Keep Calm...

Computer, show me the way to Balsam Lake!

Looking forward to a couple of days of camping at Balsam Lake Provincial Park. We've never been to Balsam Lake but the inter-web tells me it is a family friendly camp with a beach, fishing, canoeing and hiking trails. More than enough to do for the 4 days we will be there.

Take Time To Rest Your Eyes

“Vacation Sex”: A Poem by Dorianne Laux

We’ve been at it all summer, from the Canadian border
to the edge of Mexico, just barely keeping it American
but doing okay just the same, in hotels under overpasses
or rooms next to ice machines, friends’ fold-out couches,
in-laws’ guest quarters—wallpaper and bedspreads festooned
with nautical rigging, tiny life rings and coiled tow ropes—

even one night in the car, the plush backseat not plush
enough, the door handle giving me an impromptu
sacro-cranial chiropractic adjustment, the underside
of the front seat strafing the perfect arches of his feet.
And one long glorious night in a cabin tucked in the woods
where our crooning and whooping started the coyotes

singing. But the best was when we got home, our luggage
cuddled in the vestibule—really just a hallway
but because we were home it seemed like a vestibule—
and we threw off our vestments, which were really
just our clothes but they seemed like garments, like raiment,
like habits because we felt sorely religious, dropping them

one by one on the stairs: white shirts, black bra, blue jeans,
red socks, then stood naked in our own bedroom, our bed
with its drab spread, our pillows that smelled like us:
a little shampoo-y, maybe a little like myrrh, the gooseberry
candle we light sometimes when we’re in the mood for mood,
our own music and books and cap off the toothpaste and cat

on the window seat. Our window looks over a parking lot—
a dental group—and at night we can hear the cars whisper
past the 24-hour Albertson’s where the homeless couple
buys their bag of wine before they walk across the street
to sit on the dentist’s bench under a tree and swap it
and guzzle it and argue loudly until we all fall asleep.

The Source of Frustration

Letter I just sent off to the President of The Source, Charles Brown:

Hello,

Regarding: 

The Source, Store #55113

Morningside Crossing

4525 Kingston Rd  Unit #H7

Toronto  ON, M1E 2P1

(416) 282-4406

I went to The Source store (see above) near my home on June 8, 2014, to exchange the batteries on my cordless handsets for one replacement (payable by me as it was an original battery) and two replacements (which I thought were covered by a warranty sold to me by this same store a year or two ago.)  At the time that I bought the warranty, I bought two batteries and was told that the batteries were easily identifiable as being from The Source and that my warranty information would be kept on the stores database.  I was told that coming in for replacement batteries would not be a problem even without a receipt.

I walked in to the store with my kids (9 and 13 years old) for what I thought would be a 10 minute trip to the store.  The trip to this store, for the exclusive purpose of just exchanging my batteries, took 35 minutes.

I explained to the sale person (Faraque) that I thought my batteries were under a warranty and that I was looking to replace my dead batteries.  From the start, Faraque told me that I should simply get a new cordless phone set from the store.  That getting batteries would be too expensive.  I thought that he did not understand that two of my handset batteries were covered under a warranty and since the batteries cost about $25 each that it made more sense for me to just buy one set of batteries and replace the other two as per my warranty.  I explained this to him again.

When we returned to the sales counter, Faraque checked my battery type and said that this store did not have any batteries of the type I needed but that I could go to two other nearby Source stores to get my replacement batteries.  I was surprised that The Source did not have even one of the three replacements I needed.  So I went to the shelf with the batteries and managed to find one of the type of batteries I needed.  As I continued my search, Faraque insisted that I stop looking for more of the same batteries.  He said that he missed seeing the one battery that was in the store and his computer was not showing any other stock in the store.  Just the one I had found.

As it turned out, Faraque was right.  Unable to find another battery, I went back to the counter.  Faraque then asked me for my contact information for the second time.  I gave him this information and then after a long search told me that only the batteries for one handset were covered under a warranty but not from the second handset.  I told the sales person how he knew, without me having a receipt, that the battery inside the one handset contained a battery previously bought at the source.  He said that the batteries sold at the The Source have numbers unique to The Source.  I wondered than how my two batteries bought at the same time a few years ago were not equally covered?  Why would a customer put one set of batteries under warranty and not the other?  And since he recognized that both batteries that I was claiming were under warranty, were from The Source, could he not make an exception?  I asked him to check his records to see that I was indeed a loyal customer of this particular location?  He said he had a charger of some sort which I had, in the past, also put under warranty.

