Inside, Outside, Loving All Around

Earlier this morning I was hit with one of those Facebook pop-ups. A memory from last year.

When I saw the picture I was reminded of an awesome time last year in a picture of Liz and I on our way to the Romance Writers of America conference in Orlando last summer. It was a crazy and fun road trip adventure driving from Ontario to Florida.

This is a great pic of Liz and I, and one of my favorites. Look at those two smiling kids. Fresh air, sunshine, an awesome beer spot. The world belongs to them.

But it was also an interesting reminder that, when I took this picture I was suffering from a nasty bout of food poisoning. The painful side-effects of the food poisoning was hitting me in repeated waves that morning, and just wanted to curl up into a ball and leave the rest of the world behind. I should NOT have eaten those raw oysters the night before. I haven't been able to eat raw oysters since then. Such is the post-effect of food poisoning.

The last thing I wanted to do was be in a car for 10 or 12 more hours, to be heading to a conference where I had to be on stage, on panels, conduct business meetings and Facebook live videos with various folks.

I remember the usual side-effects, combined with sweating profusely (not just the heat, but the fever of my body trying to get rid of the poison inside) that began that morning and lasted for days. But I was committed to this road trip, we had plenty of fun things to do on our way, and, arriving in Orlando, I needed to go on to do my usual work at the annual RWA conference with nobody I hung out with or had business meetings with knowing the internal physical pain I was suffering. 

Fortunately, I was a-okay mentally and emotionally, so was able to apply a "mind over matter" element and make the best of it. But not everybody is so fortunate. And some pain and internal suffering is not something where "mind over matter" works.

Reflecting on this was a reminder to me that perhaps, while we share the "perfect picture life" sometimes on social media, with big grins and a "smiling" exterior, there might be internal turmoils (mental, emotional) that aren't shared so cavalierly.

Maybe the "moral" of me sharing this (and apologies to anyone who thinks that my food poisoning experience is a little TMI) is to pause a moment to consider those you care about and others around you.

Even if they are posting happy and positive things, it never hurts to let them know you are there for them or that they are important to you. They might be experiencing pain that is invisible to the rest of the world. They might be suffering from an unseen anxiety or turmoil that isn't being shared.

Heck, maybe even strangers or others you encounter in your day to day. You know that jackass that pissed you off because they said something or did something in a way you don't agree with? Perhaps they were struggling with something you aren't able to see and perhaps it came out wrong. It might perhaps, be worth a moment or two of pausing to reflect on that and not jumping all over them.

And, even if that person you care about, that friend, or that stranger that rubbed you the wrong way isn't suffering, isn't it a good thing to just take a moment to spread a little bit of kindness, or love, out into the world?

The cost, to you, is virtually nothing. But the worth, to them, could be priceless.

What's In An Object?

It's funny how a simple inanimate object can have such an effect at bringing back a flood of memories.

This past weekend, my son and I spent the long Easter weekend with my Mom back in Levack.

Because my Mom had given Liz and I Baba's long-standing recipe for pierogi last December, and we had gone through at least a couple rounds of making them on our own with Liz's girls and Alexander, I told my Mom that Zander and I would make some pierogi for her.

My Mom hadn't made pierogi since her mother, my Baba, died in February seven years ago. She keeps buying them from Costco. So I thought it might be fun for her to have some home-made pierogi. No, not as good as Baba's (nothing could ever replace those) - but home-made and, like Baba's, made with love and just a touch of calamity in the kitchen.

When, back in December, Liz and the girls and I had been making pierogi, I remember being quite particular about the vessel we used to cut the dough into the round shapes for crafting the little Eastern European dumplings. I likely went overboard in my desire to find just the perfect glass or cup to use, and was never quite satisfied with what we ended up using.

It was because Baba had always used a particular little tea cup for cutting her pierogi dough with. A small white cup with red roses and green-silver stems and leaves; complete with a couple of chips in it that suggested it had been long and well used.

Baba's pierogi tea cup

Looking at that teacup brought back a huge flood of incredibly powerful memories.

Life Reflected in Art

I've been reflecting all day on the fact that it has been thirteen years since my Dad died.

A few nights ago, when he was feverish and having trouble falling back to sleep, as I laid in bed beside my son trying to comfort him, we chatted in the dark.

He asked me if there was anything I regretted. With tears in my eyes, I told him the one thing I really regret was not having spent more time with my father when I was younger. While I had made it a point to spend time with him once I was a young man (ie, in my early twenties), I often think about all those additional fishing and hunting excursions I could have gone on with him when I was younger -- all that father/son bonding time that I missed out on.

Because the times spent with my dad were always so very precious; and the memories I have are good ones -- fun ones.

I told Alexander that's one of the reasons why I love to spend so much time with him; why the traditional week-long "Boy's Road-Trip" we do every year the first week of July is so important to me. While I do spend a lot of time traveling, I have made spending time with Alexander a top priority.

Every year, on this delightful day in which we're supposed to all turn a little bit Irish and drink a toast, a cheers to St. Patrick, I find myself offering a special little cheer to the many beers that I shared with my Dad over the years. I think of the happy memories, all we had, and not the regrets.

And, today, I have been thinking about how many of the books I've written are reflective of that important father/son bond.

When he was still alive, one of my biggest fears was my father dying. To that end, I struggled with the thought, and imagined having to face it head on. From that fear and anxiety came the novel MORNING SUN.

Sharing parts of the first draft with him that I was working on while my Dad, my cousin Rodney and I were on Manitoulin Island during deer hunting season. (Dad and Rodney were hunting, I stayed back and hammered away on the laptop on the novel)

Dad & I on Manitoulin Island. Him reading MORNING SON; me with a beer

MORNING SON (a novel which I haven't yet published - it remains in a drawer) is more of a contemporary story with a bit of an underlying mystery. It's the story of a bereaved man who learns that his father's last dying wish was to have his son scatter his ashes at his favourite fishing hole. The only problem is that he always kept his favourite fishing hole a closed guarded secret. The young man, a bookstore manager who continually escapes into work as a way to avoid conflict in his life, finds himself compelled back to the Sudbury region to explore his father's past and find that secret locale. But in the midst of uncovering the past, he also unveils a closely guarded family secret that explains why his father was estranged from the rest of the family.

