Larry Gibbons' Blog

September 09th, 2026

9/9/2026

Invisible Behind a Hay Bale

My birthday odometer jumped to another number. That made me think about where I live, and what I have to do to keep on living where I live. Which is in an old mobile home, in the gorgeous Cape Breton Highlands. Some days, like today, I feel like that deer who is hiding behind a large bale of hay.

Take last night. It’s free. Help yourself. I went to bed around 10:30. I could hear the wind and the drip, drip, drip of water falling into a pail I’d set by the side door. The rain was leaking through a seam above the door and so I had placed the bucket there to catch the drips. I also placed two towels on the floor to soak up what the bucket had missed.

At about two am, I suddenly woke up. I got out of bed. It was pitch black. The power was out. My flashlights were in the kitchen. So I bumped off walls and door knobs and through unknown obstacles. Everything seemed strange. I was in an alien land as I tried to work my way to the kitchen. It was creepy.

When I got a little ways down the hall, I felt rain hitting the side of my face. I couldn’t see so I didn’t know why this was happening. So, I just kept traveling toward the pitch black kitchen.

I got there, found a flashlight, turned it on and walked back to where I felt the rain.

Big surprise! The wind had pushed open the side door. It was like a horror movie. Virginia Creeper and choke cherry branches were waving around in my hallway. A home invasion.

I pushed the branches away from the door as the wind forced them back in. Finally, I managed to slam the door shut as the wind, growling like an angry bear pushed back.

Luckily, I had my ears plugged with tissue so I couldn’t clearly hear what I was seeing.

When I thought it was safe, I threw a coat over my unclad body and headed for the great outdoors.

What do I do? I couldn’t think of anything heavy enough that I could put against the door. And it was dangerous because my little porch is missing a step, and is rotting and in need of major carpentry.

So, I went into the woodshed and disturbed a squirrel as I looked for rope. I found some and managed to wrench it away from where I had piled some firewood on top of some of it. I then cut a piece off. Inside the woodshed was an eerie orange colour as the wind and the rain roared around and into the shed.

As I walked back to the house, I thought I heard a woman shouting, “Aunty Em, Aunty Em.”

I tied the rope to the door knob and the other end to my bedroom door knob. There was a rock against the bedroom door so I figured it would hold. Then I pushed the tissue tightly back into my ears and tried to get to sleep.

I was awakened by another noise. I got up and grabbed the flashlight. My bedroom door had moved. The outside door had opened a tad and had partially moved the bedroom door. Virginia Creeper was beckoning.

So, I disconnected the rope from the bedroom door and tied the rope to my bed post. I now had to remember that I would have to be careful not to trip over the rope.

I will finish by saying that in the morning I walked the dog to where a big tree had blocked off our road and returned homeThe I went to the roaring river and tied the rope, that I’d tied to the door knobs, to the drip-catching pail and fetched water from the rushing river. I tried not to fall in.

The power is still out as I write this. It’s getting dark, and I’m thinking that I might like to go into the field and hide behind a hay bale.

GOOD READ

0 Comments

Artificially Intelligent

25/7/2026

10 Comments

“Everyone has to scratch on walls somewhere or they go
crazy” - Michael Ondaatje

Now-a-days, artificial intelligence is the buzz technology. It invades my computer. Shows me things I don’t want to know while I’m reading things I do want to know.

Now, it probably has plenty of uses, but I want to discuss, in this blog, my feelings about AI and how it can affect writers.

Last week, a friend said to me, “he told me I should do this.”

“Who is he?” I asked.

“Artificial intelligence.”

Cripes! It’s not a person. Is it?

However, there are times when I'm writing that I think I might as well let AI whip out a blog or whatever I'm scribbling at.

By Sue's Memorial Bench

Or maybe I could reach down into the craziest and most creative part of my brain and write a really weird blog or story, that was so me that AI couldn’t possibly produce it. Dig as close to my spirit or muse as I could. Make it amazingly me with lots of imperfections.

My Clownish Marketing Attempt

But, maybe it can do anything perfectly. So, if you tell it to be imperfect like me, it might be able to be perfectly imperfect.

“Perfection is a trifle dull. It is not the least of life’s ironies that this, which we all aim at, is better not quite achieved.”

