Bob Simpson, "Mayor" of Whites Point

I just returned from the funeral of a very close family friend, Bob Simpson. I’ve been friends with his youngest child, Barb, since kindergarten.

Bob cherished the people and causes that were closest to his heart and he made that look easy. When I think of him now, I think of his constancy and his child-like glee.

He died, surrounded by family, on Feb. 1 at the age of 69.

Here’s a letter I wrote to him during his last days.

***

Jan. 28, 2012

Dear Uncle Bob,

The last time we spoke in the summer, and outcomes were looking different, I never took the opportunity to say to you what I should have said.

Your kindness and generosity to me from my earliest memories are what I think of most and am so thankful for.

In fact, I have you and Auntie Marg to thank for the countless hours I spent honing my writing skills. That boat trip to Kingston from Manitoulin aboard The Maggie Jane with you, Marg, Barb and Tina during the summer of 1984 goes down as one of the most memorable times in my life.

It was on that trip that we realized I couldn’t navigate my way out of a paper bag and my one turn at the wheel resulted in hitting a shoal and knocking the propeller off.

What to do on such a long trip (besides being ballast in the bow during rough weather)? Why, be the keeper of the ship’s log, of course!

Bob and Anke enjoying the view.

Everything went into my notebook. I was maniacal in my attention to detail, dates and times. After the 111th time I asked you to consult your watch, you took it off and handed it to me. Your watch weighed about a pound and didn’t fit my bony wrist, so I wore it on my ankle.

Not many people would be prepared to deal with three giggling teenaged girls on a six or seven-week trip—let alone in a space only 28 feet long.

You even bought us matching crew shirts. I remember our trepidation at going through the first lock in the system. After hitting 40 or so of them, even the lock masters were impressed with our skill.

Then there was the family trip to St. Lucia that I was invited to join, where I discovered how touchy my stomach was. I survived on Pepto Bismol; you on peanut butter.

On that trip. I also learned of your philanthropy to local clinics, but in a way that still gives me the giggles.

As the owners of x-ray and ultrasound services in Sudbury, you and Marg purchased extra equipment and medication for a St. Lucia hospital.

When we landed, you handed me a suitcase stocked with barium enemas to bring through customs. Enemas! I was mortified, being all of 18 at the time. Thankfully, my bags weren’t searched.

While your culinary tastes cannot be described as extensive, I know you have been pushing through your own boundaries, learning to cook and enjoy new dishes with *Anke.

Bob playing pickle ball.

Life with Anke has brought you new adventures, such as motorcycling and downhill skiing. And yeah, I heard how you got the nickname, **Cliff, in the local motorcycling club.

Through it all, you’ve been the consummate host, throwing your doors open to family, neighbours and friends. I remember numerous Whites Point parties and invitations to go water-skiing, in spite of the fact that our numbers have grown exponentially and that an invitation to one child sends a pack scurrying down the road to Uncle Bob’s. Your place is as much of a magnet for my children and nieces as it was for me.

As my Dad says, you guys can’t add or subtract, but you can sure multiply.

I (and many others) have observed that your level of generosity and kindness is inversely proportional to your skill as a fisherman. And as far as the latter goes, there are far, far worse things you can say about a man, that’s for sure.

But for the man I chose as honorary uncle, there has always been room at his table or on his boat for one more. Your smiling face is one I’m going to sorely miss on that small stretch of road on Manitoulin Island.

I love you and Whites Point is never going to be the same without you.

Love,
Patti

*Anke was Bob’s companion during the last 15 years of his life. Bob and Marg divorced, but remained on good terms.

**He earned that nickname after crashing down a very steep embankment when he lost control of his motorcycle during a lesson in the parking lot of the Manitoulin Tourist Information Centre in Little Current. As he plunged over the cliff, Anke (who was also in the class at the time) was thinking, “Darn and I just was starting to like him too.” She and her classmates were relieved when a largely-unscathed Bob crawled back up. His bike was not so lucky.

I’m able to work from home on those days and my girls ages nine and 11 are quite self-sufficient. But when they get really quiet, that’s when I should get suspicious. But I forget. You see, my short term memory fell out with the placenta during Round 1, and no one picked it up and put it back in. My memory, I mean, not the placenta. That’s health care cuts for you. But I digress.

So, I head into the kitchen to prepare something for lunch. I open the freezer and…

Look what I see lurking behind the wieners. Wiener is such a weird word, don't you think?

Then, I head downstairs to check the laundry and…

Look what they did to the basement, but better there than the living room, I say.