The novel contains many autobiographical details as well as several details from my father's own life. All fictionalized, of course. But many elements -- my father's near fatal motorcycle accident, the less than out-doorsy bookworm son with epilepsy -- are based on reality.

Here's the prologue for that novel:

I never spoke so many words to my father as I did when I was thirty-two and traveled with him from Ottawa to the sprawling network of fishing holes off Highway 144 in Northern Ontario. The only thing that took any real pleasure out of the experience was the fact that my father was nothing more than about five pounds of ashes in a silver-plated urn that I had strapped into the passenger seat beside me.

     A man of few words his entire life, my father's Will reflected the same, stating that everything was to go to his only son, and that upon cremation of his body, I scatter his ashes at his favourite fishing spot. The only problem was that my father's favourite fishing spot was a more closely guarded secret than the US president's nuclear launch code. That and I hadn't fished with my father since I was eleven; I was about as likely to remember where he'd take me fishing all those years ago as I was to guessing the winning Lott 649 numbers. And I would be just as at home reading a topographical map as I would be reading the French language my namesake suggested I possessed.

     Nonetheless, leaving my wife and child behind, I set off to fulfill my father's request, taking myself on a journey of introspection, self-discovery and, finally, a clear picture of who my father really was.

     Despite some of the shocking secrets I discovered, the realization that my father was as flawed and fallible as myself, and the fact he had been dead for several weeks, I never felt closer to my father in my entire life

     And I couldn't have loved him more.

As I mentioned, I haven't yet published the novel. I did send it off to a few publishers back when I first completed it and received a few polite rejections. Apparently, mainstream more "literary" novels just aren't my forte. I then moved on to other writing projects; but every once in a while I wonder if I'll pull it back out, give it another polish, and send it off to a publisher or perhaps self-publish it.

One novel that I DID publish, and which was based on my father's actual death, was, again based on some things from both my father's life and my own. The afore-mentioned near fatal motorcycle accident; my initial adoration of computer programming back in the Commodore PET computer days; not to mention that the novel mostly takes place in a fictionalized version of the building where Kobo's home off is. (I changed the company my hero works for to an online insurance company).

EVASION was inspired by my father's death, and the anger I felt towards the doctors, towards the hospital, towards everyone involved. It also came from the odd thing that kept happening to me for years after he died. I kept imagining I had spotted him in a crowd or driving the car beside me on the highway. It made me wonder: well, what IF he really is still alive? How could that be? Why would it be? The answer to that turned into a thriller -- one in which a man investigating his father's mysterious death finds himself hunted by everyone he knows and encounters. And thus, the novel, EVASION was born.

Here's the beginning of the Prologue for EVASION:

Scott Desmond was looking at a dead man.

     He shook his head, swiped at the sweat running down his forehead and into his eyes, tried to focus more clear-ly on the sight before him.

     There was no mistake about it.

     The man he was looking at across two sets of train tracks was none other than his father – a man who had died almost eighteen months earlier.

     Scott shook his head for the second time, rubbed his eyes, tried to focus through the humidity of the August day. But there was simply no disputing the fact.

     The man he was staring at across the GO train plat-form had to be his father.

EVASION is available in print, eBook and now in audiobook versions. You can also read the entire text of the first draft of the novel (unedited, so you'll have to just suck up the typos and grammar and other issues) on Wattpad where it has had almost 200,000 reads. I'm quite delighted with the audio version and think that Brian Troxell does an amazing job reading it. Click the link below to listen to a sample of it.

Evasion on Audible

I have already written most of the sequel to EVASION. It's a story that focuses on the life of Lionel Desmond. (Lionel was my father's middle name, and, yes, much of Lionel' character was based on my own father -- it was so much fun writing Evasion and based certain personality traits on my Dad. Even more fun exploring a fictional childhood from my father's perspective)

My father has shown up in a few other stories I have written; stories and tales he has shared, or that have been shared about him have surfaced in so many other places, including direct tributes that became a collaborative effort such as the time I wrote him a poem inspired by a painting and he turned the poem itself into a beautiful piece of art. So while these, so far, are the only two book-length works he has appeared in, I'm sure he'll continue to make himself known in other works along the way.

That's the reality of art that pulls snippets from life. That's the reality of continuing to be inspired by someone who meant so much.

Here's to the continued inspiration, the memories and the never-ending love. Thanks, Dad!

Eugene Lionel Lefebvre: June 28, 1938 - March 17, 2003

Memories of Uncle Peter

Last night, I had a few beers at my favourite local watering hole and toasted the memory of Uncle Peter. Peter Dusick passed away a couple of nights ago.

I called him "Uncle Peter" but technically he was my cousin. He, will, of course, always be "Uncle Peter" to me.

And, as I sat at the bar at The Winking Judge, chatting and joking with a few of the staff and regulars, I thought that perhaps The Judge was, to me, what The Blue Bird in Levack was to Uncle Pete. And, as Levack legend has it, Peter was to The Blue Bird what Norm was to Cheers. When he wasn't at work or fishing or working in his garage, you could find him at The Blue Bird.  Like Norm Peterson, he was there every day - sometimes, you'd call there before calling his house on a day that you knew he wasn't either at work or out at the camp or hunting or fishing.

I remember, trying to sneak in to The Blue Bird and have a beer before I was of the proper age, hiding behind my friends and a menu when Uncle Peter came in so that he didn't catch me. (Stupid me, I should have known he'd walk in - it was a day that ended in "y" after all) Although, if he had spotted me there, something tells me the teddy bear likely would not have ratted me out to my Dad. He likely would have given me a warning, shooed me out and said if he caught me there again, he'd go to my Dad and there'd be hell to pay.

