Excerpts and stories provided by the Creative Writing Group
The JDF Creative
Writing Group consists of members of the JDF Seniors Community who enjoy any kind of writing. We meet every
Tuesday morning from 9:15—11:15 am in the room at the back of the stage. Our meetings involve sharing the work we’ve done and giving each other positive, constructive feedback. Experience as a writer is not a requirement.
If interested, please contact Rick Mickelson—[email protected]
**************************************************************************************************************************
Our members:
Connect with and Inspire each other
Provide constructive feedback
Work on projects together
The JDF Creative Writing Group consists of members of the JDF Seniors
***********************************************************
The JDF Creative
Writing Group consists of members of the JDF Seniors Community who enjoy any kind of writing. We meet every
Tuesday morning from 9:15—11:15 am in the room at the back of the stage. Our meetings involve sharing the work we’ve done and giving each other positive, constructive feedback. Experience as a writer is not a requirement.
If interested, please contact Rick Mickelson—[email protected]
**************************************************************************************************************************
Our members:
Connect with and Inspire each other
Provide constructive feedback
Work on projects together
The JDF Creative Writing Group consists of members of the JDF Seniors
***********************************************************
ROXANNE’S SALVATION By RP Mickelson
Chapter 1—An Engagement
If you looked at Roxanne Wilson’s life from the outside you’d assume she lived an ordinary
middle-class Canadian existence. But if you were ever fortunate enough to probe a little
deeper, you’d learn she was extraordinarily complex. Her character was like a maze.
She was twenty-four years old, lived in one half of a two bedroom duplex on Belmont Street
in the Fernwood District of Victoria, BC and worked part time as a primary school teacher
at Oaklands Elementary School. Actually, she shared a job with her friend and colleague
Donalda Simpson, working from Monday morning until lunch on Wednesday.
She stood six feet tall, had long brown hair often tied in a tight bun just above her neck,
dressed very professionally and was considered quite attractive by men. Her eyes were a
deep green, like the color of a manicured golf course.
Roxanne was an Anglican and occasionally attended St. Paul’s Church in Saanich. That was
the church of her parents and she’d been a congregant since she was baptized just after her
birth. At one point, she even taught Sunday school there for two years. Although she could
never be considered extremely pious, she was moved, touched and inspired by the life of
Christ and read a few verses of the New Testament on a daily basis. She was definitely a
Christian in good standing despite the fact that she felt the official Anglican doctrine was
dated, like an ancient bible.
“Jesus is my idea of a perfect human being, that’s why I study His word daily,” she told
Donalda one day when they were having coffee in a dark corner of the Quadra Street
Starbucks. “His life truly inspires me.”
She was a very private person. Although she had many acquaintances none knew her very
well. Not even her fiancé, Brian Williams, understood her inner life and there were many
aspects of her that no one knew anything about.
For example, no one knew she owned the duplex where she lived or that she was heavily
addicted to any form of cannabis that had a high THC content. No one knew she suffered
from depression on a regular basis or that she wrote violent murder mysteries.
What people did know about her was that she was a law-abiding adult who held
progressive political views and loved Taylor Swift’s music. Also, anyone who had even
minimal contact with her knew she was very compassionate. How else could you explain
her habit of rising at 3 am twice a week to drive downtown and meet up with Reverend
James Allen to distribute coffee and doughnuts to the hundreds of homeless folk who lived
on the streets of Victoria?
“I grew up in the Uplands—a suburb where mostly rich people live,” she told Brian. “I was
an only child and had every conceivable material advantage. Most homeless people didn’t
have that advantage.”
“Were your parents good to you?” asked her partner.
“No—my mom was a raving alcoholic who smoked, drank booze and watched TV all day
long and my dad, who was a successful building contractor, didn’t spend any quality time
with me. He bought me off with gifts. For my sixteenth birthday he gave me a brand new
red Toyota Corolla.”
“What motivated you to get high marks and play on the high school basketball team?”
Roxanne frowned as she responded.
“Dad pressured me constantly to excel in school and sports and I routinely did as he
commanded. In fact, I always obeyed. Actually, I was afraid of him.”
