Dear America

 Dear America, qu'est-ce que c'est, eh? What happened to you? Canada, your closest friend and ally, is really worried about you. And what's up with this back-stabbing crap?

For a very long time, we have stood by your side, welcomed each other as friends, partners, even family. Generations of Canadians have marched into battle with you in two World Wars. We have supported and uplifted you through natural disasters, tragic accidents, and global pandemics. During the Iran hostage crisis, Canadian Ambassador Ken Taylor and a Canadian diplomat named John Sheardown gave refuge to six Americans, risking their own safety to do so. With the full support of the Canadian Government, the Americans were given Canadian passports and smuggled out of Iran on a flight to Switzerland. This life-saving operation became known as the Canadian Caper, and Ambassador Ken Taylor was awarded the Congressional Gold Medal by the U.S. Congress for his role in safe-guarding American lives.

And, then there's 9-1-1. Do you remember, dear America, how Canada swiftly initiated Operation Yellow Ribbon that day to save, feed, and shelter thousands of plane passengers destined for U.S. airports during that terror-filled time of anxiety and uncertainty? Lifelong friendships were forged between Canadians and Americans due to the amazing hospitality offered from neighbour to neighbour.

So, then, dear America, what's this current kerfuffle all about? Let's clear the air on what it's definitely NOT about - fentanyl or migrants. Here's an astonishing fact that Fox "News" probably hasn't told you: less than 1% of the fentanyl in your country enters through the Canadian border and ditto for migrants. Yet, if we want to get nitpicky about illegal smuggling through the Canada/U.S. border, the Toronto Police Service has said that 85% of guns used in criminal activity in that city have come in from the U.S. through illegal means. Texas, in particular, was noted as a source of these weapons. Is it too much of a stretch, then, to wonder if these same bad actors are supplying the drug cartels with their weapons as well? It might be prudent to check your own backyard first before pointing Uncle Sam's finger at your neighbour. 

Make no mistake, dear America: what the orange miscreant really wants by initiating this unjustified trade war is to annex Canada's sovereign territory and gain access to our vast stock of natural resources, such as water, oil, energy, and lumber. The buffoon has managed to fool enough of you to once again gain full control of your inner sanctum. His promise to drain the swamp is just one of his many, many lies. Instead, he has turned your once shining beacon of democracy into a swirling, stinking, decaying cesspool of oligarchs, sycophants, and brain-washed imbeciles.  

Dear America, is this how you really want to end our long-term, mutually beneficial relationship? We honestly do care about the well-being and economic success of our citizens and yours. Please, please, dear friend, open your eyes and plug your nostrils before it's too late; before there's no turning back from this fiasco. The stench coming from Washington now is permeating the planet with toxicity. We deserve better, and so do you!

Regards from "the true north strong and free"

Oh, it's twerking time again

I held my annual Battle of the Weeds today.  Why, oh, why do those suckers keep coming back year after year after year when I’ve spent a bloody fortune mixing up batches of homemade weed killer in a pathetic attempt to go green?  Maybe they were too insulted to die because I used Sunlight instead of Dawn dish liquid.  The aroma of vinegar in my backyard is reminiscent of a fish and chip truck on Water Street in good old St. John’s and my salt shakers are noticeably low on content.  If today’s effort doesn’t result in the annihilation of those ugly, yellow-topped, bleep-bleep so and so’s, I’m going to bring in the heavy artillery from Mr. Scott.

 After viciously soaking the friggin’ weeds, I planted some annuals to supplement the feeble display of colour from the perennials in my garden.  I don’t know what happened to all those lovely bulbs I planted these past couple of years.  Maybe the record number of days below -40C and the 8 feet of snow we had last winter had something to do with it.  Personally, I blame it all on the friggin’ weeds.

 So, here I was, twerking away in the garden when my trusty trowel sliced through the guts of a big, juicy earthworm.  For a split second, I paused in semi-horror as I watched the two pieces of worm wiggle and squirm before finally coming to a full stop.  Shrugging my shoulders, I dug into the soil again and two more big worms appeared on the surface.  I looked around and beheld an army of creepy crawlies slithering around my feet, just waiting for the opportunity to avenge their dead comrade.  My overactive imagination convinced my ears that I heard squeaky little worm voices calling for an attack on the giantess with the big ass up in the air.  I jumped out of there in a flash, ready to utter a few choice expletives until I remembered that I am now a respectable grandma with impressionable young minds to cultivate.  Cursing is a no-no, even when alone.