I call Uncle Peter a Teddy Bear, because, like most of the Dusick men, he was a large and powerful man with a deep voice and the gruff look of someone who could snap you in two. But, in the Dusick-man manner, he was a also a big softy with a heart of gold and a smile as big and deep as his love for his family.

I recall, fondly, almost falling out of my chair laughing when he shared the amusing (and slightly disturbing) tale of how, when he was young, his brother chopped half of his one finger off. He shared the tale the way he told most stories, with a giant grin on his face and an infectious laugh. Even as he described standing there with the finger hanging by nothing but the flap of skin, there was no anger or bitterness towards his brother for the "incident" -- it was just one of those stupid things that a couple of brothers did, yet more mischief that they engaged in as part of growing up.

Peter loved being with friends and family, and the giant grin on his face and the laughs he shared over the years were evidence of that. He was generous to a fault; there aren't many people who would actually give you the shirt off their back, but Peter was certainly one of them.

When my Dad died, I remember the quiet and solemn morning that my Mom and I went to scatter his ashes at Windy Lake. Peter had been staying out at the camp on Windy Lake and met us in his boat to take us out to where he knew was one of my Dad's favourite spots to catch fish. It was a sad morning, difficult for all of us (I was so choked up that I couldn't even read the words I had carefully crafted to speak when releasing the ashes), and I recall watching the ashes settle into the water, the three of us barely able to see it for the silent tears filling our eyes as we each reflected on memories of my Dad. Peter was there and was a comforting presence to us, and I'm forever grateful for that.

When I was young, I spent a lot of time at Uncle Peter's house, goofing around and getting into trouble with my cousins (although nobody used an axe to take off any else's finger - it was a different kind of fun trouble). There are too many funny stories to mention. But I recall, when hanging out in the garage with our Dads, looking at just how many beers the two or three men working in the garage (likely on a snow machine or some other small engine item) could put away in an afternoon without seeming to be affected by them at all.

Uncle Peter loved to cook, loved to prepare food and loved to feed people. I was not a big eater when I was young; quite picky, in fact. My Mom still reminds me about how I raved about the amazing hot dogs Uncle Peter made one time when I was having lunch there. I'd never been a fan of hot dogs, and rarely could eat a single helping on my plate; but that day I'd had 3 or 4 hot dogs and raved about how, when the buns ran out how Uncle Pete did the coolest thing. He wrapped a single slice of bread around the wiener - to me, it was a gourmet solution that I raved about for years. I've even used that method myself, and every time I do, I think about Uncle Peter.

I saw Uncle Peter and Aunt Linda at the Sudbury hospital in November when my Mom was staying there after her operation. I was so pleased to see them (having not really seen them in a long time), and I still marvel at just how concerned, generous and thoughtful Peter was to my Mom even though he was there for a variety of health concerns that had been plaguing him for a while. But he was like that; regardless of the situation, of the hardship or personal concern, he had a smile, a story and a laugh for everyone. Generous, thoughtful, a big teddy bear of a man.

Left to Right: Uncle Leslie, Bob Armstrong, Jerry Mallow, Uncle Peter and my Dad. Four of these men are likely now sharing fun hunting stories across from one another at some watering hole in the sky . . .

I'll likely have another toast, raise another glass of beer to Peter as he sits there, at some after-life bar table with so many other amazing men from our family, sharing stories, laughs and friendship.

It Has Been Ten Years, Dad

Ten years ago today my Dad died.

I still miss him, and I still love him. I still wish I could have just one more minute to spend with him, drink one more beer with him, exchange one more joke, hear one more story or fishing tale. And I would give all of those things up (were they presented to me) for the opportunity of having my son and my father meet. I know that my dad would have loved Alexander and my son would have, likewise, adored his Grandpa Gene.

But there are always things you want, things absent, things left unsaid that you wish you had made more of an effort with.

At the very least, I know that I didn't fall into that stereotypical male habit of holding back feelings and being non-demonstrative.

I never failed to tell my dad that I loved him, I never paused to hug or kiss him, to make sure that he knew how much I respected and looked up to him.

In fact, the last words I spoke to him on the morning he died were "I love you." And this was said as I was giving him a big hug and a kiss just before he went off to the operating room. He never came back out.

Had I held back on sharing that with him I would still be regretting my inability to express what I felt.

And I'm so thankful that my dad knew just how much I loved him.

The lesson, here, I suppose, is this simple thing:  if you love someone, if you appreciate someone, if you have positive feelings towards a relationship, any relationship, why hold that in and keep it to yourself?

Love is at its strongest when it is given out and shared fully.

Because this is the 10th anniversary of losing my father, I thought I would link to the annual memories I have posted on this blog (and where I grabbed these pictures from):  2012, 2011, 2010, 2009, 2008, 2007, 2006, 2005.

Remembering Baba

We lost Baba last year.

Of course, some might argue that we had lost her a long time before that, because much of her personality and mind were subdued and hidden under a murky cloud due to the serious of small strokes that affected her about a year and a half earlier.

You might say that the mourning process began a lot earlier.

And it never truly stopped.


I still think of her every day. Francine and I regularly talk about her - discuss how she might react to something going on, how much she might have enjoyed something else taking place; laughing about a funny comment she made in a similar circumstance. Family gatherings just haven't been the same without her so we often conjure her up in shared personal memories.

Alexander often talks about "Old Baba" - he came up with the name on his own. Baba was always Baba to everyone, so we named my Mom, Alexander's Baba, "Baba Jean" to distinguish between the two. Except Alexander felt the need to distinguish in his own descriptive way, and she thus became "Old Baba" to him - and yes, we all had fun with that.  Of course, Alexander adored "Old Baba" - and she adored children.

There are a lot of pictures of Baba with me and my cousins Rodney & Kevin, all at various stages of growing up (some of them appear in my post "Baba's Boys" & "More Baba's Boys") - but my favourite picture of her is this one where her and Alexander are smiling unabashedly at one another. It's one of those perfect moments that wonderfully captured the special and gentle love she shared with the world.