At her father’s funeral, Roxanne shed many inauthentic crocodile tears and claimed she
was too distraught to give the eulogy. She dressed in black, stood frozen at the grave site
and talked to no one. Nevertheless, she was able to quite gracefully accept 1.8 million
Canadian dollars and the duplex as her inheritance—facts she kept secret from everyone,
including her beau.
“I think we should get married this summer,” stated Brian rather enthusiastically at Easter,
2006. Roxanne’s reply was telling.
“No, let’s wait one more year until we’ve saved money enough to buy a condo.”
“But we’ve already been engaged for two years!” he gasped. “Save for a condo? Surely you
inherited lots of money from your dad.”
“We’ll be married for a lifetime so there’s definitely no need to hurry. As for my dad—he
didn’t leave me a penny,” she lied. “He bequeathed all his money to the law school at UVIC.”
“Well at least we could start living together. I’d like to move into your place because I hate
being away from you.”
“Yes, in time, darling—but I’m not quite ready for that,” she responded.
A few days later, she met her friend Lucie Savarov for lunch at Capone’s Chicken Den in
Esquimalt. Lucie sang in the church choir, played the guitar and wrote her own songs.
“Glad you could make it today,” Roxy said. “Let’s take that table by the window.”
“Sounds good,” replied her friend.
“Our special today is a fresh chicken sandwich with onions and dill pickles,” stated their
waitress. “It’s a two for the price of one deal.”
“I’ll order one,” said Roxy.
“I’ll have the other,” added Lucie.
Between bites of her delicious sandwich, Roxy expanded on her prolonged engagement.
“Brian wants to get married this summer but I put him off for another year,” she related.
“Why?” replied Lucie.
“Because I’m still not sure about the relationship,” answered Roxanne curtly.
“Do you love him?”
“Not particularly—but he’s a good companion at times and when he’s finished his
accounting degree he’ll definitely make good money.”
“Why don’t you love him?” asked her friend.
“Because he’s pretty boring and just doesn’t make me feel safe, or protected. Also, he’s a
terrible lover with a small dong. We don’t have sex very often.” I’ve never really loved
anyone, she thought. But I better not mention that.
“I think you should be totally honest with him and break it off,” urged Lucie. “You can’t
marry someone you don’t love!”
“Thanks for the advice. You might be right. I’ll have to think about that,” answered Roxy.
“Do you love Herman, Lucie?”
“Yes, totally—that’s why I’m going to marry him. He’s fabulous in bed and we make love at
least once every day. I’m his whenever he wants me.”
The complete book can be found and purchased on my publisher’s website. (Filidh Publishing) Just Google filidhbooks.com click on Author’s Bios and scroll down to RP Mickelson.
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Don Wilkes ISTANBUL Decades ago my first wife and I travelled to the East Mediterranean, where erstwhile Constantinople and Byzantium, now Istanbul, straddles Europe and Asia, both geographically and politically. Bosphorus waters serve as the dividing line. Craft-laden Golden Horn waters separate old and newer European portions. A maze of alley markets and strolling hawkers on well-worn streets, much of what must be seen in the city is manageable on foot.
Not far from our arrival docking area the beleaguered Galata Bridge spans the Golden Horn. Packed with vehicles and pedestrians and offering a nearby spice market, it was flanked by floating restaurants and vendor barges. Uphill to one side the Tower of Galata is a watchtower built in the 14th century. Later, leaving the port and buying something, I extended a handful of coins from assorted countries; the vendor picked among them. Airports: no donation bins?
The 6 minarets of the Mosque of Sultan Ahmed (Blue Mosque) drew both worshippers and tourists. Shoes lined exterior walls either side of a leather-draped doorway. Inside we found blue /green glazed tiled walls and assorted carpets atop foot-scooped stone floors.