Faraque insisted that he could replace one battery under the warranty but offered me no other options.  He did not offer to call nearby stores, or check to see when a shipment of this particular battery might be coming in or offer any other alternatives that might have been open to him.  Since I did not have a receipt and I was relying on The Source to keep track of my warranty purchase, I had to admit that there was not much I could do to pursue the warranty on the second battery.  When I asked what Faraque thought I should do to replace batteries for my other two handsets, he suggested going to the other Source stores or buying similar batteries from some electronics store.

I finally asked this sales person to print a receipt of some sort showing that I had requested and gotten a replacement battery from the store under my warranty.  The printing of any kind of document, I said to him, would be fine: such as my warranty or a receipt.  Faraque said that since they were using a new computer system, the printer was not working properly.  At this point I became very upset, but not abusive.  I wondered how a store that specializes in selling electronics could not get their cash register to send a print command to their printer.  Eventually, after a 5-10 minute delay, a document was printed out.

Once the document which was printed was brought from the back of the store, Faraque handed me a plain piece of paper on which he had handwritten the identifying numbers of my battery type.  I insisted that I get the paper that he had actually printed out that carried identifying numbers on it for my records as I was going to be calling the customer complaints line due to the terrible customer service I had gotten at this store.  Faraque then told me that the print out which he had produced was for store use only and was private.  Then, Faraque, challenged me by saying: ‘why do you want to call the customer complaint line?’  So I went over the facts of my visit thus far for him:

1. I came in to replace my batteries 30 minutes ago

2. He asked me to buy an entire cordless phone set

3. Insisted he didn’t have the batteries I needed

4. When I found the batteries I needed in the store

5. He insisted that there was just the one and I should go elsewhere for my other batteries

6. Then he found my warranty but only for one set of batteries

7. Then he couldn’t print a receipt or warranty information for me

8. When he did print warranty information for me….he couldn’t give it to me because it was private

9. Then he tried to simply give me a handwritten piece of paper

10. And was now challenging my idea of calling a customer complaints line like there was nothing wrong at all with all our interactions.

At this point, Faraque finally decided to hand me the print out from the printer.  Since there were no phone numbers on the print out I had been given, I asked for an 1-800 customer service number from him.  Faraque began by giving me a 705 area code number.  I protested and asked if there was no one number that a customer could call to lodge a complaint about service.  Faraque said that he was not aware of any other numbers and that the 705 number was for the head office for The Source.

After about 35 minutes of trying to get a helpful answer from this employee, I finally headed out the door (with my kids in tow) without a word from this sales associate or the other two sales people who were in the store.

I am deeply disappointed that someone who works at a well known chain store such as The Source would be so cavalier with the loyalty that I have shown, especially to this store, over the years.  I assure you that I do not plan on going to this store ever again

I will not be shopping at The Source ever again.

Home again and then some

I returned home on June 30th and have spent all this time recovering from the nightmare of symptoms I brought home with me.

On July 1st I ended up visiting the emergency department of Centennary Hospital to complain about my extremely painful headache and neck pain.  Symptoms of my stomach flu had abated.  Both the fever, listlessness, headaches, photophobia, sensitivity to noise and general achiness had combined to give the impression that there was more going on with me than just an exacerbation of a migraine and a stomach bug.  Meningitis was the first guess for the doctors in England.  A CT scan and then a lumbar puncture prove this to be wrong.

What I came home with, then, was a massive migraine and the subsequent pain of having neck, shoulder and cranial muscles which had gotten a work out that they could not recover from.  I needed pain killers to help me get through the day and and muscle relaxants to help my muscles revert to their normal state.

The emergency room doctor gave me migraine medications and then, when that didn't work, morphine.  I was sent home with a referral to a neurologist and narcotic pain killers.

I saw the neurologist the next day: a stroke of luck as they had cancellation.  The neurologist, a weird bird who made little to no eye contact and misread my information thinking I had had meningitis, prescribed Percocets (40 no less) for the pain.  And a requisition for an MRI.

The following day, not trusting entirely in the neurologists 3 minute assessment, I followed up with my GP.  The GP, whom I totally trust, told me to stop the Percocets and put me on steroidal meds to decrease my muscle inflammation and Pregabalin to reduce my sensitivity to pain.  The pregabalin, from what I can gather, coats nerve cells and reduces their ability to communicate with each other.  In my case, I think I had become oversensitive to pain or even the anticipation of the pain I would experience.  Not sure if this make scientific sense...but it's my sense of what was going on:  I needed my muscles to relax enough to recover, I needed to reduce muscle inflammation and the GP rightly added, something to take the edge off.