Baba was very much like a second mother to me; Baba was the epitome of love. When children were worshiping Santa Claus, I was thankful to have a special loving woman like Annie Dusick in my life and I still feel blessed to have had her play such a central role in my life.

I'm thankful for the many memories, all the laughs, the smiles, all those special "Baba" moments I grew up with an enjoyed as an adult. I cherish the fact that no matter how old I got, Baba was always an important figure in my life. At my wedding I danced with my Mom, but I also danced with my Baba to her favourite song - Conway Twitty's "Here's A Quarter (Call Someone Who Cares)" - Ironically, even through my university years, I was constantly ensuring I called Baba so she knew that I still cared, that I still loved her, that she was still the central special matriarch of our family.

Baba might be gone, but her legacy, her love and all the things she meant to so many still live on.

I love you, Baba!

Go Wolves Go!

My nephew Brett is now a relief player for The Sudbury Wolves. For the past couple of weekends he has been playing on the team.

They played yesterday in Brampton and Alexander and I went out to watch the game. We got tickets right behind the visitors bench so we could "say hi" to Brett through the glass (without embarrassing him, of course)

It was an amazing game. Brett played really well, the team kicked ass (they won 3 to 1), the Wolves goalie was a superstar; and Alexander was delighted to see his cousin playing.

I kept thinking back to how, when I was a kid, heading into Sudbury to see the Wolves play was an amazing experience. I was not only delighted to share that excitement with my son, but also proud to watch Brett playing on that very same team I adored when I was a child.

I know that Brett's father, who passed away two years ago (my cousin Kevin - we were raised almost like brothers), would be VERY proud.

I know I was proud to watch Brett play for the Wolves.

Go Wolves Go!

Remembering 9/11 Ten Years Later

It has been ten years since the tragic events of Sept 11, 2001.

Several years ago, on the anniversary of the tragic day where 2996 people lost their lives, blogger D. Challenger Roe began Project 2,996 -- it was an exercise in bringing bloggers from around the world together to remember the victims of Sept 11, 2001.

The idea was for bloggers to take the time to get to know one of the people who died and to celebrate and remember their lives rather than focus on the tragedy that befell them that fateful day. I loved the fact that the focus wasn't on the tragedy but on celebrating the lives, the people they had been before 9/11.

I took the time to find information and remember three different individuals over the years. Each year, I go back and re-read the posts about them, think about the lives they lived and the differences they made before their lives were cut short.

The posts about the people are listed below.

Raymond Meisenheimer - Remembering Raymond Meisenheimer  (2006)

Deora Francis Bodley - Remembering The Lives of Two Heros (2007)

David Reed Gamboa Bradhorst & his fathers Daniel Brandhorst and Ronald Gamboa - Project 2996 - Sept 11, 2008 (2008)

A return/overview to the previous posts -Project 2,996 (2009) and yet another revisit last year.


These are just a few of so many lives that have been lost on that day and in the days beyond. So many lives have been altered, the course of history was forever changed. But beneath the world-wide gathering that is occurring on this tenth anniversary, all the memorials and media attention there still lies the simple fact that loved ones were lost, people who loved and were loved and who continue to live on in our memories and hearts.

Smiling At The Little Things

Sometimes it's fun to pause and just enjoy the little things that bring a smile to your day.

Take Polkaroo, for example.

Polkaroo was a character who appeared on the long-running TVO television series for children called Polka Dot Door which was broadcast from 1971 until 1993 (Just ask almost any person my age about the show and they can almost immediately start singing the show's theme song) Apparently the show was also syndicated on PBS, becoming the first Canadian television show to be syndicated in the USA.

The show had two human hosts, rotated through a series of theme days and each episode would feature an appearance by Polkaroo, a giant Kangaroo-like creature that said a single thing: "Polkaroo!" A convention of the show (likely due to budgetary constraints) was that, whenever Polkaroo was around, the male host would have disappeared. (Yes, it's the old you never see Peter Parker and Spider-Man at the same time sort of thing going on here) What was really cute about it was that, when Polkaroo took off, the male host would return and inevitable mutter: "Polkaroo was here? I missed him AGAIN!"

In any case, having grown up watching this show, it was a real treat for me to actually meet Polkaroo in person at last year's Word on the Street in Toronto. Yes, a 41 year old man became all giddy at the thought of meeting him. I had wished my son could be there to meet Polkaroo, although Alexander, of course, would have had no idea who this character is. (And let's be honest, I was the fan-boy here, likely just looking for an excuse to get closer and chat up this iconic figure from my childhood)

Polkaroo meeting fans at WOTS Toronto, Sept 2010

And, of course, Polkaroo is someone I am "friends" with on FourSquare - yes, just for the sheer novelty of it.

And why? Because, whenever Polkaroo checks in anyplace on FourSquare, he leaves the following comment:  "Polkaroo!"

Yes, it's the little things that keep me amused.

Of course, if I ever check into a place that Polkaroo has been, you'll be sure to hear me say:  "Polkaroo was here? And I missed him AGAIN!"

HNT - Memories Upon Which A Life Is Built

I'm a fan of social media and quite enjoy the fact that I'm able to connect with so many people as well as connect with friends who are geographically distant. Facebook, Twitter, Google+ and other social media platforms have allowed me to be in contact with so many people, meet new people, and even stay in touch with people I haven't seen in person in years, sometimes even decades.

Of course, there's the flip side to consider as well.

Right now I'm reading a book by McMaster professor Nick Bontis called Information Bombardment: Rising Above the Digital Onslaught. The book is a great introduction to the wonders of this digitally connected world and Bontis takes the reader on a trip through the history that brought us here and speculation about how the world is going to look in just a few short years. But more than this, he offers the reader some useful tips and advice on how to work smarter and strategies on how to deal with the massive information that is flooding into our lives. He helps the reader not lose sight of the important things and to prioritize, taking full advantage of being digitally connected while not losing sight of the basic human needs that are important for balance.