From there a brief stroll delivered us to Hagia Sophia, a Christian church when built about 1500 years ago. A museum when we visited the interior, we admired the 4th largest dome anywhere, and carefully poked a finger into the weeping/wishing column before climbing a ramp to an upper level where walls were being stripped to expo se yesteryear’s facings. We missed a peek at its underground cistern used in a movie: Inferno, with Tom Hanks. In 2020 the building again became a mosque, re-using the wooden discs with calligraphy.
Amidst the city’s hustle and bustle, we gained entry to the sprawling underground Kapali Carsi (covered bazaar) by following a crowd vanishing into an alleyway. Inside, we joined eager shoppers browsing stalls organized along product lines: leather, lace, jewellery. At one or two of the 4500 stalls we tried our hand at bargaining and acquired several turquoise-stoned bracelets. Later, distributing gifts, we wished we’d bought more of them.
Downhill and closer to water, we visited peaceful Topkapi palace, displaying assorted treasures of the Ottoman Empire. Among other mind-boggling exhibits, its famed 1741 emerald dagger was featured in a 1964 movie: Topkapi, with Peter Ustinov. Strolling through but a few of some 300+ rooms, conjured up visions of Arabian Nights.
We stopped for an outdoor coffee that was thick and sweet and accompanied by a glass of water. Approached by 3 fellows, I was initially suspicious, but relaxed when realizing they wished to practice their English.
Upriver and beyond the extensive Bosphorus suspension bridge linking two continents, we passed shores lined with luxury villas, hotels and crumbling remnants of a more prosperous era. Reaching the Black Sea, our ship turned about and, passing Istanbul, it entered the Dardanelles in darkness, from there passing into the Aegean and Greek waters.
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Don Wilkes ONEDRIVE & CLOUDY THEREIN? A few years ago I started using Microsoft’s OneDrive to transfer files between a Windows laptop and an Android tablet, with no intent regarding cloud data backup. Had I wished to do so, to add storage space would have cost little. Alternately, at the outset, I could have shifted items between the 2 devices via email attachment. Using the app as I did hardly dented the 5GB of free storage. That went well...until the situation became the most annoying aftermath of trying to get rid of OneDrive. While I hope it was not something I did in error on either device, I can’t really blame the mess created on anyone else—unless a ghost gremlin had sneaked in and caused the damage and effort yet to be invested.
For instance, on the laptop, icons vanished from the screen/desktop. A folder for TurboTax (source of personal data to auto-feed into new year’s tax form) lost its content and could not be deleted. Other folders emptied and couldn’t be removed. A peek at the tablet screen shocked me, as 50+ shortcuts for PDF files transferred to there by me vanished before my eyes, as did the actual files. Tracking the folder path to a couple items, I discovered why I couldn’t delete empty folders, or find files I sought—OneDrive had inserted itself into the chain of the original path to where what I sought had been located.
After seeking online assistance and a couple of corrective attempts failed to resolve restructuring of files I gave up and—for the last time—uninstalled OneDrive on the laptop and restarted the device. Then I disabled the app on the tablet. With recovery data backup at hand, I doubted any loss of files created by me; I just had to find and restore them. Mucking about with OneDrive sure had provided a jumble for me to fix, likely one with problems as yet not encountered. Checking the contents of a recovered Recycle Bin, I came upon a few items to restore. To test shifting files by email I sent a PDF from Windows Outlook to Gmail on both the tablet, and laptop. That worked fine and—debating Google’s assumed ownership and little risk regarding items transferred, I expected reverse traffic to be the same.
I’m not suggesting that OneDrive is a menace to be avoided, although some folk do object to their data being in the hands of others. If you wish to use it, do seek help from someone already familiar with the app. And, as I did before the fiasco (and after), do backup all files and photos to an external hard-drive—something I can no longer do with mine, since doing so would mess up those files too. Also, should you wish to duplicated extra precious items to a USB stick, do so to 2 of them. Also, by habit, I routinely copy files created and edited to a current16GB USB stick that accompanies me should I leave our apartment building.
The above is a good example of why file backup is so important! Considering the extensive fiasco that using OneDrive as I did became for me, I must admit that closing in the latter part of 2023 the Computer Drop-in I’d provided for several years at the 55+ seniors centre was a good decision, perhaps one overdue for this old guy!.
