Wendy, that woman on the other end of my video conference screen.

It was a weird feeling, to send a text to Wendy on July 5th, her birthday. I struggled with it for a while; wondering whether or not to send it all. It was hard to get the wording right, knowing it would be the last birthday she got to spend on earth. 

I also had a nagging sense of imposter syndrome, having never met Wendy in person. Why would I send this text at all? 

Perhaps I should go into a little more detail. 

I was first introduced to the name of Wendy Roberts in 2019, when our working worlds collided. I, in my role with Make-A-Wish BC & Yukon, and she with her role with Children's Wish Foundation of Canada. Our two organizations merged in October of that year, and all of a sudden, we were colleagues. Wendy in Ontario and me in B.C. and before long Wendy and I were collaborating on things like press releases and text for donation web pages. 

As it happens when organizations merge, there are a lot of people who move around. Somewhere in the shuffle, I moved off the BC team and onto the Make-A-Wish Canada national team. And there was Wendy, and she and I were teammates on a much closer scale. 

But you guys, I don't know if you know, but this thing called the COVID-19 pandemic hit somewhere in the middle of all this, thus putting the kibosh on any plans to meet our newly formed teams in person. Little could we have known at the time, but COVID would thus ensure Wendy and I never got to meet in person, along with numerous other colleagues who would not have the pleasure. 

At this point, you're likely thinking that she succumbed to COVID. Not so. I'm coming to that. 

First, more about Wendy. Importantly, not meeting in person does not diminish the fact that this was a woman that you could really get to know. She was just one of those wonderfully open people, a book full of warmth, humour, insight, intelligence and charm. Our relationship, therefore, was online... but it was a great relationship. 

I loved meeting with Wendy. And in our roles, we had daily reasons to do so. Whether working on press materials, gathering materials for staff meetings or hunkered down in the trenches of issues management work, you couldn't help but be glad to be in Wendy's presence. .

Work aside, there was always time for a chat. Hearing about what her husband, Andre was up to, keeping up to date on her twin girls Taylor and Alicia, or chatting about her dad (COVID kept her from visiting family in the Maritimes for too long, but she managed to travel back when restrictions eased). You could chat with Wendy with the ease of a friend... which she truly was. Weekend plans, TV shows, the weather, politics. 

For the past several months, though, I've had no occasion to meet with Wendy. We've exchanged texts and photos through our thumbs on our cell phones, but Wendy has been off work as she had the biggest task of her life to deal with: a diagnosis of stage four pancreatic cancer. I don't know if you know much about pancreatic cancer--I'm not about to go into details--but it can be swift. And for Wendy, it was. 

On July 19th, 2022 she passed away peacefully surrounded by her family. I am at loose ends this week, feeling a deep sense of loss for, remarkably, someone I never even got to give a hug to "in real life". But as I said, this did not diminish our ability to get to know one another, even to love someone. On her birthday, I told her so. 

"I am glad you were born," I said. "Celebrating you today," I said, amongst a few other pleasantries. Some things you don't get another chance at, so you better say what you're wanting to say when you have time to say it. 

And truly, I am glad she was born and that our life paths crossed when and how they did. I will not wallow in disappointment that we never met in person, but rather will let my heart be full of love for knowing the remarkable 'Wendy' at all. She was a gift in my life, to be sure. 

In her final act of kindness, Wendy wanted to keep paying it forward. One of her daughters, you see, was a wish recipient a few years back. It was that event that eventually drew Wendy to the work that she was doing, and the reason I had to meet her. That's how the universe works, after all. It is Wendy's wish that this work of granting wishes keeps going. She requested that a fund in lieu of flowers be set up to collect donations for Make-A-Wish, so that another child facing critical illnesses may come to know the joy of a granted wish. If you feel so moved as to contribute to her noble goal, you can do so here. 

Wendy and I would end off all of our calls be they collegial or casual in pretty much the exact same way. 

"Okay, my friend," she would preface the conclusion, "Nice talking to you/have a good afternoon/weekend/we will chat again very soon," and always signed off with "take care, bye for now." 

I can hear her voice now. I have missed it for months, but today, I really miss it. I will continue to miss it in days to come. 

Okay, my friend. Take care. Bye for now (and all my love). 

Photo courtesy of Petra King Photography

Remembering Margie

At five feet two inches tall, you might miss Margaret ‘Margie’ Kay Smith-Wingert if you passed her on the street. With her with size six shoes and a slow, only-slightly-steady walk, you might see that diminutive woman and pass her off as meek and mild.

She was anything but.

Margie, aged two 

Margie at St. Anthony'; her first communion. 

As a three-year-old, Margie, born in small-town Iowa, lost her mom. She and her older siblings were under the sole care of their father, but in time, they were all given up to live at Saint Anthony's Orphanage, Sioux City, Iowa.  Margie and her siblings lived there for a few years, and some of Margie’s earliest memories were of the nuns, and the communal bedrooms. Margie and her siblings were all adopted to different families, without decent records of who went where. Imagine being a young child, set adrift into middle America with a new family.

Life over the years after that was not always kind or easy for Margie, but through it all, she maintained her faith in God, and an optimism about life that can only be described as admirable. Margie loved to laugh, and with a big voice and traces of her mid-western accent, there was no mistaking Margie when Margie was talking. 

Margie thrived against some of the odds she faced. Various work roles found her bouncing around a bit in her younger years--Denver, Portland, and Seattle were among her stops.  It was there in Seattle, Washington, in the early 80’s, that Margie applied for a nannying job for a doctor’s daughter. That doctor was my future mother-in-law, and she needed someone to take care of my future wife, Kate, age four at the time. My mother-in-law reflected recently on the phone interview she had with Margie, saying she was head-and-shoulders the best applicant she had. A face-to-face interview firmed up the deal, and that was that. 

So began a life-long relationship with Margie.

Margie and Kate

Margie moved to Canada with my wife’s family after a few years in Seattle, and continued working, helping to raise Kate until Kate was 10 years old. She came to them a stranger, but left as one of the family. She also gained her Canadian citizenship along the way. Canada was Margie's new homeland. 

Margie, unfortunately, began to suffer from trigeminal neuralgia. A surgery attempt to solve the problem only made it worse. Margie would be on opioid pain medications for the rest of her life. That made matters difficult as the pain and medication made it impossible for Margie to do meaningful work, and prolonged medication use led to all sorts of other side effects. She had the shakes, suffered from painful kidney stones, detached retinas (she went blind in one eye in recent years), and more. Over the years her intersections with the health system were many. There, too, she wasn't always noticed. She had a few close calls for being sent home when there was a real problem that got dismissed. Given all her medication use for her neuralgia, one could easily dismiss her as a confused addict. But, her determination and optimism kept her going.

...............................