W. Somerset Maugham

Here’s a little tale.

Some years ago, I was cycling on a beautiful trail. It was a gorgeous day. I was wearing my Maple Leaf’s cap, a tee shirt and shorts. I was not wearing a helmet. I was self-expressing by feeling the freedom of cycling.

As I was merrily cycling down the trail I saw some cyclists approaching. They were bedecked in proper cycling uniforms, all wearing helmets and gloves and they had dental mirrors stuck to the side of their helmets. The mirrors are so you can see who is behind you. Makes perfect sense.

I was in a good mood. I said good morning. The leader of this flock didn’t return a good morning. He tapped his helmet with his index finger. It was a where’s-your-helmet-finger-tap. He royally pissed me off.

But wearing a helmet makes sense. If this cyclist was an artificial intelligence cyclist, maybe everything it was wearing would make sense.

What I’d like to see is a perfectly imperfect AI cycling outfit. I think I have, from time to time. They often live on the fringe of society.

Anyway, I was miffed because a part of me felt abused, even though he was probably right. But, in other aspects of this encounter, he was wrong.

“There was no need for a term like ‘magical thinking’ in the Golden Age of Man...there was only genuine everyday magic and mysticism. Children were not mocked or scolded in those days for singing to the rain or talking to the wind.” - Anthon St. Maarten

Corney Brook Trail

And I, Larry Gibbons say, neither did they risk being stamped with one or more of the many thousands of dysfunctional disorders that are at the fingertips of many modern day healers.

Anyway, I biked on. Still a beautiful day, as I passed cyclists, walkers and joggers who were mostly wearing the uniform required for their specific activity. I wasn’t. I didn’t care and I did care. I tend to do plenty of mental ruminating, but not perfectly.

Tree Over-looking Sue's Memorial Bench

As I approached the end of the trail I saw something that sent the wind to dancing on my uncovered head.

You see, I saw a woman slouching next to a tree. A good looking woman. A good looking tree. The woman wasn’t walking. She wasn’t jogging. She wasn’t cycling. She was slouching. I think the tree was slouching. And she held a coffee cup in one hand. In the other hand she held a lit cigarette which she was puffing on from time to time.

Sue's Memorial Bench

I said, good morning. She didn’t tap her nicotine coloured finger against her head. And she smiled and said good morning. She lifted my spirits. But I also thought that maybe I should take the helmet tapper’s non-verbal advice. It made perfect sense.

But maybe, if too much makes perfect sense, than what’s the sense?

My First Book

10 Comments

Didn't Die Alone

23/6/2026

5 Comments

Some years ago, Sue and I went to an Algonquin Reserve in Northern Quebec. Sue wanted to visit some of the friends she’d made while she was teaching on the reserve.

I remember us sitting in the kitchen waiting for her friend Maggie to come out of the shower. When Maggie and Sue saw each other, they were overwhelmed with emotions. They hugged and cried and I teared up too. I could tell that they loved each other.

In a past blog, I wrote that I didn’t think that Sue died alone. I came to this conclusion after visiting a spot in the Middle River Wilderness Area. I like to sit along the river and meditate and listen.

On the way home, as I tramped through the forest, I began to think about how much Maggie and Sue loved each other. Then I remembered a strange experience that Sue and I had.

It happened one night when Sue and I were up in the cabin’s bedroom loft. Sue was reading. I might have been staring up at the beam that ran across the top of the ceiling. We had stapled thick plastic over it and sometimes we’d spot a long black snake slithering on the other side of the plastic. We were glad to see

him, because this meant that our mouse population wasn’t increasing.

I also found this over five foot long rat snake in our wee kitchen. I remember walking into the kitchen and saying to Sue, “Is that an extension cord on the floor?”

The lighting was dim.

It wasn’t. It was the snake. I managed to grab him by his hind-end and then I escorted him outside.

“Slither somewhere else,” I might have said.

However I digress.

As I was saying, we were lying in bed when suddenly we heard women’s voices coming from downstairs.

Now it was winter and we were isolated in the forest. Snow surrounded the cabin and the road was not drivable.