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info from Don Wilkes Basic duties of the executor or administrator include:
by RP Mickelson
If you like this story or have suggestions for further submissions, please email Rick at [email protected]
Life in Prison This story is completely fictional.
In 1972 I was sentenced to ten years in prison for armed robbery and subsequently lived in a medium security jail for seven years, three months and nine days. They were very difficult times and many experiences in that setting scarred me for life. But that period also had one wonderful outcome—I learned to be happy living my life in a very simple way.
For one thing, I’ve been eternally grateful to have ever been released at all and I’ll never go back to the life of a prisoner. But in the slammer I found a way to be happy with none of the accoutrements or complexities of modern life.
I lost my external freedom in 1972 but not my ability to choose to be happy. Living in a cell ten feet wide by ten feet long left me a great deal of time to just think and contemplate in silence. Sleeping on a canvas cot was easy because it was soft and I was always tired from exercising.
I started doing twenty push-ups daily, but after a year I was up to one hundred and fifty. By then my body had lost all its fat. Muscles rippled in my arms, legs, thighs and chest. The pot belly was long gone.
The food I ate during those years was not fancy. We got three small meals a day: dry cereal for breakfast; soup with stale bread for lunch; meat, potatoes and a limp salad for supper. What I required to be in top physical condition was a floor and small amounts of plain food.
During my second year of confinement, I started taking meditation classes under the tutelage of Zen monk Basu Nishikori. He taught us to stare at a wall and watch our breaths coming and going—without interfering in the process. Six months later I was calm, poised and happy most of the time. What I required to be worry-free and relaxed was a wall and a watchful practice.
Every inmate was issued two cotton orange T-shirts, two black nylon track pants and one pair of second-hand runners. I washed my gear every three days with Ivory soap then hung them up to dry in my cell. What I required to be comfortably and adequately clothed was twenty bucks worth of sportswear and two old sneakers.
When I was released in 1979 simple living was a habit.
My father had died while I was away and left me twenty-one thousand dollars in his will. So I moved into a five hundred square foot bachelor apartment. I furnished it with one chair, one table, one bed and one lamp. At a second hand store I bought two T-shirts, two track pants and a pair of runners. The small fridge I had could hold a few fresh vegetables and a bag of fruit. I was ready to live like a king.
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by Don Wilkes HONG KONG Following a mid-1990’s visit to Japan, Adele and I travelled on to Hong Kong, just ahead of its return to China. As I recall, the 1997 handover included a 50-year period within which little was to be changed by China. Guess what! No surprise. That supposed grace period didn’t last long. The heavy hand descended, and only got worse...
Someone I’d met at a wine tasting in Toronto had a sister in Hong Kong, and he’d insisted he’d write to her, and he told me to call her when we got there. A younger brother rounded out that family of diverse cultures. The eldest more British in nature, the sister we’d find to be decidedly Chinese. The youngest would be more Portuguese, perhaps like his father I was told. That said, all 3 were to be decidedly Asian in appearance.
To reach our destination we had to make a connection in Taiwan. Arriving there we wandered about the terminal, unsure what to do. Anyway, we did find our plane and got underway, with no reserved room awaiting at our the destination.
Then an island plus a tiny chunk of mainland leased from massive China, arriving in frantic Hong Kong (fragrant harbour) assaulted our
senses. Descending to the slim landing strip jutting out into a traffic-laden harbour was awesome, if not a tad terrifying. The plane slowly lowered, as if pausing to consider whether continuing would be a good idea. Would the wing tips clear the high-rise buildings? Was that really a face in that apartment window? Was there sufficient runway to accommodate the 747? How close was the next plane following us in? Scary indeed…
Years earlier what once enclosed the notorious Walled City had been demolished and became rubble used to extend the airport runway. Avoided even by authorities, The Walled City’s maze of meandering alleys and tunnels were entered via narrow passages tucked between buildings. A damp and decayed warren of squalid dwellings, bare light bulbs strung among exposed ceiling wiring provided minimal lighting within confining and grubby walls. Unintended for tourists, even those craving something unique to explore shouldn’t encourage entry. That airport was later shifted to one of the larger islands.