"The more time each of us spends giving our attention to various outlets of information, the less attention we have for the important relationships in our lives. Often we negotiate tiny moments every day and every week so that we can check our e-mail one more time, download new software or watch the latest YouTube video clip. Every time this happens we choose to divert our attention from our spouses, families and friends." - Nick Bontis, INFORMATION BOMBARDMENT, Page 224

How true. Even writing this blog post, for example, is time I negotiated away from other important things. (For example, I was diverted from working on a book which has a deadline to be at the publisher in a few short weeks).

Bontis goes on to say that "you still can't hug your children from afar, and you still can't smell the fragrance of your spouse from a different city." I love the way that he uses the senses to illustrate the important and concrete things that aren't replaceable despite the great new technological advances that allow us to connect digitally.

"But no matter how effective these technological tools become, they do not replace direct, in-person time spent together . . . your spouse doesn't need just to get an e-mail update about your personal thoughts or to check in with you by phone to hear about the latest events in your day. Your partner needs to see, feel, smell and hear you in person. These social contacts reveal so much more than information. They provide personal memories upon which a life is built." - Nick Bontis, INFORMATION BOMBARDMENT, Page 225

Nick's book has been a useful reminder to me of the important things. Just the other night, after a long day of work, Francine and I sat on the back deck and just unwound, chatting about little things and sharing some moments from our day. The television, the computer, the iPhone I normally always have on me were all in other spaces and forgotten. It was enjoyable and special just to have that special moment together. I can never get enough of those moments.

I really like my social media connections and enjoy interacting with some many wonderful people in the digital realm - but those in-person, those special, precious and fun moments spent in person with family and friends, those are the truly wonderful moments that I cherish.


And so, this week's HNT post is going to look back at some of the fun special moments, some special summer memories. Interestingly, these are all photos posted to my Facebook profile - earlier this week I was organzing some of them into albums and reflecting on the fun moments and special memories of doing fun things with the two people who are most important to me.

Here's hoping YOUR summer is filled with special moments and new memories of those important family and friends in your life. Happy HNT.

Moose Winooski's - Summer 2010

Another fun day at the beach - Port Dover - Summer 2007

Me, Alexander & Francine - funhouse mirror on Clifton Hill - Niagara Falls, July 2007

No Longer My Truck

I sold my Dad's truck the other day.

Funny, isn't it? I've owned the truck since 2003, yet I still think of it as Dad's Truck (and yes, in capital letters like that). My Dad owned it from 1997 until he died in 2003. I held onto it, yes, partly as a way of trying to hold on to my Dad.

But the control arm (steering mechanism) rotted out and I haven't been able to drive it for weeks. So I listed it, a dozen or so people asked about it, a few came to look at it, and the other night someone offered me pretty much what I was asking for it.

I sold it to a mechanically inclined man who is going to be buying it to try to either fix up for his son to use or else use the parts and sell others. While it's tough letting go of my Dad's truck (see, I still don't think of it as my truck), I would be delighted to learn he WAS able to fix it up and his son was able to use it. Perhaps that way, the truck could be part of a third father/son bonding experience.

I did ask if his son fished and told him if he did, this truck would be lucky for him because it came with my father's essence of fishing luck.

I took this picture of Alexander recently, sitting on the hood of the truck and looking off pensively. From his perspective, it's Dad's truck.  He was born in 2004, so he never knew my Dad, and never really knew it as Grandpa Gene's truck, even though I constantly refer to it that way. Alexander and I had some great times driving around together in that truck.

I found a picture of Dad and I that was taken in the early 90's - both of us looking off camera, pensively. It's one of those many moments we sat together in a pause between chatting, just enjoying being in one another's company.

I feel these shots are the best kind to go with this blog post as I sit and think back about My Dad's Truck and all the things it has meant to me as well as my relationships with my father and my son.

So it's no longer my truck, no longer even my Dad's truck - but it leaves me with a lot of great memories of the father/son bond which can occur over something as simple as a hunk of steel, glass, plastic and metal mounted on four tires.

Dad's Truck

Today is my Dad's birthday.

He would have turned 74 years old today if he were still alive.

Every year on or near his birthday, I've paused to reflect on June 28th and my Dad. I just took a quick stroll down memory lane and read: This Moose Be My Real Reason (June 2010); Summer + BBQ = Dad Celebration (June 2009); Just One More Beer With Dad (June 2008); Da Count - Dad (June 2007); Memories of Dad (June 2006) & Daddy Hugs (June 2006); I Think I Caught His Spirit (June 2005)

This year, I'm thinking about Dad and his truck.

After he died, I took his truck. I didn't need a vehicle, because I had already been leasing one - it actually cost a bit of money to break the lease early - but having my Dad's truck meant a lot to me. From the time I was little, going for a ride in the truck with my Dad was a really fun experience, right up there with going to an amusement park. Just Dad and I together, heading out to run an errand, going to visit my Uncle Leslie or barrelling down a dirt road on our way to a fishing or hunting spot, enjoying one another's company, yelling "wheee" at the top of our lungs as the truck raced down a steep hill on the winding Old Cartier Road near Windy Lake.

When I got older, I learned to drive standard in Dad's truck. And, though I was approaching adulthood, there was still this magical thrill of getting in the truck with my old man and going somewhere -- anywhere. That thrill never left me. Even today, if I had a choice between taking a magical journey on The Polar Express or a ride with Dad in his truck, I think you'd know which one I'd take, hands down

So, when he died, I kept his truck. And since 2003 I've not only been able to re-live some of those special memories of driving around with Dad in his truck, but I've been able to create special new ones with my son Alexander. Going for a ride with Dad in the truck is likely as fun for Alexander as it has been for me. When he was smaller, sitting in the car seat in the truck allowed him a vantage point of the road that he wasn't able to get in the back seat of the CRV. And he was always at the healm of the controls for the garage door opener.

Yes, the father and son tradition continued.