Anyway, we heard the voices, and so I got up. I thought that maybe one of our cats had turned on the radio. You can see how the scientific mind will search for theories when something unusual happens. And of course, why wouldn’t it. I have nothing against rationality as long as it doesn’t go getting all irrational.

The cats were asleep, the radio wasn’t on, and there were no women in the cabin nor outside in the cold winter’s night. So, Sue and I filed the experience away into the mysterious event file.

The next night or night after, we received a phone call. It was from Maggie’s daughter. They’d been trying to track Sue down. She told Sue that Maggie was dying and didn’t want to die until she’d seen Sue.

The next day, Sue and I headed to northern Quebec. Sue was able to visit with Maggie.

Stampeding Ferns

Maggie died the next day.

Another event also made me think that maybe Sue hadn’t died alone. You see, when we were up in the highlands searching for Sue, I heard women’s voices. The voices were coming from the bottom of a steep decline. I assumed that they were searchers, but another part of my mind, thought about the women we had heard in the cabin. And the thing was, I only heard women’s voices.

Were these women with Sue?

So, as you can see, there are reasons why I have a strong suspicion that Sue didn’t die alone.

5 Comments

The Toss Of a Coin

18/6/2026

4 Comments

Is it truth or fiction? I tend to lean towards truth. I’m talking about the amazing appearance of coins after a person has lost a loved one.

To some people it’s a myth to make us feel better. But, that can be said about a lot of beliefs. I tend to be a cautious believer in the whole coin-after—a-loved-ones-death idea.

Anyway, one day, when a friend and I were driving to North Sydney, I jokingly said, it’s interesting that after my father died, pennies, quarters, nickels, loonies and toonies were tossed my way, but Sue has only sent me mostly dimes.

But so many dimes. I have a dish full. I feel blessed for finding Sue’s healing dimes along with some larger coins. And I mostly find them at key emotional moments or important events in my life. I think Sue is reaching out and comforting me.

One of the most extraordinary appearances of coins came from my dad. This experience made it difficult for me to believe that the coins were only a coincidence and had nothing to do with my dad.

You see, a few days after my father died, I was having my evening shower. Suddenly, a coin dropped to the tub floor. However, it didn’t just drop, but felt like it burst out of my side. Right side to be exact.

I thought that maybe I had left a coin lying on the side or back of the tub and it had gotten washed off. My scientific mind discounted the idea that it felt like the coin had come from my side. Right side.

So, I put the coin by the sink. I don’t remember what the coin was.

I then hopped back into the tub and continued washing the dirt away. But, look out! Another coin shot out of my side. From the same side. I’d entered the Twilight Zone. I could think of no scientific explanation for this second coin’s entry into the shower.

And you know, it took a little while before I felt comfortable in the shower.

Then a day or two later, I was doing laundry. I left my clothes in the wash and took off for a few minutes. However, I wanted to get back before the kind manager took my laundry out and put it into a dryer. I’m a bit shy about my underwear mingling with strangers.

Alas, I didn’t get back in time. My clothes were merrily spinning away. It was nice of the laundromat manager to do what she did, but I felt a bit sheepish.

When I went to pay her the money for the dryer, she said,”You don’t need to give me money. When I was putting your clothes into the dryer, money fell out of your clothes and I used it.”

Once, after a neighbour and friend had passed away, I was brushing my hair at the kitchen sink when, amazingly, I brushed a loonie out of my curly white hair. I was the great Houdini.

I shouted to Sue, who was sitting in the living room “I brushed a loonie out of my hair.”

“Figures,” she shouted.

I think I made Sue a bit nervous every once and awhile, as strange things seem to follow me around.

There was the toonie balancing on the lint filter episode. This was also only days after my father died. However, it happened in a different laundromat. My underwear was able to be discreet.

I said to Sue who was sitting and reading a magazine, “There was a toonie balancing on the lint filter when I opened the dryer door.”

She said, “I don’t want to talk about it.”

Anyway, while we were in North Sydney, my friend and I stopped at a fast food restaurant. In between chomping down on my hamburger, I made another comment about the coin thing.

We had picked a table next to the counter where they lay out the ketchup, napkins etc.

Suddenly, I looked over at the counter, and there was a nickel and a quarter.

My friend is very observant, you might even say, super alert, and she was as surprised as I was.