Unlike at home, in this city of Asian contrasts, joss sticks, incense and wall-to-wall people is the norm for our destination that supported some 6 million. There, pushing and shoving wasn’t unusual. Daytime roadways clogged with traffic became after-dark precious space for a foot-shuffling mob. Tables appear. Charcoal or gas burners follow. Gas snakes through flexible tubing to sustain simmering pots of unknown fare. Lingering auto fumes taints an atmosphere redolent with teasing odours. Clicking chopsticks clatter competed with jumbled voices. Dishes get scrubbed curbside; once emptied, tainted water further obstructs sewer openings or meanders about in search of unblocked openings.
For tourists dining can merely abate hunger or be eventful. Peking duck in a posh hotel? Perhaps something more venturesome? Squid or eel? Chicken feet? Snake? Goose intestines? Ox offal? Hairy crab? Shark fin? Bear paws? I must admit that we were little tempted by such options, or entering any of some 600 temples to be found in the Colony. There was just too much to see and do. Walking is by far the best way to get about.
Joining those boarding a Star Ferry provided a short and inexpensive harbour tour, in a craft similar to those that’d served inhabitant and visitors since the mid-1800s. In Central, Hong Kong's commercial core, taxis, double-decker buses, trams and an occasional rickshaw battle for space already fought over by an ocean of pedestrians who’d discovered that even crossing a street can be exciting. Early each day narrow lane-ways rapidly fill with rickety stalls, leaving a slender path between for those browsing. All this is tucked between towers stretching skyward in search of lofty Victoria Peak. Buses struggle upward but the 1888 Peak Tram, said to be the steepest funicular rail anywhere, is the preferred method to reach the top. Either way, the expansive panoramic view from above is awe-inspiring, a blessing and a means to escape the chaos below.
Mongkok, up from the Kowloon-side ferry docks, where we stayed, is the most densely populated part of the Colony. Arriving, we’d checked with an airport help-desk and booked YMCA accommodation. Far from fancy, our room was spacious and clean, albeit situated in a grubbier part of the mainland portion of Hong Kong. That said, It proved to be a decent spot from which to start off each day.
To navigate the area around the intersection of Nathan and Waterloo Roads required both skill and a native attitude. Spot space in the right direction, best grab it, before someone else moved in. Expect to be pushed and shoved. Learn to go with the flow. In Hong Kong clothing wore more rapidly on the outer side! Packed sidewalks, uneven and rough, offered no space to stumble. Patiently queuing for anything was foolish. Natives responded to opportunity.
A half-hour by bus got us to Aberdeen, the island's oldest settlement. Awash with activity, what was once a haven for bloodthirsty pirates housed floating eateries, bobbing junks and sampans. As we wandered about, chattering fisher-folk in traditional long shirts peddled the day’s catch. We didn’t choose to sample the wares of Jumbo, a huge floating restaurant; but we should have taken a sampan tour of the bay. From there, Adele and I moved on to the more sedate Stanley with its sandy beach edging the South China Sea. Once the site of the island's largest Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, crafty merchants conjured up ways for tourists to leave with emptier pockets. Unable to resist, we bought something or other before seeking a waterside pub we’d spotted earlier.
For an overnighter to China’s Guangzhou (Canton to foreign devils), we travelled north by boat and returned by train. Starting up the Pearl River felt like poking a finger into a large soft belly, since we barely penetrated the vast country. With over 3 million people and myriad bicycles zipping about, the warmer city lacked much of what we’d found in Hong Kong. Crowded, baggy green garb and red-trimmed military uniforms dominated dress. English on the streets? Well, yes, if ‘hello’ counted. Guangzhou is Guangdong province’s centre for Cantonese cuisine. When dim sum (to touch the heart) and assorted steaming nibbles arrives at the table by cart, most folk just point and nod to select. All done, the bill’s based upon an empty container tally.