Over the years, Margie had managed to reconnect with her siblings, all of whom lived in the U.S.. Their upbringings were all pretty different, based on the families they were adopted into. Margie was thankful to have their connections. Between her Smith clan and her Wingert clan, it expanded her world to be able to include in-laws, nieces and nephews. She was able to travel now and again to visit them, and the advent of Skype and facetime calling kept her in regular touch.

.................................

I first met Margie when I was 17, maybe 18 years old. Margie was still very much in Kate’s life. Living in Surrey next to Vancouver, she’d come out for the occasional supper or family celebration, like our wedding, and for birthday dinners. She would fawn over our kids, bringing them little trinkets or stuffed animals every time she visited. 

"Aunty Margie" with Sacha and Heidi in 2015.
Heidi still wears that dress, which Margie gave her.

To them, she was their aunty Margie. Heidi, my daughter, was a particular benefactor of Margie’s collections of bracelets, costume jewellery, little dresses, dolls and stuffies.  Margie didn’t have much money, but she was always such a giver. Not just of things, but of her time and her warm spirit.

Margie would talk a lot about her church—she was a faithful Catholic—and about singing in the choir, one of her absolute loves in life.

Margie was diagnosed with cancer in the summer of 2018. As the cancer progressed, it was the loss of her singing voice she lamented about most often, never mind the tumours all over her body, especially that one late in the game which threatened to shatter her femoral head inside her hip joint. No, Margie didn't complain much about that. She missed her singing voice. 

In the fall of 2018, no longer able to live in an unsupported place, she came home. Home to Kate’s mum’s house, where she’d spent all those years taking care of Kate as a little girl.

One more Christmas Tree for Margie

Home to some of the extended family she’d made for herself. Her sisters came up to visit at different times, and friends came calling as well. Some time passed, and we brought her faux Christmas tree over. Our kids helped her decorate it, old Christmas favourites playing on the iPad as Margie reminisced about Christmas' past. 

When the time came that she could no longer be supported in the house, she spent a few weeks at the Vancouver General Hospital palliative care ward. There was a hummingbird nested in a tree just outside her window. In First Nations culture, the hummingbird is seen as a healer and a bringer of love, good luck and joy. Margie loved that she had one nearby, and saw it as a positive sign.

A few weeks on, a hospice bed was found for Margie. There, too, Hummingbirds came to feed just outside her window. She decided that maybe those little birds were some of her guardian angels. Margie was an animal lover. She talked in her final weeks how she hoped heaven had a doggy daycare where she could tend to some puppies for her eternity. 

During her weeks in hospice, she had lots of pastoral care visits, visits from friends, one of her sisters came to stay with her for a long stretch, and we visited, too, of course. 

It was there, at St. John hospice on the grounds of the University of British Columbia, her journey ended. She passed peacefully, surrounded by some of that chosen family: Kate’s hand, which Margie had held so many times before, was there to hold Margie’s as she took her final breaths. There’s something about that which just seems so right to me.

Today we’re all thankful that Margie chose to answer the ‘help wanted’ ad for a nanny job, and we know that Margie’s been delivered into the hands of her loving God in whom she placed all her faith and devotion, and that she is reunited with the mother she lost so long ago, and that she is feeling no pain. During her funeral mass, Father Paul Smith noted that there are many roads in life. On Margie's road, there were a lot of potholes, but that doesn't mean she didn't experience a full, rich life, full of love and laughter despite some of her odds. 

Before her time was up, Margie wrote many of us letters, which we all received this week. In her shaky hand, she wrote to those she held dear. I was lucky enough to be on her list. I’m not going to share precisely what she had to say, but I will paraphrase this piece:  she promised that once she got to heaven, she’d make sure to say hi to my mom and dad for me, and to tell them 'thanks' for the way they raised me.

But that was just Margie. Giving a million times more than she ever got, I think. 

No doubt the pearly gates were flung wide open for you this week, Margie, and you strode through with big-hair-don't-care-attitude, singing praise that you've finally arrived at your Forever Home. God's noticed you all along, Margie, and he's glad you're around to liven up the place. 

You will be missed, “Aunty Margie”. We love you lots.

 

One year ago

One year today. Wow.

There are moments that I forget you are gone.

Like when I seek to phone my brother, but dial six of the seven digits of your phone number instead, so strong is that muscle memory of dialing the house line for decades.

There are moments when I forget you are gone.

Like when your granddaughter sticks her tongue into her cheek in a moment of intense concentration, and I think, ‘I must remember to tell mum how much Heidi looks like her when she does that’.

There are moments when I forget you are gone.

Like when the kids hit a milestone and I wonder about when I hit that milestone myself as a child, and I have an impulse to email you about it, or call, or get on Skype.

But in all those moments, I do snap to the realization that you are not here. I know it’s true: last year on this day, I held your hand as you confirmed your departure.

But in all those moments of remembering that you are not here,  I realize, that in fact, you are still here.

In the ends of my fingertips, in the face of my kids, in my deeply ingrained memories, you are still here.

And always will be.

I—we—miss you, mum. Love you.  

Remembering Lenami

At the time I got the call from my old boss, I was agonizing over spreadsheet data, spending what little time of sun there was over the weekend working on a head count, slicing data this way and that way.

At the time I got the call from my old boss, I was having trouble making sense of it all.

At the time of the call, I was grumbling under my breath about not brining my mouse home on the weekend, instead navigating the jungle of Excel spreadsheets with the trackpad on the laptop. The numbers were turning into four letter words.

After the call, the anger was gone, the four letter words replaced by a name. And after being awash in data and figures, there was a clear number in my head: One.

What my former boss called to tell me was that, in case I hadn’t already heard or seen the story, Lenami Godinez was dead.

Lenami Godinez, a witty, intelligent, interesting, soft spoken but self-assured 27 year old, born and raised in Mexico and living in Vancouver for the past nine years. She was also my friend and office mate in a very recent past; sitting ten feet away from me, eight hours a day, Monday to Friday.

"Lenami" is the word--the name--in my head, and ‘one’ is my consideration of her one life cut short this past weekend after a freak hang gliding accident that saw her freefall to her death.

One. One weekend that I stayed at home with the family to do family things, and do work things while the kids were napping.

One. One weekend that Lenami and her boyfriend chose to try something new, something adventurous.

I will remember Lenami for all those reasons stated above—a warm personality and a pleasure to be around—and more. She was passionately concerned for the environment, and she wasn’t someone who just talked about it. She tried to act for change, whether it was attending a free public lecture on global warming or making career moves to put her closer to an end goal of being able to affect change (she was hired on to the Ministry of Environment in past months), and even her choice of boyfriend was eco-considerate, he being an environmental engineer focused on renewable energy. Lenami was one of those people who stood for something, and you couldn’t help but admire her for it.

Willing to try new things, there were plenty of weekend outdoor adventures to be had that I would hear about when she came into the office in the mornings—bike trips, camping, painting apartment walls crazy colours while her boyfriend was away, finding her way into a random Karakoe bar with her boyfriend’s birthday entourage, subbing in for a local Ultimate Frisbee team... adventure comes in many forms, and Lenami was often looking for it, big or small...which is why even with an end so sudden and shocking as this, I am glad to know she was being herself, exploring the natural world in a brave, exciting new way.