So, it’s time for a chat. Lo and behold…

They turned into feral ninjas. They don't comb their hair on snow days, but they could probably kill me with a credit card.

But my buddy Brad over at Geekin’ Hard suggested a monthly post where we publish the strangest keywords people use to find our blogs. Looking over my stats I made a few interesting discoveries:

1. If you don’t post very often, your numbers plummet. That sound you hear is my brain buzzing with consternation. (Note: Not constipation. That involves a different region). But really, when I think about it, my blog is suffering from the latter.
2. The top keywords used to find this site indicate to me that my mother has neither bookmarked, nor subscribed to my blog. On the far right, you can see where one can subscribe by email:

Note: Trying to enter your email address on the above picture does not work.

3. I had to dig pretty far down to find this weirdness. I chose this list because my sister, Kate would find it somewhat titillating or horribly embarrassing, which makes it worthwhile for me:
   The scabies search word does not surprise me because I’ve become an unlucky expert in vermin. Also, my Chicken Joe from Cheboygan post is one of my favourites. My sister is responsible for the Calamity Kate find (minus the naughtiness) and any mention of broken ankles.

I doubt all that coffee will help much. Photo by Oli

I have a problem with scope. I’ve always had problems with it and I don’t mean deciding between Scope and Listerine. I mean trying to focus on a doable unit of writing that I can start and finish.

I get these grandiose ideas and then I get paralyzed. Or I start working on my grandiose ideas, get stuck, despair, and pinned by racing thoughts.

Blogging, I felt, was an answer to this. It forces me to get into some sort of regular routine for writing. And then I fall down with it by waiting for my thoughts to clarify into some sort of coherent post. And I wait and wait. The thought of blogging starts to intimidate and then scare me.

I know that waiting for inspiration to strike is the wrong approach. On the other hand, I don’t want to be boring, whiny or tedious. I haven’t let that stop me before, so why am I so stuck now?

No NanNoWriMo for me

I passed on NaNoWriMo this year. Every year I say I’m going to do it and then balk. Balk, balk, balk. Now, I’m taking a certificate course in eLearning right now and there are assignments involved. The good news is that I love the course; the bad news is that it eats into my extremely limited writing time.

Am I insane to have these writing goals now when I’m a mother of two, who also works outside the home full time? Yes, I think I am. And I’m really tired.

That’s another thing I struggle with–knowing when to push through and when not to. It’s not a matter of finding time; it’s stealing it. But am I really tired or just avoiding? Sometimes, I sit my ass down and stay up late or get up early to write and then WHAM! I get sick. Other times, I don’t and then lapse into laziness and a habit of not doing it. Writing is that niggling thing on my to-do list that doesn’t get done because I’m so damn busy.

Writing, schmiting

My attitude toward writing reminds me of how some people think about weight loss and happiness–they’ll only be happy if they can lose the weight. I think, “I’ll be happy if I can write a book” or in other words, lose the wait. The real answer is this: If I’m not happy now, I’m not going to be happy when I write a book.

Will the world care if I write or not? No. But I’ll always wonder if I do nothing about this. But if I do this, what if I suck? Small, consistent steps are the way to do it. But maybe now is not the time.

I have serious reservations about the continuation of this blog. It has become a pressure. If I have 2o free minutes, do I blog? Do I work on my stalled novel? Do I work on a short story? Plus, blogging is a communal activity and I’m falling down in this too. I have so many bloggers I love reading, but I can’t get to their sites the way I’d like to and come up with some sort of thoughtful comment.

Same with Twitter. It’s fun, but it’s a pressure too. I worry about tweeting the wrong thing and offending people and then wonder why, when I tweet to some people, they don’t tweet back. Did I do something wrong? Did I offend? It opens up all kinds of adolescent neurosis about acceptance and I hate that.

Now what? I don’t know. But, I’ll be posting a follow up on this post. I haven’t quit yet.

For those of you not in the know, he was an Ottawa teen who committed suicide while in the throes of depression and who suffered bullying for being gay.

I started my previous post about my experience with bullying after the Jamey Rodemeyer case in the U.S. and published it just as news of Hubley’s suicide broke.

I’m concerned about the depression angle here, and particularly, the copycat potential of these high profile suicides.

To a mind that has lost perspective, I worry that the thought of posthumous celebrity, added to ruminations of a quick and permanent way to end temporary pain, will be too big of a draw to resist.

We’ve all read about cases where outbreaks of suicide occur—on native reserves and in certain high school populations. In fact, in the Ottawa area, between 1995-97, there was “an outbreak” of suicide at West Carleton High School. In this relatively small population, four students (and former students) took their own lives.