Unsure just when we’d leave, we’d arrived just before Chinese New year (gung hay fat choy) with an open exit ticket. Bad idea. Awaiting a flight out, we finally got one, gave up our room, only to get bumped. That ended up in a battle with the airline as to who would arrange and pay for a hotel room. To top it all off, leaving the hotel we were accused of stealing a blanket not worth taking. I then suggested that he was welcomed to open our bags and, no blanked found, then pay us what he’d proposed to charge for the item. He declined and we left.
Before we left Hong Kong we did get together with the Toronto-linked sister. As it happened, the younger brother was also in town. Arriving at the restaurant, we were seated at a round table bearing a spotless white cloth. Of those attending, few spoke English or offered to. By the time the entertaining meal was over, the table covering had fallen prey to chopsticks reaching out to bowls clustered in the centre of the table. A memorable experience to add to the list about our stay in Hong Kong!
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by RP Mickelson
If you like this story or have suggestions for further submissions, please email Rick at [email protected]
ROXANNE’S SALVATION By RP Mickelson
Chapter 4—A Proposal
The next morning she was out again with the Reverend, dressed in an Inuit parka that had a
mink collar. He was a man of infinite compassion and charisma and street people loved
him.
“Here’s a pair of German leather boots George, size nine and a half,” she told the vagabond.
“They were owned by the brother of a good friend of mine who always buys high quality
footwear. But he doesn’t want them anymore.”
George Bacon looked up at her through tears. He was still leaning against a telephone pole,
shivering in the wind, shoeless, depressed and alone. Like a scarecrow in a barren winter
garden.
“Oh my God—they beautiful,” he said, slipping them on. “A perfect fit—you’re so kind.
Thank ya’ and thank ya’ friend.”
“George, why are you crying?” she asked.
“My wife has diabetes and we can’t afford the medication. She’s slowly dying.”
“Can I speak with her?”
Getting up slowly George said, “Follow me,” as he limped away, using a crooked old oak
cane to hold him up. Inside a makeshift plastic tent with two roof holes that let in the rain,
Gloria lay in a tattered, zipper less sleeping bag. Roxanne saw black rings under puffy eyes
inside a hollowed-out face of exhaustion. She bent down and touched Gloria’s shoulders.
They were cold. She was fifty two years old but the hard life of a former prostitute had
taken its toll. Roxanne turned away from her shriveled body, looked up at George and
spoke these words,
“I’ll return later today with some insulin George. Could you stay in the tent with her until I
get back?”
“Yeah, of course I will,” he moaned.
Somehow the compassion in Roxanne’s heart was unlocked and flowing outward. She
experienced Gloria’s suffering as if it was her own in that moment. The barriers between
her and a desperate woman suddenly broke down.
“You’re going to be okay my dear,” said Roxy. “All you need is a steady supply of insulin.”
Through a medical connection at the Open Door, a local homeless resource center,
Reverend Allen was able to secure a six month’s supply of insulin for Gloria which Roxanne
took straight back to her. After injecting her with a shot of the much-needed drug, she
Chapter --Engagement
If you looked at Roxanne’s life from the outside you’d assume she lived an ordinary middle-class Canadian existence. But if you were ever fortunate enough to probe a little deeper, you’d learn she was extraordinarily complex.
She was twenty-four years old, lived in one half of a two bedroom duplex on Duxbury Road in Sidney, BC and worked part time as a primary school teacher in Saanich. Actually, she shared a job with her good friend and colleague Donalda Simpson. She worked from Monday morning until lunch on Wednesday.
She stood six feet tall, had long blonde hair tied in a tight bun just above her neck, dressed very professionally and was considered quite attractive. Her eyes were a deep green, like the color of a manicured golf putting area.
Roxanne was an Anglican and occasionally attended St. Paul’s Church in Broadmead. Although she could never be considered extremely pious, she was moved, touched and inspired by the life of Christ and read a few verses of the New Testament on a daily basis. “Jesus is my idea of a perfect human being, that’s why I study His word daily,” she told Donalda.