Crunch the numbers however you like, but we only get one life on this earth. One. I will try to hold on to the thought that, before the fall, there was that one moment of new exhilaration, of stepping off the edge, of leaving land behind and being above it all like a bird.

My heart goes out to your boyfriend, your family, and your many friends, Lenami.

You will be missed, but today, we know that you are soaring.

To learn about a scholarship established in Lenami's name through Simon Fraser University, please visit http://www.rememberinglena.com/

Please consider making a donation.

The StuLand 2011 Year in Review / Merry Christmas

What do rats, compost piles and kidney disease, sibling rivalries, skunks, preschools, cancer, newborns and houses, all have to do with each other? Just another year in the Chase household, that’s all.

First, the rats and/or mice. This has been one of the few constants in our last year. No, we do not live in an unkempt cesspool. But we do live in a century house, and it comes with holes. Which rodents find their way into. And it drives us crazy. Doesn’t seem to matter what we do, they always find another way in. perhaps we can blame previous generations of ownership, I don’t know. Our house turned 100 this years. A century’s worth of owners means a century’s worth of home renos, the result of most of them seeming to be the burying of wonderful character, and perhaps the construction of an underground network of rodent tunnels built in the meantime as well? Who knows. If you have any iron clad tips for keeping rodents out, let me know. As for the house and state of the character on it's birthday: Glimmers of its old self are there. Exhibit A, the front entrance stairwell and upper landing, currently dressed for the holidays. After having it sanded down and re varnished a couple years back, the original honey coloured wood today shines through. The most unique characteristic of this is the wear pattern of countless footfalls resulting in weathered wood with blackened streaks, laying a path that has been trod for one hundred years. We plan to restore the banister down to the wood at some point, too, maybe in the coming year as part of a larger renovation that would bring a dramatic change to the house. We spent much of 2011 envisioning such a renovation, perhaps in 2012 we’ll get it done. For the time being, this railing is painted a crisp white. This approach has proven quite flawed, particularly in the last year, as the railing is the perfect height for gnawing on. Not by the adults or the dog or house mice, though. Rather, our kids, as they descend the stair case, stopping every once in a while to sample the paint (thankfully lead free). I wonder if previous owners faced such issues!

As for other rodents, many of you know about our adventures with pepe. Happy to report that after our summer cleanout, he never returned. We’ve had to shoo racoons and a cat off the roof,since then though. I have grown weary of urban wildlife this past year.

Alas, our own dog is adding herself to the urban wildlife scene, recently taking to navigating her way through our fencing and bushes to roam the neighbourhood. We thought she was trotting up the street to feast on the refuse from the Chinese grocer at the end of the block, but we’ve recently landed on the fact that she appears to be snacking without reserve on a neighbour’s uncovered compost pile. The stench on her breath is one thing, but we also, in the past year, have found our dog to be in rather ill health; it appears she may have a degeneterative kidney disease, so here we are trying to buy her time and keep her healthy with pills and blood tests and controlled diets, and she’s treating the neighbour’s yard like a personal all you can eat buffet.

As for the other kids in the house, the human ones, Sacha and Heidi have had a great year. Both continue to flourish and Heidi shows little sign of the fact that she was such an early arrival in 2010. It has been interesting to watch the dynamic of a 3.5 year old boy, of whom we are teaching rules, responsibility and order to, and his 1.5 year-old sister, to whom few of those things can concretely apply quite yet, though they are coming along nicely.
I am sure Sacha sees Heidi getting away with murder and it drives him crazy, which may lead to the occasional hair pull, head butt or bite, but on the whole, the pair get along swimmingly and use their words to sort out their differences. One arena of Sacha’s life where we were unable to sort out the differences was that of preschool. His was shut down mere weeks after opening due to near complete mismanagement, some of the results of which were quite frightening to behold. So, we have been trying to find alternatives to keep Sacha engaged with a peer group, and learning ‘schooly’ types of things. We look forward to 2012 being a more consistent year in that respect.

Speaking of biting--and also frightening to behold--I didn’t report it on this blog back in June, but I did suffer a substantial gash in my forehead this year, thanks to Sacha leaping off a pool ledge without prior warning. His lil’ chompers caught me at the hairline. His teeth were left in tact, but I needed a trip to the ER. Long story short, the human mouth is a filthy thing. I landed in St. Paul’s hospital with a massive cranium thanks to infection and swelling (any Goonies fans out there? Sloth?), aka Cellulitis. I’ll leave it to you, dear reader to look up the term and find out what it can lead to if not treated properly, but suffice it to say, after a week off work, IV’s, antibiotics and a miserable headache, I’ll be holding this one against Sacha for the rest of his life. The scar has healed well, thank you for asking :)

Last but not least, you may notice on the list above that the words ‘cancer’ and ‘newborns’ appear side by side. This is more than just mere coincidence. Fact of the matter is, the two things seem to coincide in our lives quite regularly. My dad was dealing with his colon cancer when his first grandchild rolled around, my son was born while mum battled breast cancer, and this year my sister has just delivered her first child, a daughter, on December 13th--mere weeks after mum underwent lifesaving surgery to remove a brain tumour, and mere days before she started some aggressive radiation therapy to try to deal with tumours that remain in her head. We are overjoyed that my sister has brought her baby into the world, and we know that soon, mum will be able to meet her newest grandchild face to face. All were to be together in the UK at my sister’s house for Christmas this year, but due to the emergent situation with mum, it just can’t be.

So what’s the takeaway from all of this? Especially the last part? Well, if you want to use a ‘Reason for the Season’ analogy, Jesus wasn’t born at the Ritz, was he? Mary barely made it to the stable. Best laid plans / Life is just like that/etc. There’s been bad in the last 12 months, like when my wife had her head, neck and torso shoved into the dark rafters as she tried to drag a stinky dead rat out from in the insulation. There’s been bad, like when I held mum’s hand before she went in for brain surgery. There’s been bad, like knowing my sister had a really, really tough pregnancy. But a lot of good has happened too. When the dead rats are gone the house smells good again, mum is still here to meet her new grandchild, and that newborn baby is crying in it’s parent's arms. The roof is still over our heads, we are steadily employed in a poor economy, our kids are healthy and growing, we get to travel here and there and enjoy our families, and the food is on the table whenever we needed it.

Some days we miss the good, but it’s always there.


from my family to yours, we hope that wherever you are and whoever you are with this Christmas and New Year, you have the time to reflect on your last 12 months, to realize all that you have, and to look forward to an exciting and prosperous 2012.

As one of our family members likes to say on such occasions: May the best of your past year be the worst of the year to come. May.it.be.so.