 It took a while to work up the courage to resume flower planting.  I didn’t see any more worms, thank God, but then I started to wonder where they had gone.  Maybe they’re holding a war council in the cavernous underbelly of my garden.  They’re probably joining forces right now with the poison-soaked weeds and plotting a joint assault on my weary bones.  When darkness falls, they’ll unite as one slimy unit and slowly slither across the patio, wriggle in through the sliding door, creep up the stairs and onto my bed…. OMG!!!! Hopefully, there’s a Walking Dead marathon on Netflix tonight so I can stay wide awake, ready for the friggin’ weeds and the stinkin’ worms, trowel in hand!

Winter Bugs

A nasty little bug wreaked havoc upon my innards for the past couple of days and I believe it’s starting to affect my poor brain as well.  I was fine when I joined the Rummoli group for a lovely pre-Christmas dinner at a local restaurant but by 10 p.m. that evening I definitely did not feel well.   As cautious as I am at buffet meals due to certain allergies, I must have inadvertently consumed some tidbit that just didn’t agree with my digestive system.  Yucky!

Anyway, the Winter Festival of Lights Parade went ahead yesterday evening as planned and I forced myself to make an appearance at the community church celebration because of a previous commitment to the choir for this event.  Since our musician was out of town, I foolhardily thought that I could help the choir by playing a note or two at the start of each carol just so we’d all be in the same key.  However, I felt so lightheaded from the illness and lack of food for two days that I wasn’t sure I could manage even that little bit of assistance.  Thank heavens the Salvation Army clergyman came to the rescue with a spectacular gift of music in his blessedly talented hands.  Ecumenical cooperation at its best.

Then I discovered that our recently arrived priest from India required a ride to the next town for Mass immediately upon completion of the festival ceremony.  Having landed in Canada just over two weeks ago and never having seen snow before, he found himself unexpectedly plunked down in the middle of a northern winter scene straight out of a Thomas Kinkade painting.  The poor man has been shivering non-stop ever since.  He must be a rather brave soul.  So, after delivering him safely back to the rectory I drove home with visions of warm pyjamas and cozy slippers dancing through my fuzzy head.  By this time, I was so hungry that I ate a small portion of leftovers and promptly got sick again.

Taking to my bed did nothing to improve the situation as my dreams these past few nights have been unbelievable.  Last night I valiantly tried to clear an unfamiliar hotel lobby of an infestation of giant cockroaches while several busloads of tired and cranky senior citizens vociferously clamoured for rooms amidst the melee.  I woke up exhausted. 

Opening my eyes did not prevent continuation of the nightmare.  I soon discovered that my key ring was missing so I was unable to move my car which was blocking my son’s work vehicle.  After hunting high and low for those darn keys, I finally resorted to calling my husband at work (a 15 minute drive away) to see if perhaps he had accidentally put the keys in his pocket.  To be perfectly honest, I was hoping that was the case.  No such luck.  However, he valiantly offered to drive all the way home to give me his set of keys for the car.  Guess what?  Five minutes later, I found the @#%* keys hiding in a back section of my purse which I very rarely use.  Now, how did they possibly end up there?  I called hubby’s cell phone hoping to reach him before he left…. it rang and rang and rang until finally it was answered and I blurted out, “I found the keys.  Don’t worry.  No need to come home.”  Only after I hung up did it dawn on me that the male voice was not my husband’s.  Awwww, fiddlesticks!

Well, the good news is that the stomach sickness appears to be easing but I really miss my mind.  It served me well for over half a century.

 

Oh, Canada

 

O Canada

Oh, Canada, the pain of these days has pierced the heart of your people.

Our home and native land

Our beautiful country of prairies and oceans, cities and farms

True patriot love in all thy son’s command

With quiet dignity we pledge allegiance to this land of our birth.

With glowing hearts we see thee rise

Just watch the pride in Canadians’ eyes as the Maple Leaf is raised and tears when it is at half-mast.

The True North strong and free

We who call this northern land home magnanimously value its diversity and freedom.

From far and wide, O Canada

The vastness of our beloved nation inspires awe and humility.