Malcolm Gladwell writes about suicide as a contagion in his book The Tipping Point. In it, he spotlights the teenage suicide rate in Micronesia, which was 10 times higher than anywhere else in the world in the 1970s and 80s.

Gladwell’s book isn’t about teenage suicide; it’s about how certain ideas and behaviours can mimic epidemics in their level of infectiousness.

I worry that as beautiful commemorative videos of kids lost to suicide go viral and stories, blogs and photos quote celebrities speaking the names of the fallen, that we’ll lose more of our most vulnerable to suicide.

On the other hand, I don’t think we should be silent on this issue either. I don’t know what the answer is.

I just hope my fears are unfounded.

I’ve listened to and read reports about how this problem should be tackled–either as a hate crime or with interventions for aggressors, victims and bystanders.

Bullying teens for being gay is more persistent and insistent than bullying for more conventional differences, such as being awkward.

I’m no expert. All I can do is share a little bit of my history as both a target and a bystander.

In Grades 7 and 8, I was targeted by a boy, I’ll call *Blake. I was an academic sort, quiet and extremely awkward. Of course, you’d have to look far and wide to find kids who aren’t awkward at that age.

I wasn’t his only victim. So many of my classmates feared this boy, but I’d say his main targets were female. He’d snap bra straps, pinch nipples and rifle through desks to find out which girls had a stash of sanitary napkins. This way, he could taunt girls who were or were not yet wearing bras and girls who were “on the rag”.

He’d act out in class and then the teacher would make him sit next to me, hoping my influence would wear off on him. He threatened to beat me up if I didn’t help him cheat on tests. I lived in fear.

When he picked on someone else, I was relieved. I felt sick for the victim, but I did nothing because I feared his focus would shift back to me.

To my everlasting shame, I even participated in the taunts. Blake was haranguing his “victim of the day” about being on the rag and I laughed. I may even have said, “Nice purse” as she walked out of the class to head to the bathroom.

She turned to me and said, “What are you going to do when he does the same to you? You’re a girl too, you know.”

I felt so sad, but I still didn’t speak up for her. Sure enough, he soon turned his nefarious attentions back to me anyway.

I told no one about this. Being a victim of this boy was my secret shame, but I wasn’t alone in my suffering.

When Blake was absent, everyone’s relief in that class was palpable.

How did the bullying stop?

A teacher started at our school when I was in Grade 8 and she figured out what was going on. Blake didn’t sit near me in her classes.

Later that year, a new student arrived. He and his family immigrated from Vietnam. As you can imagine, English was a problem for him, but as my mother would say, he was “personality-plus”.

On talent day in class, he wielded nunchucks like a pro and his muscled physique, at only 14, was a testament to his pursuit of martial arts. If it sounds like I had a crush, then you’re absolutely right.

One day, Blake was shoving me around in the playground, as per usual. Thanh walked up to Blake and said, “Blake, leave her alone or I kill you!”

Blake stopped. Each time Blake tried to start in on someone, Thanh spoke up. He wasn’t a bystander. Thanh was a hero.

When it was time for high school, I wasn’t taking any chances. I chose an all-girls Catholic high school.

After that year, Thanh and his family moved to Southern Ontario. I didn’t see him again, but I often think of what he did for me and others.

Looking back now, I realize that Blake’s home life was heart breaking. He may have been in foster care at the time. Time has given me perspective. We were children back then, coping as best we could.

I encourage my children to talk to me about the good and bad things that happen at school and to stand up for themselves and others.

It’s a case of do as I say, not as I did. That makes me a hypocrite, I guess. I still wish I could have rescued myself, but putting a stop to bullying takes teamwork, and sadly, sometimes that doesn’t work either.

*Names changed to protect the guilty and the heroic. Except mine of course.

When we get together we try to pretend we’re normal. We fail. Here are some of the better photos:

Smurficide

Those little blue people were smurfalicious.

Were sisters

"Whaddaya mean we're out of wine?"

Apple bottoms

I see asses everywhere.

Provide your suggestion in the comment section below. I’ll choose what I think is the best one and use it as an official caption, with full attribution of course. How can you resist such a prize?

We have a winner!

After careful consideration and chortling and snorting and all the awesome entries, I chose Wendy’s caption. It has a level of snark and observation that I find so appealing.

Thanks so much everyone for the suggestions. I have such clever and hysterical friends and family. It warms my heart, almost as much as those slippers warm Gary’s feet.