Happy Holidays,
Stu

Miss you dad / Happy Birthday Heidi

April 13

We knew this was the last 24 hours—or less—for dad. We were all gathered in the room at the Hospice where he had been transferred after a week at Royal Inland Hospital. Here at Hospice, he had a window-side bed which looked out over Kamloops. As a family, we spent time together with him in the evening. A sad time, but at the same time a relief knowing that he was beyond the pain at this point, and soon enough, he’d be beyond this world. We all stood in a circle around his bed. Mum said we should sing him a song, probably not a prayer though…not much his style. I said I’d had a Beatles song in my head all day. We sang.

Close your eyes and I’ll kiss you
Tomorrow I’ll miss you
Remember to always be true
And while I’m away
I’ll write home every day
And I’ll send all my loving
To you….

Just in case dad decided to leave in the night while we were sleeping, each of us before leaving sat close to the head of dad’s bed to share our thoughts with him, to wish him well and pay him thanks for all he was to us.

By 11:00 p.m. we had all headed out, except Mum, who was staying the night in the hospice.

The nurse said she’d call us at home if dad passed in the night, so we could gather once more, no matter the hour.

April 14

At one a.m., we were awakened from the few hours of sleep we’d had by the ringing of the phone.

***********************************

At 6:30 a.m., Kate woke up and suspected that the flu I’d gotten had come her way.

By 7:30 a.m., Kate was worried this was affecting the baby, and we’d called the midwives. Given Kate’s track record thus far for early birth, the midwife presumed it was nothing, but said she’d meet us at B.C. Women’s and Children’s hospital at 9:00 a.m. to check and be sure.

By 8:30 a.m. we were out the door en route to the hospital, a little terrified that Kate—still eight weeks off of her due date—was maybe, perhaps, but hopefully not in labour.

By 9:35 a.m. the fear of uncertainty of a premature child’s birth was behind us, replaced by Heidi, our little 4 pound 13 ounce daughter.

**********************************

And this, my dear little girl, is where I get in to my letter to you on the occasion of your first birthday. The event of your granddad’s passing was three years before you were born, and either by fate, fortune or folly the two instances happened to occur on the same day in the calendar.

As I said in my initial letter to you one year ago, the real significance of this is that your arrival on this day has helped the family redefine what April 14th means. I promise you, though, I’m not trying to turn you in to some sign from God that my father is up there watching us, and you were given to us on that particular day for just that purpose. That seems like too much weight for anyone to bear, and Lord knows you bore much weight in your early days. I will never stop recognizing April 14th as the day I lost my father, but I promise you I’ll not use your birth story from the same day in a way that makes you seem like a patch over a hurt, rather than the single, detached, stand-on-its-own amazing celebration of life that you are and deserve to be.

There was emotion in your birth like you would not believe, but as much as anything it was because we had to watch you in that incubator and isolette bed for weeks. It was because we could not hold you as much as we wanted and we couldn’t spend our nights with you. It was because doctors said you might be there until your supposed actual due date In June.

Let it not be said that you didn’t put all your might behind your four pounds. You were so excellent at hitting your milestones that you got to come home with us in 19 days. For a 32-weeker preemie, that’s tant amount to leaving burnt rubber on the floor of the intensive care unit as you peeled on outta there.

We held a little ceremony for you around the date of your originally assumed due date. We wrote down all the negative things we could think of about your birth that filled our heads and hearts, said them aloud and then threw them into a fire. It wasn’t only us who participated. Midwives, our doula, grandparents, aunts and uncles afar. They all sent in words even if they couldn’t join us in person, and we let those thoughts drift off entwined in the smoke from the fire.

We felt relief for ourselves, and for you. I think for the first time I really allowed myself to appreciate what a wonder you are; to see you clearly without bad memories clouding my thoughts.

I do have to apologize for our impatience in those early days, though, Heidi. Your mum and I, we wanted you to wake up, see some attention in your eyes, see you crack your first real smiles. Your state of 'newborness' went on for ages. Generally, that 'newborny' phase might go for three weeks and then babies start coming out of their sleepy little shell. But for you, it went on for months, and we really wanted to meet the 'real you'. You had enough going on though, and it wasn't fair of us to think like that.

But when you did come out of that shell, holy cow. You've come on like gangbusters. Now, you're a fantastic size. Not just for a preemie but for any baby. Enormity doesn’t begin to describe how adorable you are, though.

The way you chuckle: not an outward guffaw, but just a chuckle that shows how tickled you are—this is you. The way your face crumples completely and you wail in despair if not picked up post-haste by either your mum or I when we get home from work—this is you. The way you’ve learned to scoot across the floor, head down and cruising forward, after one of your brother’s toys, which you’ll try to rip from his hands unapologetically—this is you. That you tend to pet the dog’s fur rather than rip it out—this is you (and Nellie thanks you for it). That you not only play, but initiate, peekabo games with those around you. That you babble happily almost non-stop, though unfortunately sometimes at 4:30 in the morning—this is you. Along those lines, you’ve no idea what a light in the world you are when wake up happy every morning or after a good nap—your pleased little gurgles and coos are music to the world.

Cognitively, Heidi, “they “ say you’ll be a bit behind for a while due to your early arrival. But after 365 days of watching you not just grow, but excel and shine and turn into such a gorgeous little creature, I’ll be darned if you aren’t perfect right now. I can’t wait to watch what happens tomorrow and every day thereafter. I just know that Granddad Jim, from somewhere, like the rest of us, is just beaming at the sight of you.

Happy birthday, Heidi. Thank you for coming to us when you did, and for being who you are.

Love always,
Dad.

Life is Good

Sometimes we worry. It’s human nature.

Like these days, I’m wondering about work; about how I can please all my masters, from the internal ones (AKA The Boss) as well as the external ones like the producer who needs me to lock down filming dates ASAP but I still don’t have my cast and the script is still too loose. Or there’s the printer who has fiscal year end billing cut off deadlines and we don’t have our project to them yet. Or there’s the web development company that should’ve gotten back to me by now about my website glitch, but they haven’t.

Sometimes we worry. It’s human nature. Like these days, I’m wondering about the kids, about Sacha’s foot, upon which he ‘landed funny’ jumping off a chair this past weekend which prompted a visit to the ER and now Sacha may or may not have a wee crack in a growth plate. Or, I wonder about Heidi and how now that our almost-one year old is eating all sorts of solids, are we feeding her enough? The way she knocks back her meals and snacks, you’d think not!

Sometimes we worry. It’s human nature. Like these days, I’m wondering about house stuff. Like that DAMN skunk living under our porch and why we can’t get rid of it no matter what we try, and will it spray our dog again and if we should just kill it somehow and be done with it, or will I actually feel bad about killing off a creature of that size? But if I don’t kill it and we successfully get it to leave, then it will just become someone else’s problem. As for the porch it’s living under, I wonder if it’ll make it another year without caving in on us. Our house is 100 years old in 2011, and beautiful as it is, it shows its age here and here.

And I wonder and I wonder and I worry and I wonder.