These two coins made both of us wonder. Was Sue trying to prove a point? She had a good sense of humour.

4 Comments

You Don't Act Like a Canadian

7/6/2026

1 Comment

Some years ago, an El Salvadorian student walked into my office and said, “You don’t act like a Canadian.”

“Who do I act like?” I asked.

“Us.”

I then asked her to tell me how she thinks Canadians act. I can’t remember her response, and I’m sure that many Canadians aren’t the way she described.

An Indigenous woman told me that she didn’t think of me as White but one of them.

A theology student from Pakistan said that I acted more like the people he knew in Pakistan.

And you know, I saw these comments as compliments. People who don’t act or appear normal are often easier for me to talk to because they don’t seem so restrained. It’s as if they have less need to control what they say or how they say it. And I don’t feel as if I’m being negatively judged when I let loose with my verbiage.

I have been told that I don’t have much of a filter. That’s probably true, some of the time.

A linguistic expert who without my knowledge, was asked to listen to me speak. So she did, and then told the person who asked her to spy on me, that my speech patterns were all over the place.

I’m sure that there is a name for any behaviour that doesn’t fit into a socially accepted mold. A desiccated description of my behaviour is probably buried deep inside some shrink’s thick book.

What worries me is that this huge psychiatric compendium of behavioural abnormalities, is growing and growing. I’m afraid that some day, there will be more people whose behaviour is to be found in the book than those whose behaviour isn’t to be found in the book.

Angry Goose

So, why am I even bothering writing about this?

Well, a few days ago, I was walking towards the door of a store. A vehicle pulled up next to me. The driver honked and then jumped out. I knew her, but not very well. She was an Indigenous woman. She excitedly began to tell me what she was doing there and other things and it was the kind of verbal and demonstrative behaviour that I am well equipped to respond to in a natural way. And, I didn’t feel the need to over-think what I’d said after this encounter. It felt real.

Time Machine

I then went into the store. I saw a person who I know, but not very well. I’m sure that she is a respected and respectable citizen. She looked at me, but didn’t say anything. So I gave a half wave and then said, “hi.” She gave me a half hello.

Corney Brook Rock Face

I felt slightly deflated, a tad irritated and a wee bit mystified.

I’m thankful that I live in Cape Breton where I’m surrounded by beauty, many friendly people, Indigenous communities and the ocean.

1 Comment

Incantations and Imagination

23/4/2026

1 Comment

Dee-doo.

Sure I’m crazy
But it ain’t easy.
Theodore Roethke, Straw For the Fire

One of the problems with my getting older is that people know that I’m getting older.

“I cursed my being visible.”
Theodore Roethke, The Loveless Provinces

One remedy for my senior-ship situation is my incantations. This blog may be an incantation.

Maybe, speaking these little words, might change the societal schemata that I’m living in. They will magically push me into another cultural reality. The power of these words could be logic busters that short circuit normalcy and all its ramifications.

These incantations, are in my case, crazy irrelevant words. They rise up from an untamed part of me that is connected to my imagination. They are a sharp sword in my battle against the overwhelming and insufferable number of incoming tips on how we should live. They are my jesters in a powerful king’s court.

Because, you see, worldly advice can be more threatening when you are a senior.

The preachy, capricious, logic of many specialists can be seen in the do’s and don’ts of eating. I was taking groceries from a shopping bag. I’d take something out of the bag and then say to Dominic, who is always interested in what is in grocery bags, “Cookies, a no, no. Dog food, a no, no. Beer, a no, no. Packaged chicken gravy, a no, no. Wieners, a no, no. Eggs, a no, no. Butter, a no, no. The shopping bag. Nutritious.”

Dominic is probably thinking, “Throw me the food. I’m not worried.”

I’ve used some of my made-up words or phrases for years. I have many. For example, when I’m picking up wood or other things that are hard to pick up I say, “Igaby.” Don’t ask me what it means.

Hiabye is another one. Sometimes an incantation for when I get into my truck.

If I do a little job and am successful at it, I may say ‘There you awe.” I remove the r. Silly me. Baby talk. Freedom of speech.

Dominic with His Rabbit

Little One-eared Donkey Waiting For a New Home

And I live alone. Well, I have Dominic, and lots of wild animals, but to add to my feelings of living in a community of friends and family, I give some of my machinery names. It fills my quiet life in the bush with more personalities.

