue and I gather with a dozen family and friends in an old, forested cemetery for the internment of the ashes of another Aunt and Uncle who have long since passed. We’re talking years and years. Following a few touching remembrances, a family friend asks if anyone would like to say a prayer.

There’s a prolonged, awkward silence. People look at one another – each expecting someone else to step up.

Finally, despite a lifetime of spotty church attendance, Sue courageously offers to lead us in the Lord’s Prayer.

And after a promising start, the scene descends into a moment that Jeff would have relished.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name; thy kingdom come; thy will be done; two all-beef patties; special sauce; lettuce, cheese; pickles, onions; on a sesame seed bun… Amen”

As I begin to crack up – that special suppressed (and not at all appropriate under the circumstances) laugh – I see a vision of my brother, his arms crossed, leaning against an old growth Maple, and smiling ear-to-ear. His devilish smile. He approves – and we’re going to retell this story many, many times.

I think about the new tree that Sheri and the kids planted and I pray that, in time, under its boughs, people think of Jeff, mention his name, and find many more reasons to laugh.

It’s that time of year when nervous parents ship their adolescent children off to college and university.

And this morning my (dreaded) FB feed reminds me that five years ago today, Louis’ move into residence was noisy and emotional.

At the time it was interesting to compare the experience with that of the family of birds that had taken up residence in our backyard.

A pair of Robins built a nest in the deck above our walkout porch that summer. Despite the constant threat of dive-bombing, Sue bravely weeded the nearby garden (or was she just bringing in the empties?) and bore witness to the raising of the two resident babies.

Making constant runs for food and keeping an eye out for our ruthless cat, Squirt, the robin parents were noisy, emotional, and supremely dedicated as they prepared their offspring for independence.

And while the birds performed their duties, I simultaneously took a step towards the independence of Louis, the youngest fledgling, moving him into college residence.

It was a hectic day. Emotional mothers and fathers, noisy siblings, and excited students carried articles, symbolizing both the comforts of home and budding autonomy, into the dormitories.

I couldn’t help but take notice of the parallels and differences between this scene and that of our squatting feathered friends.

According to Hinterland Who’s Who, young robins are fed by both parents who tirelessly do the birdie drive-thru an average of 35 to 40 times a day. Those of you who have raised teenagers can relate to this monstrous level of caloric intake.

It’s interesting to note that the parents keep the nests clean by consuming the chicks’ fecal sacs. In the trials and tribulations of rearing my teenagers, I can attest to being faced with comparable duties. My only lesson in this disagreeable kind of gastronomy is that it is a dish best shared...

When the moment came for our robin parents to push their fledglings from the nest, there was no hesitation. After 13 days, the father and two youngsters took the leap and bounced around our back yard. All the while, Squirt the cat groaned in annoyance from the other side of the patio screen door.

The young robins usually remain in the parents’ territory for three weeks and become independent at four weeks. It’s a high-risk journey, however, as only about 25% make it through to the autumn of their first year.

A growing number of human parents are becoming ambivalent about their children leaving the nest. Statistics Canada released a study indicating that the number of Canadians aged 20 to 29 living with their parents has nearly doubled since 1981 to a whopping 42%. (Statistics Canada, Diversity of young adults living with their parents)

The robin simply knows when its time to push. There is no grey zone. Learn to fly quick and survive. Be a slow-learner and Squirt’s your lunch date.

For us humans, there remains this nagging question – and no matter the time spent reflecting upon it or consulting family, friends and professionals – you are never 100% sure you have the right balance. We let loose and hold tight, staying far from the graceful (yet brutal) certainty of our feathered friends.

For the most recent generation that was raised on participation ribbons and self-esteem exercises, “survival of the fittest” is not how they see the world. Are these college Gen Z’s coddled? Perhaps. But they do have a respect for differences and diversity that we did not. They listen to each other better than we ever did and their ability to collaborate to make better decisions eclipses that of my generation.

I happen to be optimistic and look forward to the influence this generation will have - because, come to think of it - it takes a team to outwit predators like Squirt the cat.

Jeff is my brother.

It’s been only a matter of weeks…

While waiting for his diagnosis – which was ten days of hospitalized dread (sprinkled with teasers of hope) – he coaxes an elderly roommate to take her medication – he charms a panoply of orderlies, and he disarms a bewildered Doogie Howser oncologist with his bawdy (read: WAY-over-the-line) sense of humour.

Jeff then insists his soulmate, Sheri, bring an extra caramel latte for the nurse just befriended. Before his discharge, there is a lineup of health care workers coming to offer kind words. Doogie returns and insists on removing his gloves, leans in for a hug, and tells him how inspiring he is.

That’s Jeff. He makes a difference everywhere he goes.