And then I open the freezer. And there, tucked in to the right corner of the bottom shelf, is a half-full Ziploc bag of homemade snack mix. It’s been there since we moved in. Chex, cheesy bites, cherios, etc. And before it was in this freezer, it was in the freezer at my last house. And in the freezer at the place I rented before that. And before that, it was in my freezer when I lived in Edmonton.

And now you’re worrying about my mental health, and why I have an ancient bag of homemade snack mix in my freezer all that time.

It’s part of the last batch of snack mix that my friend Colin Cooper ever made, a week or so before he died in his sleep, his various health issues catching up to him when he was barely into his 20’s. March 8th is the anniversary of his passing. I keep that bag of snack mix in the freezer for…well, a lot of days only God knows why. But days like March 8th, I know why. It’s to remind me that I’m so lucky to be 31 and have all those worries on my mind.

Colin knew well enough about worry, and several years ago I noted on this blog that he survived a cancer that took his leg at the age of 13, and in his late teen years, he contracted a rare disease that I can’t even hope to pronounce that reduced his vision, hearing, robbed him of his voice and forced him to walk with a cane much of the time. But Colin rarely if ever complained about his lot in life, saying often that there was always someone worse off than he was.

2003 was a while back now, so I’m not about to crack into that bag of snack mix in my freezer. But I’m glad its there. A lot people miss you, Colin, and we’re thinking of you. On March 8th and often otherwise. Thanks for reminding me about the good life. I'm sure you'd be tickled at the thought of being memorialized in the existence of your snack mix ;)

You can donate to the Colin Cooper Award, which was established at the University of Alberta by friends and family, and is now handed out annually. you can contact the awards office by emailing awards@ualberta.ca or calling them at Phone: (780) 492-3221

A trip to the dump

Over the Easter weekend, Kate, Sacha and I headed on up to Kamloops to spend time at mum’s house. The usual visitations took place, Church on Sunday and a big family visit were in the mix as well. Also, mum asked me if I would be willing to make a ‘dump run’ for her.

One of Kamloops’ dumps is conveniently located quite nearby to the house, so, with an uninsured trailer it’s not a problem to fill up a load and transport your garbage without getting pulled over for your use of a fall-apart trailer with non-functioning taillights and an out-of-date license plate.

This particular weekend, mum asked if I would go into the backyard and empty out the root cellar space that’s under our mudroom. Translation: get rid of a bunch of crap that dad had stored under there for years for no reason.

The task was a trip down memory lane, both for the stuff that was revealed and because of the fact that the guy who put most of the junk there--my dad--has been gone for three years now, coming up almost to the day.

This photo shows a pile of miscellany, no doubt about it. But it's also a patchwork quilt of family history.


The door used to serve as the exit into our backyard; it was scratched to bits by successive generations of impatient family dogs. Why dad kept it is somewhat of a mystery, but my brother now plans to use the windowed portion of the door to create a mirrored wall hanging.

The yellow buoy came out of Shumway Lake, the location of my many years of sprint kayak training sessions and race weekends. It was adopted into our home (who knows why in the first place), and quickly became a giant dog toy for the then-family pooch, Rump. Rump would grab the thick rope that was attached to it and swing it around in circles like a hammer toss. Hilarious to witness, I assure you.

The swing—homemade, with chains that would pinch your hands if you weren’t careful—used to be attached to a lower limb of one of our two tall pine trees in the backyard. Luckily, childhood disappeared before the trees succumbed to an early death, thanks to Pine Beetle infestation. To have been a kid and witnessed not only the loss of your favourite climbing tree, but also the swing attached to it, would’ve been nothing short of devastating. I could go on about the tree as I think about it; climbing to the top of its great heights in swaying winds. That was a time before my fear of heights kicked in and a time before a parent would be criticized for letting their little kids climb 80 feet into the air, untethered and unsupervised.

The GT snowracer. The property of my brother and sister; a joint purchase that I said I wasn’t interested in. Truth be told, I was perhaps foolish to pass up the investment and I may or may not have had pangs of regret as I watched them scoot down snow covered hills with such speed and control.
Jamie made sure to remind me at every opportune moment that I was not party to ownership of said sled, and thus best keep my hands off of it, which I did with surprising restraint given the impetuous nature of my age at that time.

The big white thing: a rooftop car carrier. This carrier sat atop our Chevy Lumina van for innumerable Chase family trips; the car packed with three kids, two parents, some luggage and often one family dog, and the rooftop carrier took all the rest. It's last trip was to attach it to Kate's Toyota Echo, however. The tiny car had in it: me, Kate, My sister, and Matt, her now-fiance-then-boyfriend, and nellie the dog. The Eggshell, as the carrier was known, was strapped on the roof. Tiny car, huge carrier, ridiculous image. We were using the Duffy lake road to access Whistler, from Kamloops. a few too many switchback corners at speed, and we all heard it: "pop pop pop pop woooosh" as all four straps gave up on their vain attempts to cling to the Echo's roofrack, and the carrier shot off the side of the car. Thankfully, it came to rest in a ditch, rather than the raging river we had just crossed over. small blessings. the carrier was retired permanently after that weekend, but not thrown out until now.

And the last item in the photo: a testament to the scavenger who was my father. This red and white striped tarp is actually an awning from a KFC store. Undoubtedly, when one of his stores was under a renovation phase, he probably asked “what’s going to happen with that awning tarp?” and when someone said it was going to be tossed out, he said “you’re kidding?! Well, I’ll take it off your hands”… and it was promptly folded up and stored under the house, never to be used. A heavy duty, quality tarp is indeed what it is. Could be used for all sorts of things, and now that it has been revealed, maybe it will be.

Not pictured here are a myriad of other items one might wonder why anyone would keep, but dad did anyway:

• Two saw horses, so rickety and broken down you wouldn’t dare use them for fear of serious bodily harm while operating a saw as they collapsed underneath your project being held up by them at the time.

• A collection of metal poles used to hoist our old canvas tent trailer into position. The tent trailer is long gone, I can’t imagine why the poles would not have gone with it.

• My old basketball rim, once attached to the roof of the garage; I booked a lot of hours out front of the house, practicing to be a high school basketball star (editors note: Stu was NEVER, even remotely, a high school basketball star). it was so bent and broken where it used to attach to the garage that one would have to do some welding to get it back into shape. I had no idea that it had been saved, and as much fun as it was to reveal it, it was added to the scrap metal pile for delivery to the dump.

So, with the trailer all loaded up with “stuff”, I hitched it to mum’s car and retraced the path of one of dad’s favourite weekend activities: a drive to the dump.

The recycling section of the dump has been closed recently; some woman tripped, split her face open and sued the city, so they can’t have a “used” section any more. One of dad’s favourite things to do at the dump—whether in the used section or straight out of the trash heap—was to rummage for stuff to bring home after he’d dropped off his own crap. I can’t say for sure, but he probably bought home more than he took on more than one occasion. I sure do miss that…but at least the root cellar is finally cleared out.