Because, if I populate my world with objects that have names, then my world feels friendlier and less lonely.

My snowblower is called Blowie. And I must say, this winter, the little fella has done a herculean job.

The truck that I presently drive, is named Blaze. The truck that is buried in Alder bushes is named Basque. The one I sold a few years ago is named Bear.

When a person enters my deck, they are greeted by a little clown who has his one pinkie pointing up. I think he’s saying, beware, things are not as they seem.

Is That One of the Little People?

Now, the next thing I’m going to mention might get into the DSM psychiatric manual. Maybe it already is.

There is spectacle and drama in my cutlery drawer? It’s a soap opera. Specially when I close the drawer.

This is how it works. The four main tribes in this kitchen drama are the table spoons, the forks, the knives and the teaspoons. There is a place for the table spoons, a place for the forks, a place for the knives and a place for the teaspoons.

In my mind, the tablespoons rule. They get the left hand side of the tray. The forks are not to invade their territory and when they do, I hold a wee bit of animosity towards them, and scoot them back where they belong. I tend to think that they are nasty. It’s personal. Stay in your space.

I have a feeling that the forks will try to make me think that they are the tablespoons or that the tablespoons are teaspoons which would make me question my memory. Psychological warfare.

The knives are friendly. The teaspoons are gentle and no bother. It’s the damn forks. I feel that they are a threat to the whole order of the cutlery tray.

Church Peeking Over Sand Dune

Don’t even get me going on the cups, saucers, mugs and, glasses.

It’s all crazy and fun, but as I get older, I’m certain that I will hear phrases such as: You’re not getting any younger. Perhaps you should consider. Have you given any thought to. You’re not a spring chicken. You’re not always going to be able to do this. What will you do when—?

And at the moment, I’m not tempted to move into a village, town or city. For me, they’re suffocating. Depressing. They’re places where nature is only an occasional thought and is almost invisible to some people, even when they’re looking at it.

And my disclaimer for this whole blog is that I don’t expect everyone to feel this way.

Or maybe my disclaimer is another incantation in disguise.
Minu’nsimk

“A word then, (for I will conquer it,)
The word final, superior to all.
Subtle, sent up—what is it? - I listen;
Are you whispering it, and have been all the time, you
sea-waves?
Is that it from your liquid rims and wet sands?”
Walt Whitman

1 Comment

My Sane Dog and Other Critters

2/3/2026

2 Comments

Never miss an opportunity to shut up.
Mark Twain

I guess I’m not shutting up. I’m writing this blog.

But, it has been a long winter. The media is spewing out depressing crap. Specialists are preaching inanities. We can’t eat anything without a food guru saying it’s killing us. A disaster of some sort is just around the corner. Weather events are now coloured maps that predict different Armageddons and give us the approximate time that they are going to crush us.

So, I’m glad I live in the highlands. It’s good for my mental health, spiritual health and physical health. At least that’s my opinion.

My dog is also good for me.

Every morning, if the road isn’t icy, Dominic and I go walking in the gorgeous highlands. Before we venture out, I stuff a can of bear spray into my pocket and grab my camera. Then we step outside and amble away.

When I get home, I have chores to do. Dominic does too. One Dominic morning chore is squirrel hunting. He’s never caught one.

I believe, although I have no proof for this, that Dominic was meant to be in my life. He’s a furry angel with an occasional flea. The fleas may be wee angels.

But look out. I read, on the social media, that a woman had a dog lick her and she lost some limbs from the flesh eating disease.

You can’t be too careful. Or, can you be too careful?

Anyway, this fall, a couple of guys delivered a mattress to my place. They couldn’t get their truck down our lane so they loaded the mattress into my truck. They then hopped in and we all delivered the mattress together. It was a mattress-delivery-love-fest.

My dog, Dominic, hitched a ride when we delivered the men back to their delivery truck. The fella who sat in the front seat said, “This dog is one smart dog and I know dogs.”

Dominic was so proud. So was I.

Sometimes I think he is super smart. One example.

Dominic likes cottage cheese. So, one day, I finished off most of the cheese but left a bit for him. He didn’t touch it. He stood in the kitchen and watched me. What was he up to?