Until last week -- when I received the devastating news that the odd pulling and occasional snap, crackle popping I heard while turning was due to the control on the front of the passenger side wheel being completely rotted out. Taking the vehicle anywhere on the road could result in a nasty accident with complete loss of steering control.

Simply, the cost to fix this would likely come to double what the vehicle itself was worth. Well, at least in dollars.

The real worth of the vehicle can't be measured in dollars. The real worth is measured in treasured memories.

During the first winter that I had the truck, not all that long after I lost my Dad, I'd been driving by myself on the way to work. It had been some sort of frustrating or anxiety-filled day - can't remember why, just that I was feeling out of sorts.

Then, a sudden smell hit me. And, though it seems weird, it was the smell of my Dad's sweat - likely sweat that had been baked into the very seats - not sure where or how. But there it was all the same - the distinct sensation of my Dad's smell filled the cab of the truck. Scent memory is a very powerful thing.

So for a few moments, everything was okay. Dad was with me again; the world was alright.

Yes, it seems strange that I would find comfort in such a basic (and seemingly gross) sensation. But that morning, smelling the remnants of my Dad's perspiration comforted me in such a gentle and wonderful way. I can think of very few scents that spark a special feeling in me -- fresh baked bread, popcorn, bacon, coffee. And the smell of my Dad. Sadly, I can easily re-create each of those other scents. My Dad's however, I cannot. So thoughts of that one special morning driving alone in my Dad's truck and not feeling at all alone due to that scent, linger with me.

And, as I begin to say goodbye to Dad's truck, it's like another chapter of my life that's closing. It's that special part of my Dad, and of special memories that I was able to hang onto for another 8 years.

But really, it's just a truck.

It shouldn't hurt this much.

There's Nothing Virtual About Death

I found out a few days ago that a friend of mine died last month.

Here's where it gets interesting, but isn't all that unique any more - not in today's online and connected society.

I've known this friend for about 5 years, knew her under various names/nicknames as well as her real name. But we never met in person. We were blogger friends. We'd connected via a weekly blogging ritual called HNT (Half Nekkid Thursday) in which people would post photos of themselves, typically taken by themselves, and then visit the other folks who would post the same. The photos would run the spectrum from "nekkid" meaning simple self-exposure shots of a person in their daily lives, or perhaps a simple shot of the paper cut on their finger they got at work that day, a picture of themselves with a dear friend, all the way to racy and less interpretive shots of "nekkid." But, often, the "exposure" wasn't the removal of clothing, but a peek into a person's inner self, an exposure of them. That, in my mind, has been where phenomenal connections and friends have been made.

I made a lot of friends through HNT and blogging (I started blogging in March 2005), some of whom I've established personal connections with "off-blog" and some of whom I've even had the pleasure of eventually meeting in person.

I never met Melanie Elizabeth Phillpott VanWinkle (also known in the blogging community as Stealth Bombshell and Texas Spitfire - perhaps other nicknames) in person. But we connected via blogging, via photos, via comments and silly humorous exchanges, and connected with our real names, later, via Facebook.

So I never knew her in person, but I knew her just the same. She touched my life, she made me smile, made me laugh, made me cry, made me think. I am a richer person for having known Melanie, even in this limited virtual way. And I am mourning her loss, but at the same time, wanting to celebrate her life and the fact that I have gained simply by knowing her.

The joys of the virtual online world exist. You can connect and share and communicate with great people you'd otherwise not have the pleasure of meeting in person. And that experience can enrich your life - because that's what other people do; they enrich your life.

But here's the rub: when that person dies, particularly when there's no "physical world" interaction in which people close to them know you know one another, what is the result? What is the healing ritual?

Typically, death involves ritual, involves a chance for people to say goodbye, for some ritualized sense of closure (even if the pain of that loss never fades away). But in virtual death, what is the ritual, what is the manner by which we can share our appreciation for having known a person, our sense of loss, our grief?

There was a fascinating discussion of this on a recent episode of CBC Radio's Spark between host Nora Young and guest Adele McAlear. And discussions like this help when dealing with this virtual loss. But it's true that we need to figure out a way to handle this all to common situation. A good conversation to continue.

But back to Melanie.

I found out Melanie died through another online friend who has enriched my life but I've not met in person. Osbasso recently posted a tribute to Melanie on his blog - the blog, whose weekly ritual connected Melanie and I, and thousands of other people together.

How do I properly grieve, other than post one of my favourite pictures of her and say something about her?

Thank you, Melanie - thanks for connecting, and thanks for enriching my life. May you rest in peace. May your dear friends and family find peace and comfort in all of the memories you gave them. And thank you for touching my life - there was nothing virtual about the way you enriched my life.

Melanie Elizabeth Phillpott VanWinkle

March 20, 1978 - April 12, 2011

It's That Big Chunk Of Fudge!

I was showing Alexander some of the commercials from my childhood that I still remembered the jingles to the other day via YouTube when a classic Oh Henry! commercial from 1984 popped up in the Suggestion sidebar to the right.  (Yes that good old suggestion sidebar that sucks you in when you meant to only go there and look at a single video)

I had to laugh immediately.

No, there's no jingle, but I remember this like it was yesterday that I first saw it.

Of course, in my memory, the three characters were wrestlers, not circus strong-men who were trying to determine what makes the Oh Henry! bar so big.

But the emotional conviction of the guy in the middle is priceless. His voice is not unlike a character from the classic Bugs Bunny Looney Tunes cartoons. I particularly love the pause the second time he speaks when he says: "It's that big chunk . . . of fuuudge!"



Here's something fun to try the next time you're in a group conversation, meeting, whatever, and everyone is trying in frustration to find the answer to a burning question.

If everyone is getting gridlocked with frustration because the answer is just not coming to anyone you just might break them out of their funk by saying something like:  "What a minute! I've got it. I know what it is!" and then in the deepest voice you can muster: "It's that big chunk of fuuuuuudge!"