So it's been two days of being on this regimen of steroid and neuropathic analgesics to set my back on even keel.  I have never, ever experienced anything like this.  I did not even know that I had more than an occasional migraine (once every six months).

I have spent most of my days back in Toronto lying around the house, hiding from sudden changes in light and walking gingerly from one spot to another.  I have, thankfully, gotten better each day and am contemplating going out to do some gardening tomorrow.

My sister in England, in the meantime, has been moved to her hometown's hospital as was her husband much earlier.  They are both reported to be doing well.  She is out of ICU and able to communicate fairly well.  She still has a tracheostomy in place and so cannot talk.  Otherwise making slow, measurable progress.

And that is what I have today in the way of updates.

June 30, 2014 Denoument

As I write, I am sitting at Manchester Airport waiting for a flight to Washington D.C. and then to Toronto.

Yesterday afternoon, the results for my lumbar puncture came back negative.  I was discharged soon after.  What I actually had, I think, is a nasty stomach bug and a migraine.  My stomach is in knots and my head continues to hurt on and off.

Arranged for a train ticket from Nottingham to Manchester.  Booked my flight to Toronto.  Booked my hotel in Manchester, close to the airport -- or so I thought!

Before leaving the hospital I visited my sister who is still in ICU.  She was awake and doing much better since I last saw her two days before.  She was able to communicate by mouthing her words.  She can write somewhat.  Seeing her for only 15 minutes, I tried to be as reassuring as I could and said good-bye with only a little bit of guilt but a lot of relief too.

The train ride from Nottingham was unremitting torture as I had the stupid luck of sitting beside two lovely looking kids and their inattentive mother.  The kids received sweets to placate them and tirades to try to shut them up.  Neither reinforcers worked and mom was very occupied with her phone.

The hotel I booked was not as close as it first seemed and a taxi ride of £20 was needed to get me there.  I took a looooong shower to soothe my aching back (from the lumbar puncture, three needles all together) and went out for a quick bite to eat.  By this time it was 10 p.m.

Managed to speak to Marsh to inform her about my arrival in Manchester and fell into a almost undisturbed sleep.

Are you kidding me? June 28, 2014

I have spent the past few days disconnected from the world.  Have spent a lot of time with my sister's 2 daughters and their partners and kids.  My sister's prognosis is uncertain and she continues to need help to breathe although less so now.  She is making tiny bits of progress each day which is heartening.

I had been feeling somewhat tired and this was followed by an unrelenting headache and symptoms that felt like the flu or gastro-enteritis.  This started on June 26, 2014.  My birthday of all days!  By yesterday, June 28th, I was feeling so badly (fever, headache, nausea, lack of energy, achy joints) that I went to a walk-in.  After assessing me at the clinic, the nurse called for an ambulance and I was admitted to the same hospital where my sister currently is.

They suspect meningitis and are conducting tests to exclude this.  I am much better as I write (June 29th) this due to rest, antibiotics and pain medications.  Last night I had a CT scan of my head.  I assured the technician there was nothing in there for them to see....nevertheless, had the scan.

I may have to put up with a procedure called a lumbar puncture today.  It involves putting a needle into my lower spine and drawing spinal fluid to determine if there are any signs of infection (higher white blood cell count, presence of bacteria).  A doctor who seemed very tentative in conducting the test was beginning the procedure on me last night, when I called the procedure off.  He was not inspiring any confidence in me of his abilities.  The last thing I want is someone who is unsure of that particular skill of theirs poking around my spine.

Crazy turn of events.

I worry about Marsh and the kids being on their own after all this time and of course, miss being with them at home.  Hopefully, I can return to Toronto soon.

I was also expected to return to work on June 30th or July 2nd.  But this seems less and less likely and is also worrying me.

Toronto to London to Nottingham June 19, 2014

On June 17, 2014, I received a call from my father informing me that my eldest sister and her husband, who live in England, had been in a car accident and were in the Intensive Care Unit of a hospital in  Nottingham.  My sister was not able to breath on her own and my father asked me to fly to England.  Although it remained unspoken, the understanding was that her situation was desperate and there was (is) a real possibility that she may die due to her injuries.