We stand on guard for thee

From coast to coast to coast, we extend a heartfelt thank you to all military personnel, first responders and their families for their selfless service and commitment to this wonderful, awesome, amazing country…. so respected throughout the world.
God keep our land, glorious and free
In Canada, we are all free to worship as we please… to express our beliefs and live our faith in peace and acceptance.  Believers and non-believers share equally in the glorious benefits of democracy.
O Canada, we stand on guard for thee

O Canada, we stand on guard for thee

Warrant Officer Patrice Vincent and Corporal Nathan Cirillo, proudly and courageously you stood on guard for Canada, dying in the uniform of honour.  With one broken heart of sorrow, Canadians now stand on guard for you.  We will NEVER forget your sacrifice.  We will NEVER let evil prevail.  We will ALWAYS honour and respect your memory along with all the other heroes who gallantly personified what Canada stands for.  RIP.

by Y.M. Tucker

The Perils of Travel

Travelling anywhere these days poses risks.  We’ve all heard the sad, scary stories of Ebola and terrorist acts.  Then there are the less problematic incidents which, while thankfully not life-threatening, still manage to raise the stress level a notch or two.  Hubby and I just prevailed through such an experience.

We were in our home province for a brief, jam-packed visit which included a couple of family Thanksgiving dinners and an eventful medical specialist appointment for my better half.  While on the way to the hospital for that consultation, our rental car was rear-ended by another vehicle at a traffic light.  Fortunately, no one was injured and the damage to both cars was minimal but the blood pressure spike caused a dilly of a headache.

Later at the airport for our return trip, we were heading through security when my very considerate hubby offered to carry my overnight bag while I grappled with a jacket and bulging shoulder bag.  Awesome, I thought.  I breezed through the security line in no time and walked out the other side expecting my helpful spouse to follow within a few seconds.  Looking back through the glass enclosure, I saw a security officer motion him to the side.  That darn belt buckle must have set off an alarm, I figured.  No such luck.  Hubby had been randomly selected for a more in-depth search and swab test.  Oh me nerves!  You can imagine what was in the overnight bag.  There were several pairs of clean underwear, a nightdress, toiletries, a couple of magazines, etc.  – all of a decidedly feminine nature.  My 6’1”, 200 lb partner wore an expression of profound sheepishness as I watched him try to convince the security personnel that he really was carrying his wife’s bag. 

Mercifully, this embarrassing debacle lasted only a few minutes.  I guess the male security officer took pity on a fellow member of the brotherhood of chivalry.  As the man who vowed to love me for better or for worse strode by with his head held high, I uttered a muted apology.  “Sorry, next time I’ll definitely carry my own bag through security.”

“Yep,” was his terse reply.  Oh, the perils of travel!

A Life of Love

She flew into our lives in the spring of 2002.  Her ears were the biggest part of her then.  When we picked her up at the airport, she was a shivering, timid, quaking little ball of fur and she looked almost comical with those big Beagle ears on that tiny canine body.  As we swaddled and cuddled her like a newborn baby, she gradually relaxed and settled into her new home.  Love became our constant companion from that day on as our darling puppy girl entwined herself forever around the strings of our hearts.

We named her Mica (mee-ka).  I don’t recall how we made that choice, but it sure fit her perfectly.  She was the quintessential tri-coloured Beagle – white paws and underbody, black back and beautiful golden head.  Her soft gorgeous eyes were like liquid chocolate.  My heart melted the minute I saw her and she has been Mommy’s little shadow for over a dozen happy, wonderful years. 

In her early puppy days, she tested my patience on numerous occasions but her infantile antics delivered more laughs than tears.  One morning while she was still in the training stage and I was getting ready for work, I opened the patio door a smidgeon in case she had to “go” while I was in the shower.  When I went to get dressed, I noticed articles of clothing leading all the way downstairs and out the door.  Mica was having a grand old time ripping my undies to shreds in the backyard.  The rungs of my rocking chair still show evidence of her teething period, and whenever we painted she wore a coat of many colours until a trip to the doggie groomer restored her beautiful fur to its usual three shades.  She also thought that everyone was her friend; however, she soon discovered to her detriment that cats don’t fall into that category.  Her super sensitive Beagle nose often led her into places where she should not have gone, but her joie de vivre was infectious.  She loved, loved, loved to go for a walk with Mommy and Daddy.  She would get so excited upon hearing the word “walk” that we began to spell it.  That only fooled her for a short time, though, because she apparently learned to spell at a very early age.  “Bath” (no way, Mommy), “car”, “drive”, “go” and “treat” were quickly added to her spelling vocabulary. 

Over the years, her youthful playfulness was replaced by a loving, unwavering loyalty.  I think she could tell time because I’m told that at 4:30 p.m. each weekday she would pace between the living room window and the door waiting for Mommy’s arrival home and repeat the same process at 8:00 p.m. when Daddy finished work.  If we left the house without her, she would give us “the look”.  Those big, sad brown eyes would shoot arrows of reproach in our direction and then she’d heave a huge sigh of resignation.  Talk about a hang-dog look – she really had it mastered.