Either everyone will think you're nuts or the unexpected intrusion will break the things that are binding everyone as their minds reach around trying to figure out what the heck it is you're referring to. Some, those who are old enough, might even remember the commercial and will talk fondly of old television commercials they liked. Perhaps someone with a strong memory (or who watched a lot of television) will respond by saying:  "I'm telling you, it's all that caramel!"

Who knows, the sudden change in topic might get everyone's minds going enough to see the problem with fresh eyes. Or, being brought back to their childhood with this audio/visual memory, they might approach the problem with a fresh and youthful perspective.

And if not, well, at least you lightened the mood, perhaps made at least one person laugh.

HNT - No Regrets

Eight years ago today my father died unexpectedly. He was waking in the recovery room after having a kidney removed and already joking with the nurses when suddenly his blood pressure dropped from severe internal bleeding. The clips had come off his renal artery (manufacture error or human error we'll never know) and he bled to death.

One instant, alive and making others smile. The next, gone.

Sometimes I think back to how I should have spent more time with my dad; listening to the wonderful and hilarious stories he used to tell (whether they were fishing tales, hunting stories or memories of his childhood and his years as a younger adult) - I know I would have benefited from simply knowing more about him while I had the chance. And at times, my heart aches for all the missed opportunities.

But instead of focusing on what I missed, I like to concentrate on all the times I did share with him, on all the stories I heard, on all the memories we created together.

Dad and I on my wedding day - 1996

And I'm thankful for the very last words I said to him before he walked through the doors and into the pre-op room that fateful morning.


I kissed him and said:  "I love you, Dad."

Yes, a grown man who is supposed to be embarassed about doing such things about saying such things, about being seen acting in this way. And in a rare moment in a public place, I tossed all those things away, kissed him and told him I loved him.

It doesn't make up for all the previous opportunities I missed out on, how, at a certain age in my childhood I stopped holding his hand, about the many teen years where, as children often do, I pushed away from and rebelled against my parents, and all the stories that I never got to hear.

But at least I didn't leave unsaid the important things in my heart.


I've long blogged about my Dad, and, particularly on this anniversary of the day I lost my father, I've come back to reflect on all the things he was to me.

Rather than repeat, I'll simply post links back to each year's memory.

2010 - A Man, His Son & Their Laughter
- Includes a poem I wrote for my father back in 1996)

2009 - Mourning Son
- I talk about my still unpublished novel Morning Son, much of which was inspired by stories from my father.

2008 - And I Miss You Just The Same
- Mostly pictures of my Dad

2007 - Dad, Four Years Ago Today
- Memories of the last hunting trip with my Dad and my cousin on Manitoulin Island

2006 - Still Miss You, Dad
- Basic memories, a lot of which I have repeated in this blog over the years; and the father/son poem

2005 - Miss You, Dad
- Simple thoughts of being a new father myself and thinking of Alexander and my Dad interacting

Dad and I playing Intellivision - 1981

For HNT this week, I thought I'd post this picture of my Dad and I playing Intellivision back in the early 1980's. I love this picture. We were collaborating on one of the simple initial game offerings on this system: Space Battle. One of us would navigate the cross-hairs over the enemy spaceships and the other would fire. A simple task that certainly didn't require two people, but the game was so much more fun when we did it together.

Sometimes, when my son and I are collaboratively trying to beat the computer on a game (most recently the Lego Star Wars game on our Wii), I think back to the joy brought by the memory of this simple time spent with my father.

And I'm thankful for every moment I spent with my father; and every moment I spend with my son.

The Ides Of March Are Come

There's really only one day per year when I can walk around saying "The Ides of March are come!" And I can usually only get away with saying "Beware the Ides of March" a few days prior to March 15th.

Of course, I have yet to have someone respond to my reference to the Shakespearean play by saying "Ay, but they have not gone!"

For some reason, this morning I was reflecting back on one of the many different series of layoffs I survived back in the days immediately following the dot com bust. I worked at Chapters Online back in the glory days when dot com companies were expanding exponentially, there were free pop machines on every floor of the building, one of those giant popcorn machines, and food regularly being ordered in from local restaurants. COL had recently purchased a "home and garden" company and expanded, hiring an additional hundred or so folks and renting an additional two floors of an adjascent building in the Peter Street offices downtown.

Then the bubble burst, the seemingly endless buckets of money stopped flowing in, reality sunk in, and the rounds of layoff after layoff began as the company that had been expanding so rapidly started contracting back down in an attempt to stay sustainable.

Then there was the takeover of Chapters by Indigo, and shortly thereafter, yet another round of layoffs as two companies merged and the duplicate roles filled by people at the home office were resolved.

That round, I distinctly remember, took place on a March 15th.

I remember, because, in the same manner that one whistles while walking past a graveyard, I posted a sign on my office door that read:  "Beware the Ides of March!"  My gut (which had already been through two major rounds of layoffs) told me that the company wide meetings that had been planned for that day were really going to be another round of layoffs.

And sure enough, that morning, people were handed colour coded sheets of paper informing them to report to a particular room at a certain time that morning.

I remember sitting in the room I was in and looking at the other folks in there with me and trying to decide if I was in the "cut and laidoff" people or the "we're safe" room. It was an agonizingly long ten minutes with most people in the room silent, save for the occasional uncomfortable shifting in seats and quiet mutterings.

It turned out I had survived yet another round of cuts. But yet again, just like previously, there had been the sense of relief for getting to keep my job, but then came the survivor's guilt I felt because friends of mine had not been so lucky and had lost their jobs. Yes, I was extremely lucky, but the guilt was really strong.

I don't want to dwell on the stress of the repeated rounds of layoffs, but just point out that, despite the fact I had been working for a "book" company, nobody seemed to pick up on my literary reference, or the significance of the day. Either that, or they had, but nobody had been in the mood to whistle past the graveyard with me.