At the time, it was unclear whether my sister was in London or Nottingham.  I did not have the name of the hospital she was in or any other details concerning her prognosis.  Nevertheless, by the afternoon on Wednesday (the 18th) I had booked a ticket to Gatwick Airport.  And then the calls began to pour in: First from my sister’s youngest daughter and then her two older sisters.  Between the three of them, they had me, as they might say, “all sorted out, yah?”  Before I left Toronto for England, Shamina (middle daughter) had made a reservation at a hotel in Nottingham close to the hospital.  Azra had offered to have me stay at her place in Nottingham and Azmina had offered to have her husband drive me from London to Nottingham — a distance of 170 miles.  In the end, I took a cab from Gatwick Airport to Nottingham as it turns out to be cheaper to drive than to take the train.  Plus, the added headache of schlepping my baggage from the airport to London and then changing trains in London to go to Nottingham would not have been worth the effort.

Before leaving Toronto I learned that the hotel I was staying at looked really nice, at least on TripAdvisor.  My sister’s condition was somewhat improved and she was to go for an operation to repair injuries to her stomach.  Her ribs, lungs and liver were also effected to the point that they were not functioning.  Scary stuff.  But crisis is a mode of work I am familiar with and so my attitude has been to almost downplay the severity of the injuries until I physically see my sister.

Air Transat:  Remind me never to fly this poor excuse for an airline.  Their seats are narrow to the point where my 5'5", 145 lbs frame could not find a comfortable position with which to recline, relax and sleep.  My seat cushion was so old and beaten up that as soon as I sat on it I could feel the hard bottom of the chair.

My niece had arranged a cab to pick me up and ferry me to the hospital in Nottingham.  A place called the Queen's Medical Centre which serves the same role in this part of England as Sunnybrook Health Sciences Centre does for much of Ontario -- It is a recognized and highly regarded trauma centre.  "Being the largest hospital in the East Midlands, it has a busy accident and emergency unit, and is the primary destination of the Lincolnshire & Nottinghamshire Air Ambulance, for more seriously injured patients. Being part of the University of Nottingham, it can call on the choice of highly qualified doctors in their respective fields. It is the East Midlands main hospital for acute cases." (Wikipedia).  The cab ride took about three-and-a-half-hours.  I napped and chatted with my Indian cab driver.  Cost: £150.00.  Ridiculous and yet necessary considering the circumstances.

My sister had been brought out of the operating room where they worked on her bowels.  When I saw her she was in Intensive Care, intubated, with many tubes coming out of her.  Her bowel had been stitched back together and she was not breathing on her own.

Officially Tired

I had written this little post back in February, but never got around to publishing it.  So here it is.  The clouds have lifted since that time. phew!

I am either tired and plagued with a low-level cold or the winter blues have come early. One of the reasons I dread winter is that inevitably, every winter, sometime around January and definitely in February, my energy levels dip to the point where it seems impossible to keep up with my work AND my home duties at the same time. Lethargy, a feeling that I am physically sick in a flu-kind-of-way, and a general inexplicable malaise sets in.

I'm sure that to my wife and other observers I seem not to be paying attention to details, slow on the uptake, cynical in my outlook and lacking in enthusiasm in general.  I know what motivates me at these times: socializing with friends, regular vigorous exercise, concentrating on a single project for which I have an enthusiasm.  The project could be putting together a newsletter, working on my blog, or patching and painting a room.

Another thing that helps is getting away to a warmer locale for scuba diving or just a jaunt, as I've done in the past, such as Miami, The Bahamas, or a similarly warm spot.  Even if for two or three nights.  The sunshine, warmer air and the complete change in scenery re-charges me long enough until March ends and brings with it the, usually false, promise of warmer weather.

So here's to all you depressives out there; you emotionally labile; sun-starved; grey-sky-hating curmudgeons!  Hang in (for yourself) and hang out (with friends and family); make events of the uneventful; and day-by-day you will find yourselves closer to your ideal in every way: shorts and sandals, pools, crickets and late night ice cream cones on the steps of some little church in a residential neighbourhood.

Brushes with Illusory Superiority

Last year, on a rainy weekday afternoon, I stood outside one of the Centre for Addictions and Mental Health's (CAMH) buildings having a smoke with the father of one of my clients.  The client was an in-patient and I had just completed a visit along with his father.

As we stood under an overhanging bit of cement to avoid the rain; at the side of the building and far from any doors or windows, a young lady, dressed in nurse's garb, approached us and informed us that CAMH was a smoke-free facility and that included the side of the building, in the laneway leading to an underground garage.