Spent all the money on fancy puppy slippers and now can’t afford drapes. (Wendy)

Thank-you, Kate for the fantastic idea.

This doesn't hurt a bit. Not much, anyway. Did I mention that I'm also getting a cold?

Tennis elbow is making me limp.

Stupid, but true.

I’m into Week 6 with this annoying injury, with little sign of improvement. Even riding my bike causes it to flare up.

In the meantime, I can’t do my little yoga routine I like to do a couple of times a week, because I can’t put pressure on my arm, so that means I’m getting stiff and creaky, which means my plantar fasciitis is flaring up, which requires me to curtail the running.

The foot problem throws my gait off, which makes my knees a little sore.

The arm, foot and knee pain affect my brain chemistry, causing low-level irritation and surliness. Nothing that my family and a bold Shiraz can’t handle, mind you.

The interconnectedness of the human body is truly amazing. I’m reminded of that old spiritual, Dry Bones:

Toe bone connected foot bone
Foot bone connected leg bone
Leg bone connected knee bone
Don’t you hear the word of the Lord?

I marvel at how the human body can be so tough and so fragile at the same time.

When my own whining bothers me, I think of people who feel like this all the time and consider it normal.

To me, being unfit is painful and boring.

Then I think of people who can’t move at all–a friend of a friend who was in a bike crash and is now a quadriplegic on a ventilator. If you can move it, shouldn’t you move it?

Unless of course you can’t or are not supposed to, I guess.

Now in my 40s, I realize that I don’t work out to feel better; I do it to avoid feeling shitty. And this too shall pass. Just not soon enough.

Trying to stay on their feet

You know what makes me happy?  Being on the winning end of a close call.

What do I mean by that?

Well, like most people, on a regular day I feel snarly about chauffeuring the kids, homework, bills, work, housework, making another goddamn meal and then having to clean up again.

And then, I’m almost hit by a truck while riding my bike to work. After that, everything seems a little brighter. I’m happy to have this family, this job and this house.

Just as that feeling of gratitude starts to wear off, I get a call from the secretary at my children’s school asking me, where O where is daughter #1.

Life is over in that instant. Breathing is difficult and I see stars.

“She was on the school bus this morning,” I manage to say.

“Let me just check again with her teacher,” she says.

That was the longest 10-second wait ever.

Surrendering.

“She’s in class,” came the reply. “I’m so sorry for the mix-up.”

I deflated across my desk and then walked a lap of the building to stop shaking. I pride myself on being a calm person, but I can go from zero to panic in a nanosecond.

My co-workers were very sympathetic wondered why and how a mistake like that occurred.

I don’t care. It was a mistake. It’s the third week of school and it was probably a mix-up on the attendance sheet.. Everything has a special glow and meaning right now.

I wouldn’t want to provoke these crises on purpose, but their resultant shifts in mood and perspective fascinate me.

I’m not alone in this. Think of people who are diagnosed with a terrible illness or severely injured, suddenly their previous life doesn’t seem so irritating. Well, either that or they think they need to make some huge changes.

Soft landing at least.

Often, we’re told to feel lucky because of the abject poverty others suffer elsewhere. That doesn’t make me happy–it makes me feel guilty.

But pull the rug out from under me and then allow me to land on my feet and everything is A-OK. I guess the Canadian version of that is OK, eh?

It reminds me of a Jewish proverb told to me by a consultant we hired to help us with a bed bug infestation years ago. I can’t find references to it, so I’m going to use my swiss-cheese memory:

There was a man who had 14 children and the noise in his house drove him to distraction. He couldn’t take it anymore, so we went to his Rabbi.

“Rabbi,” he said. “It’s so loud that I can’t hear myself think in there. I can’t take it anymore! What can I do?”

“Well,” the Rabbi said, rubbing his beard. “I know exactly what to do. Move your chickens into the house.”

The man had some reservations about it, but he did as instructed.

Days later, feeling at the end of his rope, he said to the Rabbi, “It’s even worse! What am I going to do?”

“Move your sheep in there.” the Rabbi said.

The man did as he advised.

A day later he said, “Rabbi! What were you thinking! I’ve got chickens and sheep crapping all over my house, plus the noise of my family!”

“Well,” said the Rabbi, “Move your cows into the house too.”

“What? Are you mad! How is that supposed to help?”

“Just do it,” the Rabbi said.

The man did as instructed. Hours later, he sought out the Rabbi.

“Rabbi! It’s crazy in there! There’s crap everywhere. I can’t hear myself think with all those farm animals in there! What now?”