I then reached into the cupboard. I planned to make a tuna sandwich. I opened the can. I left a bit for him. He ate the tuna and then he ate the cottage cheese. He prioritizes.

Dominic has developed a routine in the morning.

Our Laneway

When I pull out the little vacuum cleaner, he jumps on the couch and chews his stuffed rabbit. The rabbit is now headless. Then, he lazes around until he has his breakfast.

However, when I am making my breakfast and he has finished his, he disappears. I then hear him barking in the bedroom. I know what he is up to. I have learned. He has created a game. He has created more than one game. He’s smart.

When I go into the bedroom, I see Dominic sitting on the bed. His tail is wagging as he barks at my jogging pants. They are on the dresser. He can reach them, but he won’t. I have to give him the pants. Then we fight for ownership. He viciously fake bites me to pieces, before I return to the kitchen and continue making my breakfast.

Sometimes, he starts barking again. Now what? I have learned what. When I go into the bedroom, he is sitting on the bed, staring down at the floor. He has dropped the pants. I must pick them up. It’s in his game rule book. I play along because I think he deserves to have games in his life.

The game is over when he drags the pants to the couch and gives them to his headless rabbit.

There are times when I can’t find articles of clothing. It took me a while to discover that he stashes them under the kitchen table. That’s the place where he likes to lounge.

When I’m relaxing is his favourite time to bark. It is sometimes at a stuffed toy that sits on top of the bread box. My job is to fetch it.

He has many barking chores for me to attend to.

A friend, who visits and has watched Dominic go through many of his antics, asked me if I ever get annoyed with Dominic. I said not often. He is too cute.

Anyway, after breakfast, I will sit on my orange chair to read and nod off. He will watch me for a few minutes, then he jumps off the couch and sits in front of me. He wants to plunk down next to me. I pat the chair and say, “Get up here.”

He doesn’t move.

You see, he wants me to lift my butt up off the chair, pretend I’m moving over, which I’m not really doing, because there is no more room, but that doesn’t matter, because after I do this, he jumps up on the chair and sits next to me. It’s all part of the game. It’s Pavlovian.

He will sometimes take his paw and poke my arm until I put my arm around him. Then we hug each other. Kinky, and he always sits on my right side. Never on my left side. It’s protocol.

One recent morning, I was working on a first paragraph of a chapter. Dominic began barking. I guessed that it was give-him-my-jogging-pants time. He’d started the game late.

I got up, which broke my concentration and walked to the bedroom. He wasn’t there.

He was in my little office. He’d cornered a squirrel. The squirrel leapt across the room, knocked over my bottle of coins and headed for the living room. We couldn’t find him.

It was, I think, a test of my ability to concentrate on my writing. I went right back to what I was working on, even though I knew the squirrel was probably hiding in the living room, only feet away.

Maybe my living in the bush and living close to many critters have made me more sensitive to their wants and needs. I feel more empathy. So, in this case, unless the squirrel causes me a lot of trouble, I will let him be.

I know what it is like to grieve the loss of a home and loved ones. Sure I could trap him or her or them, but I figure it would be more cruel to catch the squirrel, take him many miles from his home, and leave him homeless in the winter than to shoot the poor little bugger.

I don’t want to do that, so, I have Dominic and a pet squirrel. I might catch him in the spring, when he has a chance to survive a long way from his home.

See what living alone in the bush can do to a person. Is it making me more peculiar or helping me to better understand that they all belong in this universe?

So I say thank-you to Dominic and all the other wild creatures who add common sense and joy to my world.

And when I hear a specialist tell me that it isn’t good for people to pee in the shower because they might begin to only get the urge to pee when they are in the shower, well I call Dominic over and I say, “Dominic, you want to go outside for a pee pee?”

And he usually does. Rain or shine.

Leaping and running through the snow

2 Comments

How I Met Sue

13/1/2026

2 Comments

Sitting on Sue's Memorial Bench

Before I knew my partner Sue, who disappeared into the Cape Breton highlands on Dec. 3rd, 2021, I was working at an Ontario library.

One day, when I’d returned from lunch, I found a note on my desk. It said for me to phone Anna. I hadn’t heard from her in a long time.