I thanked the 20-something nurse and instead of moving on she decided to stand 5 feet in front of us and told us, "You need to put your cigarette out or leave the property."  Words were exchanged and she asked where I worked and I asked her if she was with the CIA or was even a security guard?  I tried pretending to ignore her and looked back towards her (still five feet from us) and looked startled to see her.  "Are you still here?" I said.  She told us the all important smoking rule.  At some point I ignored her.  The father of my client simply stood smoking his cigarette with not a word said.

Eventually, both of us smokers stomped out our cigarettes and the nurse-enforcer moved on with more choice words.  She ostensibly left to go to call a security guard.

That was then, a few weeks ago I drove down to Kensington Market to have some grilled cheese sandwiches with the kids.  We found a parking spot right in front of The Grilled Cheese!  It was, unfortunately, a little tight.  Nevertheless, I tried to sneak my Nissan Versa into the spot...misjudged my distances and ended up bumping the car in front of us.

As soon as I bumped the Corolla in front of me, a man in a mini van one car length ahead of me lowered his window and craned his neck out and looked back at our car.  The kids started chattering all at once and I was a little embarrassed and wondering what to do next.  In the 30 seconds after the initial bump, a lady appeared at the front of my car, near the Corolla I had hit. She had exited from the mini van which was now parked on the opposite side of the road on the curb.  She began to harangue me: "Are you going to leave a note?  You hit this car, you know?"

"Yes I know, I'm in the car!" I say.

Nevertheless, she continued, "Are you going to leave this person a note?"

At this point, I fully rolled my window down, with my kids trying to disappear into their seats, I ask, "Yes, I'm going to leave a note...is there any reason why you're assuming I won't leave a note?"

"Well I hope if someone hit my car someone would do the same for me!"

"Do you own this car? And why are you assuming I won't leave a note?" I ask

She repeats, "You should leave a note for them!"

"Is there a reason you think I won't do the right thing?" At which point she walks away looking exasperated.

I pulled my car out of the spot.  Parked across the street halfway on the curb and start writing a note for the absent owner of the Corolla with my name and phone number and stick the note under the Corolla's wipers.

So...what was the reason for this haridan's harangue?  Why was she so concerned with the absent owner's well being and not that of my car or my kids?  Why was she not trying to help me to get out of the tight squeeze I'd gotten myself into and instead chose to try to publicly shame me?

As to the anti-smoking zealot: Do you know this woman?  She usually carries a re-usable mug for her Starbucks coffee.  She drinks chai tea, likely with a squeeze of Yak's milk or something equally esoteric and "all-natural" and, of course, "organic".  If ostriches could give milk she would be on this next.  She does not know that Chai is Tea.  The irony of ordering chai-tea or tea-tea is lost on her.  She wears a Columbia or MEC jacket and goes to the salon to have her hair highlighted every 5-6 weeks and thinks it is fair trade to pay at least $100 for the service.  At lunch time she will eat pistachios and a leafy green salad with sunflower seeds sprinkled on top and the latest brand-name Greek yogurt on the side.  She definitely rides her $800 bike to work everyday and insists on bringing it into the building to keep it from getting stolen.  Her glasses are name brand and funky and cost almost as much as the bike.

She grew up in a well-to-do family in a large house.  She is well educated and dedicates herself to her work with a single-minded intensity; lest someone should accuse her of not being genuinely dedicated to the betterment of mankind.  She may even be union steward, which only helps to buttress her belief in herself as all-good.

Who, really, was this 20-something woman? How did she come to the place in her life where she feels it is within her ambit to tell a close to 50 year old and a 70 year old where to stand and how to do it?  Where was her fear of getting clobbered?  How can she feel so entitled and self-righteous that she is willing to, with no immediate effect, to stare down a couple of old guys for a full 5-7 minutes?

One possibility for the behaviour exhibited is an assumption on the part of  people to a natural superiority over others based on the assumed status, sometimes economic (they look poor, dress poor, they're white, they're white trash), sometimes racial (they don't know any better, they're black, brown, etc. therefore need to be told how things should be or they are naturally criminal and we are not).

Another possibility is a the Dunning-Kruger effect: " cognitive bias in which unskilled individuals suffer from illusory superiority, mistakenly rating their ability much higher than is accurate."  This article from Psychology Today doesn't speak exactly to my rant or conclusion but is interesting reading nevertheless.

As to the owner of the Corolla, he called me two days after the accident and said that since the bump scratched his car in one spot, he was willing to settle for $50. I countered by suggesting that a cheque for $100 would be more reasonable. He was grateful and I mailed the cheque the next day. 