“Take the animals out of your house,” the Rabbi said.

The man did as instructed.

Days went by before the man returned.

“Rabbi,” he said. “Thank you! Our house is so peaceful now.”

Thanks to Susan and this handy resource, we were set. The look I went for is described as “space hooker” in the aforementioned reference, but I prefer to be referred to as Agnetha in this post.

At our friend Jo’s 70s-themed and pivotal birthday celebration, we burned up the dance floor.

One attendee said that the only thing he remembered from the 70s was being put to bed early, so his parents could party. Now it was our turn to put our parents to bed early and enter the time warp.

It was a star-studded affair.

Cast of Scooby-Doo

Our wonderful hosts, Fred and Daphne. That's the beautiful birthday girl on the right.

I heard that the next day our hosts surveyed the damage and considered listing the house, cheap. Next time, we’ll pass the hat around for a cleaning service. Oh yes. You read that right. There will be a next time.

Diana Ross was supreme

Fierce, baby. You should wear that hairstyle more often. Raaaarrrr!

Past meets future with That 70s Show cast members

Mila Kunis (left) and Ashton Kutcher indulge the photographer with a quick pose, while Herb Tarlek from WKRP in Cincinatti looks on.

I snapped this during an intimate conversation that went something like this: "My thyroid?" "No, MY thyroid."

Hot cops hook up

Freeze! Jaclyn Smith (right) hung up her gun and suspended shooting Charlie's Angels to attend THE party of the year where she hooked up with this dude from a cop show that competes with Starsky and Hutch

Natalie Wood rocks the prom look

Natalie was Herb's main squeeze, but then I got between them. Some advice for you, Natalie. Stay away from yacht parties.

Welcome Back, Kotter meets All Along the Watchtower

Is that Gabe Kaplan? Or could it be Bruce Greenwood disguised as Jimi Hendrix?

ABBA women unite!

Agnetha and Anni-Frid from ABBA get a little wild without spilling a drop. Britannia's got talent, baby! Where are Benny and Bjorn?

Did you know that Cher has an albino twin?

While Cher's twin, Fair has lived a more private life in Ottawa, she really knows how to let her hair down when the time is right.

Ann-Margret smoulders

Ann-Margret poses with adoring fan.

Guess Who? No. THE GUESS WHO Muse

American woman, stay away from meee-heee. American woman, pants so tight can hardly breeeee-eee-eeeeathe.

Even members of the Politburo know how to get their groovy on

Politburo member (and now, not-so-secret double agent) with his CSIS handler and now, not-so-secret mistress.

Disco Fever had us in its grip

Herb and Agnetha wow the crowd.

I want to send a special thanks out to my disco partner, “Herb” whose past experience as a downhill ski racer and in slaloming in particular, protected him from bodily harm when I started with the high kicks. I’ll never be able to listen to Boogie Wonderland quite the same way. We had something spontaneous and wonderful there.

Want more?

We were hip cats getting jiggy with it. Well, either that or a bunch of jive turkeys. Dawn arrived too early.

Thanks to: our terrific hosts, Susan who outfitted three of us and Richard who minded my offspring, so I could boogie irresponsibly.

Facing oneself can be the most difficult challenge of all and this is exactly what Beth, formerly from Living a Quotable Life and now forging in a new direction with White African Tomboy, has asked of me.

It’s simple. My task is to wade through my blog and identify seven posts that match the characteristics below.

Simple, yet harrowing because I find reading my own writing to be a special form of torture. Ironic for a blogger, n’est ce pas? That’s French for “I’m a self-important snob”.

Make sure you click the first link above to read Beth’s 7 posts where you get to experience some mighty fine writing that runs the emotional gamut.

The rules for the 7 links prompt is found here on Tripbase.

Here are the categories:

• My most beautiful post
• My most popular post
• My most controversial post
• My most helpful post
• My post whose success surprised me
• My post I feel didn’t get the attention it deserved
• My post of which I am most proud

The beautiful

I can find beauty in the most harrowing moments of my life. When I can’t stand to feel whatever I’m feeling for one second more, I take a deep breath,  the excruciating moment extends and BAM! I feel or see something beautiful–a shared experience or something in nature that annihilates my ego for a nanosecond, giving me a feeling of relief and a more selfless sense of sadness.

This is what I tried to describe in my post about the death of my husband’s brother – The moment: Death can make you feel alive in very painful ways (Dec. 2, 2010).