I suppose I've long enjoyed playing upon that reference to the Shakespeare play.  I've even written a horror story about snowmen facing the terror of the arrival of spring in a tale called (yes, you guessed it): "Ides of March" (Click on the title to read a preview of it)


In any case, I'll keep tossing that cue line out and some day someone will pick up and respond. We'll smile, perhaps acknowledge the bard in some small way (perhaps one of us will be wearing one of the cheeky "Dead Author T-Shirts" designed by Margaret Atwood that feature Shakespeare), then we'll go on with our day.

HNT - The Garden of Memories Continue To Grow

Just a quick HNT this week. I've recently posted about the passing of my Baba who was very much like a mother to me. And last week's HNT post also featured her. Of course, I've been looking at a lot of pictures recently and reflecting back on many good times, so you'll never guess who's included in this week's HNT post too . . .

Here is a shot my Dad took of Mom, Baba, Francine and I in the yard of my parent's home in Levack.

Dad and Baba are gone now, as is the garden we were standing in front of. But the memories still continue to provide sustenance for the heart, perhaps as a virtual garden of memories.

Okay, now that I've said something in an attempt to be warm and touching I can get back to the really important thing, which is to tell you to STOP LAUGHING AT MY MULLET!

HNT - More Baba's Boys Pictures

Last year I posted some pictures of my Baba with her three grandkids. Her boys: Me, Rodney and Kevin.

Yesterday, I was going through some pictures of Baba and pulled a few more out that I thought were neat.

The first one was taken in my bedroom. I must have been either in Grade 7 or Grade 8 at the time. Rodney, Kevin and I were playing on my Intellivision game system.  You can see an Underwood typewriter on the desk beside me. I'm pretty sure that was when I was working on one of my first novels -- a "Dungeons & Dragons" inspired story of a wandering barbarian and one of those early written pieces that will NEVER leave the trunk. I'm pretty sure that the book on the TV tray was one of my D&D manuals that I was using as a piece of reference material for some of the monsters attacking my characters.

The next shot is one that was taken many years later and in the kitchen we spent so much time in with Baba.  She paused long enough from going back and forth from the fridge to get us more food and drinks to pose with us for a picture. I love the way that Baba and Kevin's hands are clasped together in this shot.

My Baba

Baba & Alexander (One of my favourite pictures of the two of them)

My Baba died this week. She was 90 years old.

For those who aren't familiar with the term, Baba is a Polish term for Grandmother. (Well, technically, I believe it's supposed to be "Babcia" or "Babka" -- but hey, every family has their own unique slant on how they use terms, don't they?)


Baba wasn't just a Grandmother to me. She was like a second Mom. But not just a second Mom, because of the special relationship Grandparents always have.

Baba and Deedoo (I'm spelling it phonetically, because that's how we pronounced it), lived across the street from us when I was a baby and toddler. Among my earliest memories are me standing on the sidewalk and calling in a loud voice: "Baba! Baba! Come and get me!" Because I knew I wasn't allowed to cross the street on my own, I needed an adult to walk across with me. And Baba would always answer my call. Not just when I was that really young child, but throughout my life. All I had to do was call out, and Baba was there.

Deedoo died when I was two years old, and shortly after, my Mom, Dad and I moved across the street to live with her. We lived on the main floor and Baba moved into the basement, which was fashioned with a washroom, bedroom, living room and kitchen area -- what we called and continue to call "Baba's Apartment."  The apartment was merely an extension off the main living area and didn't really have it's own entrance or separate living arrangement.

Most people have memories of how glorious it was when visiting with their Grandparents. Grandparents typically spoil the kids and treat them like gold.

Baba and Alexander

Living with Baba, I was fortunate to receive that kind of treatment on a daily basis. And she truly did treat me like gold every single day. Baba had a way of making me feel important, making me feel special, and making me feel loved. She had a way of making so many people feel that way.

She was a woman who loved the simpler things in life. She loved having family around her, loved having people over and entertaining, and particularly loved feeding people. Baba didn't judge people, except perhaps by how they ate. If you liked to eat, Baba had a particularly strong affection for you, because nothing seemed to give her greater joy than continually shoving food in front of people. As I got older, of course, she was also shoving bottles of beer in front of me or repeatedly asking if I would like a shot of rye.

Baba and I at Christmas dinner

So memories of Baba often involve food and drink and how much she loved to feed people -- and that was her greatest joy. Except, perhaps, for the joy she got from her Grandchildren and Great-Grandchildren. My cousins Rodney and Kevin and I grew up within the matriarchal umbrella of Baba's family. We were raised, in many ways, more like brothers than cousins, with Baba at the heart of most family activities. Her focus, for the longest time, was wanting to see her Grandchildren grow up -- and at every pivotal moment in our lives she was there, beaming with pride.

She had the pleasure of watching all three of her grandchildren grow up and start their own families, and then watching her great-grandchildren start to grow up. Fortunately for Baba, her recent/short-term memory and mind weren't "with it" enough to be aware that her oldest grandson, Kevin, died last year. We felt it was better that way because it would have devastated her.

We have many fond memories of Baba - most of them take place in the kitchen I'm sitting in right now while I type this up. This house is filled with decades of memories of Baba, with the love that she shared, with all the funny things she did or said, and that we still joke about.

To most of my friends, Baba wasn't "Mrs. Dusick" or "Annie" but rather "Baba" -- she was simply "Baba" to so many people. I, of course, have the distinct honour of being able to say she was "My Baba." I never once lost sight of how incredibly lucky I was to hold that priviledge.

Baba might have died, but her memory lives strong in all those who loved her and whom she loved. Losing her was very much like losing my mother, and I've been slowly preparing for this ever since she got really ill more than a year and a half ago. It feels like the mourning of her loss started way back then and that now the mourning is becoming three dimensional and real.

Yes, many tears have been shed. But there have been many more fond memories, many more special moments, and many more cherished thoughts of a dear woman who was a central part of my life for over 40 years.

When I look at the photo I took of Baba and Alexander a few years ago and the simple unabashed joy in their smiles, I remember the very special woman my Baba was.

And I smile, thankful for Baba.