April 14th marks the third anniversary of the passing of Jim Chase. We miss you dad.

Knowing Monique

You don’t need to know Monique to know Monique’s type, and to feel you know her well.

Heck, in all honesty, the only place I can say I know her from is the office. Well, that and unfortunately, bedside in a hospital room.

Our office lost a colleague to cancer this week. More than that though, we lost a friend.

When I first started my job in February of 2007, I was taken around and introduced to all the staff. I didn’t meet Monique that day. Nor the next, nor the one after that. When I started here, Monique was already off work, battling with breast cancer. So no, I didn’t get to meet Monique right away.

But I sure heard about her.

The Legal Office Manager here, Monique was clearly a friendly force to be reckoned with. Everyone talked about her, people took time to visit her after work and on weekends. People spoke of her calm nature, her soft-spoken demeanour and light-hearted way.


Finally, after months of my working here, she was able to return to work and by the time she came through my office door to introduce herself to me, I felt like I knew her.

I think, even if I hadn’t heard everyone’s stories about her, my first impression would still have been to say that she was a friend. And so it went from there. Monique was back. Happy, productive, with the aura of victory over the ugliness of cancer.

As I got to know her, personally this time, she came to learn about my mother’s battle with breast cancer, which was happening at the same time as hers. She also came to learn about my father’s passing from cancer a few Spring seasons ago. She lost her own father a year ago. As was Monique’s way, she did not dwell on her own trials and tribulations, but was always asking about others.
“How is your mom doing, Stuart?,” or “Any more follow-up appointments?” and “ So glad to hear she’s doing well.”

How could this woman care so much about other people’s woes when she had so much on her own plate? That was just who Monique was.

Well, Monique’s presence in the office didn’t last long. The cancer came back. Monique, forever faithful and optimistic was ready for the fight. With prayers and positive thinking, she was going to beat her cancer.

I saw her for the last time, on my birthday, when I went to visit her in the palliative care unit of Burnaby Hospital. Nauseous, thinned, tired and weakened by months of treatments and an unrelenting cancer, she was still impossibly optimistic.

I was able to visit with Monique one-on-one for a little while. No mean feat, considering the steady stream of colleagues and other friends in to visit her, and the presence of her seven siblings who had arrived in town to see her through her final stretch.

“How is your mom doing Stuart?” Even then, more concerned for others than herself. Monique spoke of her faith, of going to meet The Father, and of seeing her father again, whom she couldn’t wait to see again, just knowing he would be waiting for her.
“God has decided I don’t need this body anymore,” she said, and after a quick pause, “and at this point I agree with Him,” she said with a little bit of cheek in her voice.

We had our little visit--for a few minutes anyway--in the lounge of the care unit. She asked about my family, how my son was developing. We only had a few minutes to chat before she said she was tired and wanted to go lie down. I wheeled her in to her room and she lay down. I didn’t stay long after that, just enough time to say goodbye. When I say goodbye to someone in this situation, like I have in the past to others I prefer to say thanks rather than goodbye, so that's what i did.

“Thank you? For what?” she asked quizzically. My response was quick and to the point.
“Just for being you; for your life. We love you. You’re an inspiration, and I—and everyone—is better for knowing you.”

I followed that up by saying I was pretty sure it was the first time I’ve told a co-worker I loved them, but then, all of her colleagues have said it, and we all mean it.

She laughed a little then, as if she didn’t believe it I think.
“Take care, Monique,” I said on the way out the door.
“You too,” she replied. “Glad your mum is doing well,” she said again.

Her last facebook status, updated by one of her siblings, simply says “Today is the day I got my wings.”

You earned them Monique, no question. Thank you. We’ll miss you, friend.

Two Years and Counting...

Dear Dad,

Two years ago on this day, I went to bed at 6:00 in the morning after we as a family let you go in the dark of the middle of the night, April 14th 2007. Driving home that early morning, the sun rose into a clear blue sky and the colours of dawn didn’t well reflect the sadness we all felt that day.

This morning, rather than going to bed at six, I got up.

I was awakened today by several things. For one, the sounds of your grandson, happily gurgling away as he lay between Kate and I. For another, Nellie, chomping at the bit to get outside for her morning walk. And last but not least, a dawn no less picturesque than the one 24 months ago, streaming its light through the blinds we forgot to close before bed.

The dog, the baby, and I all went outside together to greet the morning. Sacha in his stroller gurgling happily as we rumbled along, Nellie off her leash, nose hovering just over the grass in search of dew-covered treats as we made our way over to the park.

Sacha doesn’t normally rise in time to come on the morning walks, but I was glad for his presence today. Perhaps he knew I would be thinking of you as I walked today, and wanted to share in that communion?

We know you’re out there watching it all go on, dad, but I just have to say out loud how great it would be for you to see what your family has become since you left. Your first Granddaughter, Aria, was so little then when you were able to hold her. And now, she’s a bright, healthy bubbling two year old. Then came Sacha James last June, and soon after came little Gabby.

Life goes on without you, dad, and though we all suffer a bit at the memory of you, we’re happy, all of us. Jamie, Kari and I, and mum, and all the rest. As I threw balls for Nellie at the park today—another dog owner on the field with me, oblivious to the true nature of my thoughts as we chatted—and as the sun rose over my sweeping viewpoint, light reflecting off the glass towers of downtown Vancouver and the snow on the north shore mountains taking on a pink and crimson glow, and Sacha, my happy, healthy little son who giggled as he watched the dogs run around, the little boy who you’ll never get to hold… well… All of it in the same breath, it’s the joy and tragedy of it all, isn’t it dad? Life goes on without you. You will not be here again tomorrow, and yet, the sun will come up again at about the same time, hopefully just as brilliantly as it did today.

Long story short, dad: we miss you. I miss you. But I’m okay. We are okay. I’ve lost friends and family before, we all have, and everybody does. In any of those circumstances but especially in this one, it is hard to put my finger on it and say definitively “this is okay, we are okay”, but at the same time, it is okay, and we are okay. I guess that’s what I want to say to you today dad, ultimately. We love you, we miss you, and we will be okay, if we are not already.
And so, I will wake up tomorrow with the sun—two years plus a day by then—and I’ll run the dog, and Sacha may or may not decide to be awake and come with us, and after that I will go to work and join the world and be the person you helped me to be.

Really, today is no different than any other day, as I think of you often and in different ways.

But today, in particular, I just wanted to take pause, to stop, and say that I love you, and I miss you.

Love,

Stu

Lest We Forget

Remembrance day, November 11th each year in Canada, is a time to reflect on the sacrifices that were made by men and women in the past wars of the last century.

Most specifically, of course, we think of World War One, and the gruesome images of close-combat trench warfare, poisonous gas clouds, and all that such a mode of combat entails. And, we think of World War Two, where war was elevated to a level of mechanization not seen before, and we think of the Holocaust and the millions lost in concentration camps. There are the Vietnam and Korean wars, too, that we must be mindful of when remembering the fallen. Though the number of lives lost in these conflicts was not as great as the first and second World Wars, the sacrifices made were no less significant.