Most popular

Like many women at Christmas time, I shower myself with gifts. Among my gifts to me from me was a white sheepskin hat. I wore it proudly to the neighbourhood New Year’s Party where the host told me I looked like a Swedish whore.

I took that observation and ran with it and got the most comments I’ve ever gotten on a single post (22) – My hat boosts productivity and makes me look like a Swedish ho (Jan. 5, 2011)

Controversial

I heard about parents picketing a Florida school because they felt measures put in place to protect a severely allergic child threatened their freedoms. It enraged me. I have a child with a life-threatening peanut allergy. Then I remembered how callous I was when I heard about other poeple’s allergies before it touched my own life.

Here’s where I talk about the transforming affect of dealing with allergies – Food allergies can make you a better person (April 6, 2011)

Helpful

After seeing a flurry of New Year’s resolutions posts that I felt were extreme and in many cases doomed to fail, I published my view on what it takes to get and stay in shape.

I’ve been reasonably fit since I was 14 years old. I’m no marathoner, nor am I a dieter. Here’s my take on getting into shape and staying there the realistic way – Take your cleanse and shove it (Jan. 9, 2011)

Surprising success

You may see a number of reverb10 references among these links and this one is no exception. This post is a result of the challenge  to assume another name. I invented a new, badass and very lethal incarnation of myself called Paloma Magdalena Corazón.

I love this woman. You may see more of her in future – You can call me Paloma (Dec. 23, 2011)

Ignored (middle child)

My first foray into using a real camera (Nikon D5000) resulted in some gorgeous pictures of a unique, outdoor hot tub. A friend suggested that I change the title to Children Soup.

I felt a little like the witch from Hansel and Gretel cheffing up la soupe d’enfants and putting together a photo essay about it for Cannibal Magazine. There I go again with the French – Wordless Wednesday: In hot water (June 15, 2010)

Proudest

Here I move from cheffing to chuffing. This post was also among the most popular. It didn’t get as many comments as the Swedish ho hat, but it scored over 120 views after Kristen Wiig retweeted my tweet about seeing the Bridesmaids movie dressed up in our silks and taffeta of yore.

I’m proudest of this one because I was so far out of my comfort zone and I was nervous, but I did it anyway. I love the shiny, fuschia gown even if I could barely breathe in it – Taffeta and laughs: What to wear to the Bridesmaids movie (May 24, 2011)

My nominees

Bob Evans at Artesian? Well…this stuff keeps bubbling up – An inveterate story teller — not to be confused with an invertibrate storyteller–his mix of pathos and hilarity is gripping.

Allison at Bibliomama is a dear friend from high school days who, as I’ve said before, is like June Cleaver, had June a degree in comparative literature and access to better pharmaceuticals.

Ahmed Dirie at ahmeddirie.com is a web wizard, poet, photographer and philanthropist. I can’t wait to see what he chooses to showcase for this challenge.

Stereo over at uncletypewriter is funny, passionate and vitriolic. Her writing will inspire you to: wish you could write as well, buy more shoes and maybe throat-punch someone for shits’n giggles.

Brandeewine at her eponymous site has a heart of gold and the hair colour to match. She’s as supportive of her family and friends as she is committed to writing.

For an instant this morning, I thought I’d end up dead or severely crippled.

I was bike commuting to work on my regular route, traveling straight down Katimavik Road. I had the green light.

The next instant the front grill of a pick up truck filled my field of vision, I put my hand out and screamed.

I didn’t have time to brake. Braking would have done nothing for me.

But the driver braked. He had fast reflexes.

He was looking for other vehicles–the ones that are at least a ton, not for people riding silently on two wheels.. It looked clear, so he thought he’d turn.

When he had his morning coffee, I bet he didn’t think he’d turn from a pickup driver into a cyclist–from a father or brother into an accidental killer.

When I suited up this morning and kissed my kids good-bye, I didn’t think that it could have been for the last time.

It wasn’t.

The driver avoided a crash and I managed to stay seated on my bike. As my heart hammered in my chest and my breathing bordered on hyperventilation, I heard him pull up beside me.

Did we shriek epithets at each other?

No.

He said, “I’m really sorry.”

I looked over at him and said, “That’s OK. We’re all people. We all make mistakes.”

And then I pedaled and cried the last two kilometres to work.

But you know what? I’m getting back on that bike and riding home at the end of the day. It’s much too far to walk.

Why am I so philosophical? That could have been me behind that wheel. We’ve all messed up on the road. The stakes are high out there.

My elder daughter was sick of sleeping in a tent and opted for the floor. My husband snapped this one as the morning sun beamed onto her sweet, sweet face.