A Leaf and a Foot Print

I phoned Anna. She was upset. She’d seen a photo in the local newspaper. She said she’d taken the photo and the newspaper had used it without her permission. She wanted me to take her back to the Frontenac Provincial Park, to the exact location where she said she’d taken the picture.

The Frontenac Provincial Park is a semi-wilderness park. It is rugged and contains many ponds and twenty-two lakes. I love this park.

Blowie My New Snowblower

Because it was April, I assumed there was snow on the ground. To get into the park I’d have to drive up two steep hills. I was only able to slip and slide to the top of the first one. I parked there and then we hiked into the park.

Dominic Goes Snow Crazy

We found the place where she said she’d taken the photo. It was almost dark by the time we headed back to the truck. There was no moon, Anna only had one working eye, and we had no flashlight or cell phone to light the way.

Fish/Bird Critter in my Pond

However, I knew the park fairly well and we did manage to get back to the truck. The north star gave us some illumination as its dim light reflected off the snow.

I was surprised to find a note under my windshield wiper. It said, “Thanks for destroying the road that I spent so long getting fixed.”

Hiking in Middle River Wilderness Area

I swore. I blamed some of the cottage owners up the road for giving me this note. They often harassed me about where I parked my truck when I went for a hike in the park.

I have spent many hours roaming through the park, off and on the trails. Through so many crisis that I’ve had in my life, the park was there to offer me comfort and solace. And now, here was this nasty letter which made me feel like I had no right to be there. I’d had it with those tormentors. The park was my home, my comforter, my security and an intimate friend and I wasn’t going to let anybody ruin this connection.

So, I wrote a letter. In it, I described how much I loved the park. It was a passionate and a tender-hearted letter.

After I finished writing it I drove to the park. I didn’t know to whom I was going to give the letter, but I figured, in some magical way, because the park, was for me, enchanted, that I would find a place to deliver the letter, and I did.

A blue car was parked at the bottom of the first big hill. I swore. Yes I did. How dare one of those idiots do this. Blocking my access.

I forgot about my heart-felt note.

What I did was remove the sandbags that I carried in my truck for weight and laid them next to the car.

“Use this sand to fill the pot-holes.” I wrote. I also used other words to express my feelings.

As I was hiking back to the truck after finishing my hike, a man stepped out of the forest. He was carrying firewood in a knapsack.

Our New Victoria County Arena

“Did you see the note that somebody put on Sue’s car window?” he said.

Sue? Who the heck was Sue?

I told the man it was from me and showed him the letter I’d originally planned on giving to this Sue person.

“Use that one,” he said.

So I did.

Dominic's Squirrel Hunting Blind

Another day on another hike, when I returned to my truck, I found a note under my windshield. It was a brief apology note with an email address. Apparently another truck had actually wrecked the road.

And that’s how Sue and I hooked up.

We met in the forest and we separated in the forest.

So, from day one, our connection was magical. A huge happenstance. A meeting and a departing circle. One of the healing memories where I was able to find closure. Even though Sue was never found.

2 Comments

Our Walk to Sue's Memorial Bench

7/12/2025

1 Comment

December 3rd, 2021 is the fateful day that Sue disappeared. She has been gone for over four years.

Last year, on December 3rd, a friend and I hiked up to Sue’s memorial bench.

Sue With Friend Lloyd Stone

We didn’t leave for the hike until about an hour and a bit before the sun planned to duck down behind the horizon. It was cold. The temperature was approaching the temperature of that tragic night. It began to snow as the evening light dimmed.

By the time we got to the bench the shadows were being absorbed by the night’s chilly blackness.

We had brought some cake and tea bags. We wanted to have a memorial snack.

Sue and Buster at Tim Hortons

It took us some time to get the fire going so that we could boil water for tea. In the process of looking for kindling I lost a glove. Meanwhile, Torrey got her mitts wet. They weren’t much comfort.

Darkness deepened and only the strongest shadows hung around the perimeter of our make-shift campsite. Eventually, they were also smothered by this special night’s darkness.

We’d only brought one flashlight. Its batteries were weak so their light wasn’t very intense. It would flicker and I’d have to shake it or strike it against my leg.