There was never a more faithful, caring friend.  Whenever I was feeling down or stressed, she knew it.  She would stay by my side and place her head in my lap, looking up at me with those warm brown eyes so full of love and concern.  We spent so many, many hours together that the bond of companionship forged will be a part of me forever.

You have probably already guessed where this story is going.  Our darling little Mica was recently diagnosed with a massive, rapidly growing tumor in her spleen and further tests indicated that it had most likely spread to her liver and pancreas as well.  Given her advanced age and the status of the tumor, surgery was not a viable option so we had to make the awful decision that all animal lovers dread.  Our hearts are broken but to let her linger and suffer would be very selfish and we could never do that to the little dog we have loved so much and for so long.  It was astonishing and heart wrenching to see her energy level and quality of life go downhill so quickly.  Our final act of love was to set her free. 

In a dream I had a few days ago, Mica was a happy little puppy again, bounding through a field of grass and daisies.  Her floppy ears were swinging with each step and she was running with so much joy and enthusiasm.  It gives me some relief to picture her that way, free from pain and the restrictions of old age.  Our faith assures us that greener pastures await us all on the other side of this life and I truly believe that beloved pets are included in that promise.  I look forward to our happy reunion some day.

I once read a very profound, touching story.  Its premise was based on who had the more perfect heart – a young man whose heart was pristine and untouched by life’s ups and downs or an old man whose heart was swollen and scarred after a long life of love and reality.  When the old man shared the tale of each particular scar and gash on his heart, the young man’s eyes were opened and he saw that the perfect heart is one which has lived and loved to the fullest, taking a chance that its fragility could be shattered many times throughout life’s journey.  Those who choose a pristine home and heart over the love and loyalty of a faithful animal companion may be spared much….. but they also miss out on so much more.

So now, precious puppy girl, with tear-filled eyes and a lump in my throat, I’ll sing our special song for you one last time.

                                “Oh, Mommy loves the Baby, Baby loves the Mommy, too

                                Mommy loves little Mica Chica Baby,

                                Yes, Mommy loves the Baby, Baby loves the Mommy, too

                                Mommy loves little Mica Chica Baby,

                                Mommy loves little Mica Chica Baby.”

The Francis Effect

Thirteen months ago Pope Benedict stunned the world by resigning.  His successor, Pope Francis, has been stirring up dust and sweeping away cobwebs throughout the Vatican since last March.  It started with the red shoes.  He simply refused to wear them.  Then he spurned the comforts of a chauffeur-driven limo to ride the bus with the Cardinals and showed up to pay his hotel bill in person.

What sort of Pope is this?  Clearly he hasn’t read the company policy manual.  Although not a single word or comma has yet been altered in Canon Law or Church doctrine, Pope Francis has made it abundantly clear that the status quo is no longer acceptable within the Roman Catholic Church.  His preference for simplicity over pomp and ceremony is refreshing and his concern for the poor appears to be quite genuine.  Protocol be damned, this Pope really likes to press the flesh and to be visibly present to the people.  His security detail no doubt suffers from collective migraines.

Pope Francis is a man of action who has chosen to lead by example.  His exhortation to the clergy to spend more time mingling with the people they were ordained to serve is a page right out of his own book of life.  Before joining the seminary, he held several distinctly non-clerical jobs including a chemical technician’s position in a laboratory and a stint as a janitor and nightclub bouncer.  Now that’s definitely mingling with the people.

From his moves to update the Curia and the Vatican Bank, to greeting people outside the walls of the Vatican, to his unequivocal condemnation of child sexual abuse, to his willingness to reach out to those who feel cast aside by the Church, Pope Francis is slowly changing the face of the world’s oldest Christian institution.

His message, like the man himself, is simple:  there is a God who loves us unconditionally.  Period.  We are the ones who are hung up on conditions, restrictions, and limitations…. all of which lead to judgements.

When Jesus walked the earth, he said, “Let anyone among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her” (John 8:7) concerning a woman accused of adultery.  In perfect emulation, Pope Francis replied to a question regarding homosexuality by stating, “Who am I to judge?”

There is a long way to go before lapsed Catholics or even atheists rush to Church, but at least there seems to be some hope now of bridging the gap.  This shepherd knows that only a minority of his flock can be found in church pews on a Sunday morning.  The vast majority are outside those walls and he’s doing his best to reach them where they are.  Can the example of one person really change the world?  Just ask Jesus.  I bet he’s cheering on the “Francis effect.”