Before the mayhem of the day.

Maggie cools off in Lake Huron during our family holiday. If you're looking for a piece of tail, look no further.

Like many folks, I am uncomfortable with silences and I misread statements as questions, so I feel I have to explain or defend myself when I could just do nothing.

These are times when being lazy is good. Why would I pass up an opportunity to do nothing? Because I’m terrible at doing nothing.

And to compound my flaws, after the fact, I think of all these funny, snarky things I could have said and I’m entertained for a while. And then I remember one of the things my grandma always said, “You don’t have to apologize for what you don’t say.”

Case in point. I was walking my dog Maggie the other night when a dog ran up to socialize with her. She doesn’t like other dogs much. They make her bitchy and if they go near her tennis ball, then she gets a bit snippy, but not violent. If she could talk she’d say, “Back off. Don’t make me yelp at you!”

The owner called his dog back and as dog owners are wont to do, we check out each other’s dogs. For the record, no other dog is as sweet and beautiful as my dog.

“Aw look,” the balding, bespectled 30-something man said, “she has no tail.”

“Yep,” I said. “They chop those suckers off in puppyhood.”

What I really should have done was to say nothing. It was a statement not a question.

But I think my answer was a bit shocking, so he walked away–quickly.

What I wished I said was:

• Yeah. I should have told the rescue society that I only adopt dogs with tails
• Jumping Jehoshaphat! It was there this morning! (And then start looking around)
• Baby, she was born this way
• What are you? Vegan? Yeah I ate it with a little Frank’s Hot Sauce and it didn’t taste like chicken

But I didn’t say those things, I just wrote them. On a blog. And now I have to apologize to:

• Jehoshaphat for taking his name in vain
• Lady Gaga because I know she wasn’t singing about dogs
• Vegans for belittling their beliefs

I have a lot of respect for vegans; I admire their commitment to non-violence, but I lack their fortitude. I swear to you, that I have no plans to eat my dog in whole or in parts in the near future. That’s all I can promise. We take things one day at a time around here.

Plus, it’s very difficult to eat anything with my foot in my mouth.

From left, Kate, me, Liz and Matt in hysterics. I should have worn a wrap for this shot. I look like a cleavage-less ho.

Manitoulin Island time is family time. Here are all four Murphy siblings together doing what we do best–taking the piss out of each other.

It was a rare treat to get such a laughing moment from my sister Liz, who has dealt with myriad health issues due to a chromosomal abnormality called 22q11 and a particularly trying year health-wise to boot. She has always soldiered on, but we’ve noticed a marked loss of animation and speech this year.

And yet, here we are laughing.  But the true gift of this moment is that we’re laughing at a joke Liz made. As we were posing for the shot, she mockingly imitated my brother’s fake grin. I noticed it out of the corner of my eye and when I called her on it, she giggled. Out loud.

And then we roared.

I cry with joy when I look at that picture.

Here’s one more with my mom, with the waterfront in the background and all the clutter cropped out of the foreground:

Here's one with mom. The clutter-free illusion gets my mom's seal of approval.

What were you doing in Mattawa? (Photo from: http://www.brookfieldzoo.org/czs/aardvark)

I’m working on this growing older thing. Forget the graceful approach though.  Mother Nature can be a bitch.

My eyesight is worsening at the same time that rogue hairs are taking over my face. How am I supposed to fight foes I can barely see?

At my last eye appointment, I was told that I’d be wearing progressive lenses in the next year or so.

For the uninitiated, “progressive lenses” is a nice way of saying bifocals and still charging you $800 a pair. For $800 a pair, there better be a bigger cup size. Or maybe not.

On the drive home from my recent trip to Manitoulin Island to visit my mother and sister, traffic slowed to a stop on the TransCanada highway near Mattawa.

One of those electric road signs was parked on the shoulder.

“Reduce speed,” it flashed. “Aardvark ahead”.

WTF?! In Northern Ontario? Aren’t those weird little creatures only in Sub-Saharan Africa?

Then I inched a little closer.

“Oh. Roadwork ahead.”

Shit! Looks like bifocals sooner rather than later.

Getting through life definitely takes teamwork, which is what I was emphasizing during my last conversation with my mother as I was leaving.

I’ve been trying to convince her to move to Ottawa (and somehow getting my youngest sister here too).

I was looking deeply into her eyes and telling her how much I was going to miss her. Then my eyes drifted down to her cheek.

“Just a sec, Mom. Stay still. I’m just going to pull that huge hair out of your face.”