I, as a Gen-X’er, consider myself to have a tangible connection to several of these conflicts. My parents are essentially the genealogical by-products of the end of WWII – The Baby Boomers. My mum, in particular, remembers growing up in her earliest years in post-war Britain and all that that held for her and her family. Her parents were a part of the war effort. My dad, born a few years later and in Canada, had a father – my grandfather – who was in the Canadian Navy and was deployed during Canada’s “forgotten war”, the Korean conflict which began in 1950. I remember, in 1996 after a trip to Halifax, I was showing my granddad some pictures I took of the naval vessels moored up in Halifax harbour. He laid his eyes on one photo of a Frigate.
“That’s the HMCS Sackville,” I remember him saying without blinking or pause. “Spent some time on her,” he said. The man knew his boats. And in that moment, I was connected to his past. The Sackville was a corvette class frigate built in the Second World War, and deployed in that conflict to accompany convoys and attack submarines. It was kept in service after the war, and that’s how my granddad came to know it, during his time in the service.

He passed away two years ago. My grandparents on my mom’s side have long since passed away. My own father is gone now, not that he was ever one to regale us with stories about his dad’s time in the service. The connections to that era are now frayed, to say the least.

My brother, though, spent some time as a reservist with the Rocky Mountain Rangers, and was deployed with the Princess Patricia’s Light Infantry Third Battalion for a sixth month tour in Bosnia, as part of the NATO stabilization forces deployed to that region after their civil war / war of aggression (the debate continues) was over. He was fortunate enough to occupy the region as a peacekeeper, and not to have to engage in conflict.

And I, a few years ago, took part in a Military Journalism program that allowed me some time in computer graphically-simulated battle zones, and some real time driving around in tanks and TLAVs. I don't think this qualifies as military service.

So the question is this: aside from being able to ask his uncle about what war might be like, where, in digging through the annals of my personal history, can I find a tangible connection for my own son, who as he grows older, will come to know of ugly things like war and why we ought to strive to avoid conflict?

There is the broader picture to look at, of course. We have WWII vets who still stand solemnly on Remembrance Day, and I can say “look son, these men fought so that you and I can be here today.”

I get that, but will he? How many years must past before the notion of old men fighting old wars becomes nought but pages in history texts? These vets won’t last forever, either. Their numbers grow fewer by the year. And what of WWI, the primary reason we recognize Remembrance Day on November 11th, which commemorates, as our generations know, the signing of an armistice peace accord at the 11th hour on the 11th day of the 11th month back in 1918. From this conflict, Canada has but one surviving veteran, and he, undoubtedly, will be gone before Sacha ever knows what they did for his freedom. The country has promised a state funeral for the last veteran to pass away. Even if Sacha was old enough to take in such a spectacle and understand it by the time it happens, this veteran has expressed no desire to be recognized in such a way. How very Canadian.

Long story short, how can I ask my son to Never Forget something to which I myself cannot literally remember, and to which he will have almost no connections?

The past will always be important, but perhaps the present should be more relevant to the next generation in learning why, as the literature says, War is Hell, and why it should be avoided. Sadly, there are plenty of other things going on in our world from which he can come to understand this brutal thing called war. War in Iraq, conflict in Afghanistan, etc.

I’ve read something along the lines that in the last century, there have only been 100 plus days of our collective global recorded history which do not show conflict. That’s pretty much only one day per year for the last hundred years where nobody is fighting about something. Christmas maybe? Who knows.

So, when Sacha will wear his poppy in the early days of November as we find it respectable to do in memory and thanks to those who have fallen for our freedom, perhaps that little red flower pinned to his lapel should stand for more than Flanders fields. It was bad enough when I, as a teenager, would stand in silence at my high school Remembrance Day assembly, only to hear people snickering. Even then, there were those who didn’t get it. I fear that by the time Sacha is in grade 12, he’ll have classmates who understand the true significance of that moment of reflective silence even less than those of my generation.

Perhaps that little poppy on his lapel needs to help him know more of Master Corporal Erin Doyle than it does to help him “remember” A/Lance-Corporal John Babcock. Does it dishonour the memory of the latter to think this way? I don't believe so.

One might hope that in learning about a soldier that his uncle Jamie knew, Sacha and all those like him will have a portal through which they might come to know of the sacrifices made by many men and women made today the world over, which in turn will also hopefully give Sacha and his contemporaries an appreciation for the courage that was showed by the brave ghosts of Canada’s past.

One way or another, it would be really nice if my son’s generation figured out ways which would mean no one would ever have to stand in silent remembrance of the violent sacrifices that they have made for peace. May it be so.

Jim Chase May 24, 1948 - April 14, 2007

When My brother, sister, and I were little, we all used to play t-ball. We've got pictures and super 8 footage of games and practices; Jamie standing on the pitcher's mound ( which is odd, as there is no pitcher in T-Ball...).

More often than not, dad was at the helm, coaching us. He had the same glove all the time we were growing up.
"It's older than you are," he'd say almost every time he brought it out for a practice or game.

As a T-baller, I was admittedly, not exactly the top of my game. Low self-confidence, awkwardness, and clumsiness were generally my best attributes at that age. And, even with a ball sitting atop the tee, I still couldn't hit it off. If I didn't chop the top off the ball with my bat, sending it dribbling just beyond home plate, then I'd hack at the Tee, and the ball would simply fall lifeless to the ground.

I can just picture my dad rubbing the back of his neck with his hand in frustration.

But there was one day, one game, that I have held on to for good reasons, not bad ones.

It was a typical at-bat for me. I had just spent my first swing, whiffing the bat over the tee without even touching the ball.





Now, dad was not the most ideal coach, as far as we could tell. Short-tempered at at times, and despite a mantra of "it's not winning or losing, it's how you play the game"... dad wanted to win.

I am convinced he'd have more hair if he had stayed away from coaching his kids.
But then, no. If he stayed away from coaching, I'd be without one of my very strongest memories of him and I as I was growing up.

"Time out!", my dad called from the bench. I turned to see him coming towards me at the plate.

He turned me back to the tee, and crouching over me, he placed his hands over mine as I held up the bat. And he leaned in close, with his face next to my ear, and he said "Stuart, it's simple. Just take your time. Keep your eye on the ball, and just bring the bat away from the tee, then back to the ball. away from the tee, back to the ball. Then swing. Simple."

And with that, he stepped back, and I reared back the bat, liked he showed me...

..and I hit him in the head. He walked away with a grin on his face as he rubbed his head.

I reset, and did it again. Eye on the ball, bring back the bat. bring the bat close the ball, repeat. Then swing.

And the ball leaped off the tee and into the infield. Beyond this point, I don't really remember if i ran, if I made it to the base, if I got tagged out, or stood there or what, But I remember that hit.