Sue, Larry and Ron

Finally, we got the fire burning and got the water boiling. We ate and drank quickly. We were getting chilled. And as I mentioned, I had one mitt and Torrey had two wet mitts.

A Passage

Then we headed home. Torrey was unsteady so I held onto her one hand with my bare hand.

As we walked down the side of the mountain, the wind blew the snow against our faces.

The flashlight was dimming. I turned it off to see what we would have to contend with if the battery died. It was nearly pitch black.

And I thought, this is what Sue had to deal with.To make it more real, we missed the place where the path left the forest and entered the field.

This meant, as my flashlight batteries were tiring out, that we were lost. At least for a little while.

However, we did find the trail out and arrived home safely.

Afterwards, we realized that our memorial walk, had given us a bit of an idea of what Sue had experienced.

Because, you see, it was almost the same temperature as the night that Sue took her fatal walk. And it was snowing just like the night she disappeared and I was missing a glove. Sue had lost a glove. We’d found one of her gloves that she’d left in the forest.

These similarities made us think that we had, in some sense, made a significant walk up to Sue’s Memorial Bench.

t was serendipitous.

1 Comment

Stuff Without a Story

27/11/2025

1 Comment

One day, as I walked and whistled my way along a new subdivision sidewalk, I got to looking into the many open-doored garages.

Almost Un-noticed Beauty

You could call me a garage voyeur. Except, I wasn’t looking at stripped down garage interiors. I was seeing stuff. Stuff and stuff and more stuff, stuffed inside many of these garages. Much of the stuff being toys and things that kids and adults like to use or plan to use and then often forget or toss or yard-sale away.

Too much stuff to savour or from which to create enriching memories and stories.

“There was a child went forth every day,
And the first object he’d look upon, that object he became,
And that object became part of him for the day or a
Certain part of the day,
Or for many years or stretching cycles of years.”

Walt Whitman, There Was Child Went Forth

When I was a kid, outside play-time wasn’t an official play-time event. It was something we did for fun. There were very few camps and official fun events and clinics.

Good Book if You Like Weird

Have you noticed how empty the parks are? Those play-areas with clusters of colourful slides, swings and other fun, almost accident-proof contraptions. The parks now look like a vacant city in a Stephen King movie.

I loved to make up games when I was a child.

Here’s a game that I made up when I was about seven or so.

We lived in a big white wooden house. My friends and I liked to run around and around the house. We were never ourselves. We were cowboys or horses or race cars or cougars or something else weird, wild and exciting.

Upside Down Face in Water

My game could be called the customs officer game. It required two bits of stuff. A rope and an empty rolled up toothpaste tube.

I’d tie one end of the rope to the fence. The rope would be long enough for me to pull across the opening which would block off the passage.

My friends and neighbours and illegal friends would be running around the house when suddenly, they had to apply the brakes to whatever they were in or on. Because there would be this wee customs-officer twerp blocking the way.

What would they have to do so that they could cross the border and proceed over my beautiful border?

Well, I’d toss the folded up toothpaste container onto the ground.

The person who was attempting to get across the border, would have to pick up the empty toothpaste container and hand it to me. I would then let them pass.

The toothpaste tube was a passport. Magic.

This game could go on for quite awhile as the kids ran around and around the house. Always having to stop to pick up the rolled up toothpaste container.

What did this game cost? The rolled up toothpaste container cost me nothing. The rope was probably lying around the yard.

I also invented a game which allowed us to pretend that we were passing from one school grade to the next school grade without writing any exams or attending any schools. Kindergarten to grade eight in about one hour of fun and joy.

I have other economical children’s games I can describe, but only if you are interested.

That's me sitting on Sue's Memorial Bench. December third will mark four years since Sue disappeared. I know that there are plenty of people who miss her. I'm one of them. I feel very lucky to have been able to have Sue in my life. I think of her every day.

1 Comment

<<Previous

September 09th, 2026

Artificially Intelligent

Didn't Die Alone

The Toss Of a Coin

You Don't Act Like a Canadian

Incantations and Imagination

My Sane Dog and Other Critters

How I Met Sue

Our Walk to Sue's Memorial Bench

Stuff Without a Story

Recent Posts

Archives

Categories

Archives