Rest Your Eyes on Lake Bell

Lake Bell has by no means replaced my perennial boyish crush on Julia Roberts, but she is a close second.  While she is beautiful, it was her turn as a marine biologist on a TV series entitled "Surface" which made me think, hmmm, what a "pretty woman."

And then, as I looked her up on the IMDB website, I came across this little promotional video which she made for her Maxim photo shoot.  I know, I know, you think Maxim and you think flesh and pervert, but this little promotional video is all Lake Bell -- That is, well, you'll see.  She definitely is not beautiful or sexy just for her looks.  She's got a great sense of humour and if you care to look it up, her movie, still out in the repertory theatres in Toronto, which she wrote, directed and acted in has won some impressive awards.  The movie? In a World won the screenwriting award and the Grand Jury Prize at the Sundance Festival.

Year	Result	Award	Category/Recipient(s)
2013	Won	Waldo Salt Screenwriting Award	Lake Bell For its laugh out loud comedic moments, its memorably drawn characters and its shrewd social commentary.
	Nominated	Grand Jury Prize	Dramatic Lake Bell

Here's the promotional video for Maxim, or follow this link or this link if the embedded video doesn't work for you. 

Vidivodo.com : lake bell - maxim photo shoot  : lake_bell maxim tv

Duck Season? No Thanks!

It's not often that the Common Urban Urbane Domesticated Male gets to bag an animal guilt free. Kill a squirrel and the nice old lady across the street will be sure to call down the full weight of the law upon you.

Vermints like raccoons are plentiful and offer easy pickins but the freshly turned dirt and traces of lime inevitably attract choppers overhead.

The workaround is to go away on vacation, leave a banana on the kitchen counter and return to a house full of fruit flies. Easy peasy, prayers answered.

Wasn't me that started the weaponization of the flower vase; t'was the boy.  What's that sayin' 'bout the apple not falling far from the tree?

In order to succeed at this cat and fly game, you need a large container (wife's flower vase/coke or whiskey bottle or some such thing). A piece of paper rolled up conically and taped so it won't come unfurled. And a bit of Saran Wrap with a too small a hole pocked in it for your conical paper.

For bait, any ol' smelly bit of fruit will do. As will a bit of vinegar with banana pieces. Peel or actual banana; makes no difference to yer prey.

The pictures explain this better than all these high-falutin' words.

My boy and I...we caught us 20-30 fruit flies in under 3 hours.

A microwave is a wonderful and discrete tool. BUT, for the record, we jus' released them to the open air and sat down to a few beer after. 

Bene Gesserit Litany Against Fear

I must not fear. Fear is the mind-killer. Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration. I will face my fear. I will permit it to pass over me and through me. And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path. Where the fear has gone there will be nothing. Only I will remain.

Updates

I was looking through my posts over the years with Tarah and came to the realization that even the most mundane posts are actually very meaningful in retrospect. For example, one of my older posts had to do with what Tarah was saying (pronouncing badly) as a toddler and what this actually meant. Seemingly silly but now, with Tarah next to me, a time machine of sorts that helps us spend meaningful time together and remember things that we would have both forgotten.

And this brings me to the reason why I have not written a single post in such a long time. Besides feeling pressed for time, I've actually been thinking that there is nothing "important" that I have to write about. But things, like photographs taken with 110 camera in 1978, become important when viewed through the tunnel of time.

So here are my seemingly mundane updates -- for the record:

1. I am undecided this year as to what will be our summer getaway. Last year we rented a positively decrepit old cottage and went camping into the interior of Algonquin Park. This year, I'm thinking, lazily, that a city holiday (Ottawa, Kingston or London) would be just the right kind of relaxation and entertaining for the kids. So, in a word: undecided.

2. I have been working, very slowly, on a series of connected vignettes, a story in moments. The main character is revealed, as is the absent son, through these short passages. I'm not sure where it's leading or if I will ever finish it. I may be borrowing my friend's cottage for a few days to try and write some more.

3. Work is still stimulating. The dearth of resources and the unrelenting stream of hard-luck stories is daunting. The system only gives the illusion of a single inter-related piece of work. Like farmer's fields seen from the window of an airplane, the illusion is of a single large quilt; the reality is each field is individually owned and used for very different purposes, with only a vaguely common purpose. There is, it seems, no one person or group of persons, who understands how the system is set up and what parts of the system are servicing their clients well and which parts are failing them.

4. Tarah is learning to swim very quickly and, Seth says, she can now ride her bike.

5. Seth attended a video game programing camp at Seneca College and is now off for two weeks. We have seen three movies this summer and this may be the summer of movies for us.

Posted with Blogsy