And I remember my dad's arms around me. There, in front of all those people, maybe not saying that he loved me, but showing it none the less.
From all the memories I have been sorting through--frankly, ever since he was first diagnosed with cancer, this is the one that has come back again and again.

Dad always figured that we hated having him as a coach, but with a memory like that, to last me a lifetime, how could I ever say I hated him as a coach. And it's through this memory, as well as the millions of others, that Dad gets to live on, that I can keep him earthbound.

And it is the same for everyone else. He is only a dad to me, my sister, and my brother, but he is also a brother, a cousin, a son, a husband, a friend, a co-worker,
a boss, a teammate. And all those people have their memories, too.

And some day, if I am so fortunate to have kids that play t-ball, like I did, and like my dad did, maybe I'll have the chance to come up to the plate, lean in close to the ear of my child and say...

..."now, this is how your Granddad taught me how to do it."

I miss you dad. I love you.

Death, and Birth (y'know, just the light stuff this week)

Overnight on September 27th, 2006, family man and avid fisherman Gordon Loutit lost his battle with lymphatic cancer. He’d been in the hospital for three weeks before he snagged snag the big fish that carried him upstream and away from us. It's said that a graceful death is the ultimate acheivement in life, and for all the months he was sick, and for all the weeks he was in hospital, there wasn't one complaint to be had...

...I first met Gord at Kate’s high school graduation in the spring of 1997—that was only the second “date” Kate and I went on, and needless to say, it's an odd thing to one's ENTIRE family all in one fell swoop so early on in a relationship. But that's what happened, and among the family members present: Gordon Loutit.

Technically he’s a neighbour, but more appropriately he’s been a father figure for Kate since she was born. As a young girl, Kate would spend hours at Diane and Gord’s house across the back lane when Kate’s mum was at work. In later years, when parental supervision didn’t matter, Kate could still be found over at the Loutit house, sitting in the kitchen drinking tea and eating brownies.

Gord would tell a fishing tale to anyone that would lend an ear, talk about the fishing show he caught on TV the night before, or tell stories about near anything for that matter. He loved to talk about construction projects going on around the city and province, to gripe about government, and fume about cost over runs on this and that. With a gleaming eye, a grin and a chuckle, Gord managed to pull me into one of his fishing stories at that high school grad of Kate's back in 1997. All I had to tell him was that I was from Kamloops, and that I hear he liked to fish. From there, I was told everything I could have wanted to know about the waters around Kamloops and the marine life that inhabited them. Instead of being a fish out of water, I was made to feel as comfortable with their family as I could have hoped.

Not an entirely docile creature, Gord would be quick enough to tell his grandkids to go play in traffic if they were annoying him, and would be more than happy to tell you when you’re wrong. But on the other hand, if you needed a ride to Timbuktu, he’d be the first to offer it. And if you needed something when you got there, he’d give you the shirt off his back. And naturally, he’d be there to pick you up when you wanted to get home again. Kate was ferried back and forth by Gord more times than she could ever count.

There’s a family that misses you now, a groove in the TV room chair that no one else will be able to fill, and a particular fish-motif coffee mug in the cupboard above the sink that will sit empty. Here’s to hoping the fishing ‘Up There’ is better than it ever was down here…

Tight lines, Gordie. We love ya.

---------------------------------------------------------

And now, on to new life... An update on the happy news I mentioned last time about my Sister in law being "with Child" as they say...

We got Pictures, baby! (pun intended...)
Here's the first ultrasound of the wee one! The Docs say he / she is perfectly healthy so far with a strong heart, and Dina reports that she can feel the baby moving around in her tummy now... in true Dina fashion, she likens this feeling to 'indigestion'...

I'm not entirley sure what to make of these pictures thus far... on the first image, my future neice / nephew looks a bit alien, and the second image looks more jellybean than human :) No doubt there's all sorts of cuteness just waiting to be formed! and it's perhaps more exciting to see the pictures than it was to hear the announcement in the first place---It's real now!!

That all being said, it was my brithday this week, as well as Dina's brithday, which falls on this very day! Given those facts, and amidst the birth and death going on around me, I can't help but remind myself that in between, there's lots of life to live!

"To everything there is a season,
and a time to every purpose under the heaven:

A time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted..."

Ecclesiastes 3

In Memoriam: The Gipper 2002-2005

Today, I remember an old friend (to be read in slow, eulogizing style).

His name is The Gipper, my 1989 B2200 series Mazda pickup truck. My first car, bought when I was 22 years young.

Though made back in '89, he came to me in 2002. He needed a home, and I needed a vehicle for my move to Edmonton.

And so, with an exchange of $2,000, it was less a transaction than the start of a relationship. A love-hate relationship, that is.

If I had unlimited funds, I admit, I'd love to get you running again, but I don't have the resources, or the lack of sense to pump any more cash into that lemon. But seriously, I love ya, Gipper.

over the last few years, The Gipper has received a few costly transplants and upgrades. Most notably, a replaced transmission, the usual brake work and oil changes, a new bumper when some jackass rearended me. It cost a lot, but all is fogiven when I think of the good times on the open road, camping in the back of you, or the way the wind would roar through the cab when a kayak was tied to your roof.

I chose to ignore the shocks problem, and I basically learned to drive a standard with you, so the clutch had to be replaced somewhere in the course of our relationship. But our love can never be replaced.
You'd take half an hour to warm up properly, the Chernobyl-sized curl of black smoke finally reducing to a mere Three-Mile Island cloud of grey. But radiate in my heart you always will.

remember the time someone broke into you while parked outside the house on a cool spring night in Edmonton? Your locks were never the same, and the thief got 65 cents in loose change and a pack of gum--they could never take your soul though.
Never.

Oil still to this day leaks into the fuel line, and the battery is so weak from my monthly habit of leaving the headlights on (thanks to all of you over the years that helped me jump start the truck) that now, a jump start is the only way to get you going.
Yes,you had your foibles, as do we all. You were always good on gas though. >sniff<

But now, it's time to part ways. You've got a future ahead of you as a Kidney car, Gipper, and you're gonna do good things. The money the BC kidney foundation will get for your resale will go towards their programs. And, if they can't sell you (c'mon, who wouldn't want you), they'll strip you down and sell your parts--memories and
all--and you'll probably bring in even more money for the BC kidney Foundation than if you get sold as a whole vehicle.

And me, I'll be left with a $60 dollar tax receipt and the remembrance of our time together. The rubber ducky with the sunglasses has been taken off the rear view mirror, the dancing hula girl has been pried off her sticky pedestal on the dash, and the CD car kit ejected from your old school radio / tape player one last time.

You were a piece of shit, Gipper.
But you were my piece of shit, and I loved ya.
When the Kidney foundation tows you away this coming Tuesday morning, I know what I'll be thinking.

They say that you never forget your first one.
You haven't even left the car port yet, but you know what?

I already know that they're right.