She complied.

“One more sec, Mom. There’s one on your neck too.”

“See?” I said. “If you moved to Ottawa to live near me, I could tweeze the hairs out of your face more regularly. That’s what daughters are for.”

She looked at me for what seemed a long time.

“You know,” Mom said. “You have a very hairy chin. But don’t worry, it’s only noticeable when you’re standing in the sunshine.”

Touché.

I have a fairly thick skin. After all, this is the woman who said to me (while I was an impressionable, insecure teenager), “You know, honey. Not everyone can wear their hair plastered to their skull like you do.”

In fairness,  I used to call her a mole face in mid-tantrum when I was a child.

The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. Or should I say, the hairy-chinned, acid-tongued daughter is just like her mildly hirsute and blunt (at times) mother.

At least we can pluck each other.

Sandy beach at Providence Bay, Manitoulin Island.

Tradition sees us decamp Ottawa for camping in Samuel de Champlain Provincial Park each Canada Day weekend.

And traditionally, the week before that is marked by my panicked thoughts about how I’ll survive yet another interminable sojourn–not-sleeping in a tent by night and being feasted upon by marauding mosquitoes by day.

This year I was spared because duty called. Well, a sense of duty called, but the fact that it beckoned from sunny, largely bug-less Manitoulin Island made it one I was very happy to heed.

I wanted to spend time with my mother and younger sister there. My wee sister has been wracked with health problems this year. It seems that fate has seen fit to spare her no suffering. Fate has been equally bitchy and mean spirited with my mother as well.

Traveling solo to the world’s largest fresh-water island and staying with my mom in her cottage gave me ample time to go see my little sister, Liz, at the group home in Mindemoya where she now lives. She, my mother and I would go for short walks along the boardwalk in Providence Bay and pig out on deep fried whitefish and fries afterwards at the restaurant nearby.

We’d go and pick up Liz and I’d let her ride shotgun. During the ride down sun-drenched town roads from Mindemoya to Providence Bay, from my vantage in the backseat, I’d see Liz reach for my mother’s hand.

It’s virtually their only two-way communication these days, Mom told me later. Liz seems to be losing her ability to talk.

It was a beautiful thing to see.  It was like a scene from a date and I was the third wheel. Mom looked carefree with only one hand on the wheel, so she could clasp the hand of her forever young and yet fading youngest child. But my mother has never been carefree.

It was tender and sad and I cried silently in the backseat.

Good thing I was wearing sunglasses.

I’m glad I went there this weekend. It was a chance to really talk to my mother in ways I often can’t when we visit as a family. I was also very happy to have avoided camping.

I’m working on my poker face for the moment when my daughters bound through the front door and say, “Mommy! It was so fun! We wished you could have been there with us.”

To which, I’m expected to reply convincingly, “Me too, my loves. Me too.”

In our house, look before you sit. But really, you shouldn't be sitting at all. You should be doing chores.

It reminds me of the times when, as kids, we used to flip the plastic carpet-mat picky side up.

The plastic pickies were clear and well-nigh invisible to unsuspecting occupants.

It was a game called Watch Daddy Walk On The Mat And Then Hit The Ceiling.

Eh Kate? Weren’t those the good ol’ days?

Earlier that week, my husband piled his luggage in the middle of the stairs for his cottage mancation.

I discovered this as I was hefting laundry up the stairs, but managed to stay on my feet.

Obviously, they’re conspiring to finish me off.

Notes to self:

• Check for puddle of brake fluid underneath minivan before leaving for work
• Wear helmet in house

Daughter #1 still has her thumbs and if she wants to keep it that way, she shouldn't put her hands near that turtle's head.

We’re expecting a fresh crop of snapping turtles any day now.

The city did some sewer work near our neighbourhood park.

When the work was done, they trucked in topsoil and reseeded the torn-up ground.

And it rained and rained. Then the snapping turtles came in droves.

Each evening, dozens of them would haul their reptilian asses out of the conservation pond, cross the relatively tame bike path thoroughfare to the loam and lay egg after egg.

These are big mothers. And you can see how snapping is their defense mechanism because their bodies are too big to retract into their shells. They also don’t have to pay for daycare.

“Mothering” just involves dropping their eggs and leaving. They probably have a big party in the swamp afterward.

What a bunch of self-absorbed negligent females.

Dropping the offspring off to fend for themselves against raccoons and seagulls.

Another meaty mama. I think they've eaten everything in the swamp. All those missing pet posters in the 'hood? Coincidence? I think not.