A few years ago, when Sue’s brother, Brad, was visiting at the same time as Jeff and Sheri, I experienced a humbling moment of truth.

You see, I’m the writer. I’m the one who is supposed to be blessed with a knack for drollery.

Yet, following an afternoon of banter with Jeff, Brad turns to me and announces for all to hear: “Your brother’s a lot funnier than you are.”

He and Sheri have cultivated a loving family – two outstanding children – a welcoming home – a safe space.

Jeff has built a flourishing company – built so well that it seamlessly continues without his day-to-day interventions. I remark to his colleagues that their secret to success seems simple – yet for many organizations so elusive: they tell the truth.

Jeff sets the standard and they all buy in. They tell the truth to their customers, to their suppliers, to each other and (the hardest part) – they tell the truth to themselves.

That’s Jeff.

He’s a truth teller.

He says it with startling brutality – often with rapier wit – but never self-serving – and always infused with a deep sense of justice. If ever you are stung by one of Jeff’s zingers – it’s because you fuckin’ deserve it.

In our family of survivors, he’s the toughest by far. Raised in an extravaganza of self-absorbed substance abuse and co-dependence, he emerges generous, forthright, loyal, and supremely dependable. The very definition of good friend.

Alas, his strength is his weakness. He absorbs. He supports. He gives.

I hate the expression “battling cancer.” It conjures an image that does not align with real life. I can say, however, that Jeff battles on.

His body may indeed be giving way.

But let it be known, his spirit remains irreverent, indomitable, eternal.

Jeff is my hero.

In the face of life’s battles, he’s forever my brother in arms.

It’s Mother’s Day weekend, and while we languish in wave three of the perma-demic – I seek solace – inspiration – wisdom.

I attempt a Mother’s Day pandemic meditation.

It’s early and the sun is just over the horizon. I sit alone in my office – crossed-legged, in search of inner peace.

Sue walks in. “What are you up to?” she asks.

I open one eye. “I’m meditating. Trying to empty my head of all thought.”

“And you’re finding this a challenge?” she says with raised eyebrow.

My ability to focus (never a strength to begin with) is, sadly, more hampered than usual.

After a while, I give up fighting the anti-Zen voices in my head – and I give in.

Much to my surprise, the voice (there is only one after all) turns out to be that of my mother. Caught in my mind’s perpetual spin cycle is a collection of her phrases from my childhood.

Her pearls become the focus of my reflection. I discover their hidden meanings and hope they guide me through what remains of our pandemic ordeal.

“You’d lose your head if it wasn’t screwed on tight!”

Mother used this zinger in the mad morning rush when the clock was ticking and mittens, school bag or some other paraphernalia was misplaced. My new interpretation of this modern-day Upanishad is all about letting go and unscrewing my head. It wouldn’t hurt to lose my noggin once in a while. Perhaps an un-tightened head is a carefree head.

“Takes two to tango!”

When I was young, the logic of this phrase eluded me. As we sat apart from one another watching Gilligan’s Island, my devious little sister was fond of high-pitched, spontaneous wailing. Mother would poke her head in, dispense instant justice, and use this handy alliteration in response to my pleas of innocence. Going forward this gem will keep me mindful to not place upon my shoulders the negative energy of others yearning for a fight. (Unless, of course, it’s my sister… then it’s payback time.)

“Shit don’t stink if you leave it alone!”

In more civilized times – when children were banished to an unsupervised basement to play with sharp objects and hide behind oil furnaces – my mother expressed this proverb to any fool suggesting a descent into the underworld to check up on the kidlets. Her ancient wisdom compares so favourably to the omnipresent child-kings of today who intermingle in our adult world, causing mayhem and risking cocktail spills. These words will be my motto for avoiding political discourse (if you want to call it that) on platforms incapable of supporting genuine dialogue. Perhaps it’s called social media because it’s best used for keeping in touch, posting happy pictures, and building connections based upon our shared humanity.

“If you had a brain it’d rattle / If you had a thought, it’d be lonely!”

Mother expressed these interchangeably when faced with my youthful bone-headedness. Their brilliance long remained hidden to me. I am now working on variations for my meditation chant. A single lonely thought would represent transcendent improvement on the boisterous traffic jam that usually occupies my mind and if I ever get my brain to rattle, I will have finally become a veritable Bodhisattva – guiding others towards enlightenment.

“You’ve got two speeds – slow and stop!”

You can imagine with my penchant for distraction and limited motor control that my mother could go apeshit waiting for me to tie my shoes. My post-pandemic goal is to consciously choose either of these paces for each human interaction. Thanks to rapid-fire thoughts about what’s coming next or where I need to be, I am often less than fully present.

I will try to slow it down – or even stop it – so that each engagement is total, and each moment an expression of gratitude.

 Thanks Mom.

Happy Mother’s Day!