She was a very private person. Although she had many acquaintances none knew her very well. Not even her fiancé, Brian Williams, understood her inner life and there were many aspects of her that no one knew anything about. For example, no one knew she owned the duplex or that she was heavily addicted to any form of cannabis that had a high THC content. No one knew she suffered from depression on a regular basis or that she wrote violent murder mysteries.
What people did know about her was that she was a law abiding adult who held conservative political views. Also, anyone who had even minimal contact with her knew she was very compassionate. How else could you explain her habit of rising at 3 am twice a week then driving downtown with Rev. James Allen to distribute coffee and doughnuts to the hundreds of homeless folk who lived on the streets of Victoria? “I grew up in the Uplands—a suburb where mostly rich people live,” she told Brian. “I was an only child and had every conceivable material advantage.” “Were your parents good to you?” asked her partner.
“No--my mom was a raving alcoholic who smoked, drank and watched TV all day long and my dad, who was a successful building contractor, didn’t spend any quality time with me. He bought me off with gifts. For my sixteenth birthday he gave me a brand new Honda
Civic.” “What motivated you to get high marks and play rep basketball?” Roxanne frowned as she responded. “Dad pressured me constantly to excel in school and sports and I obeyed him.”
At her father’s funeral, Roxanne shed many inauthentic crocodile tears and claimed she was too distraught to give the eulogy. She dressed in black, stood frozen at the grave site and talked to no one. Nevertheless, she was able to quite gracefully accept 1.8 million Canadian dollars and the duplex as her inheritance—facts she kept secret from everyone, including her beau. “I think we should get married this summer,” stated Brian at Easter, 2003. Roxanne’s reply was telling. “No, let’s wait one more year until we’ve saved enough to buy a condo.” “But we’ve already been engaged for two years!” he added. “Save for a condo? Surely you inherited lots of money from your dad.” “We’ll be married for a lifetime so there’s definitely no need to hurry. As for my dad—he didn’t leave me a penny,” she lied, “He bequeathed all his money to the law school at UVIC.” “Well at least we could start living together. I’d like to move into your duplex.” “Yes, in time, my dear—but I’m not quite ready for that,” she responded. A few days later, she met her best friend Lucie Savarov for lunch at Capone’s Chicken Den. “Glad you could make it today,” Roxy said. “Let’s take that table by the window.” “Sounds good.”
“Our special today is a fresh chicken sandwich with onions and dill pickles,” stated their waitress. “I’ll order one,” said Roxy. “Me too,” added Lucie. Between bites of her delicious sandwich, Roxy expanded on her prolonged engagement. “Brian wants to get married this summer but I put him off for another year,” she related. “Why?” replied Lucie. “Because I’m still not sure about the relationship,” answered Roxanne curtly. “Do you love him?” “Not particularly but he’s a good companion at times and when he’s finished his legal training he’ll definitely make good money.”
“I’ve never really loved anyone,” she thought. “But I better not mention that.” “I think you should be totally honest with him and break it off,” urged Lucie. “Thanks for the advice. You might be right. I’ll have to think about that.”
showed Gloria how to administer the treatments. Soon the afflicted woman was feeling
much better.
“You’ve saved my life today Ms. Roxanne,” she cried out unashamedly. “I’ll never forget
that.”
“It was nothing Gloria, just part of my job today. Please stay warm and let George look after
you. You’re going to be fine.”
During lunch that day Reverend Allen praised her and pointed out how compassionate she
could be.
“Your sensitivity to Gloria was amazing, Roxanne. You have a real mission with my street
people. As a matter of fact, I’d like to recommend you for my job. I’m going to retire in six
weeks.”
“Why do you think I’d be able to do your work?” She mused, taken aback.
“You’re an ideal candidate—you’re experienced and you care passionately about the plight
of our clients and they know it. If I recommend you, the Board will hire you, guaranteed.”
But I’m too busy writing a novel and planning a wedding, she thought.
“Let me think about it, Rev. I am a bit shocked and need to process this slowly. It’s true the
situation regarding destitute folks in our city speaks to me in a powerful way. Somehow I
want to make a difference with the whole problem of homelessness in this town. Just leave
it with me. In the meantime, can I talk to you about a personal matter?”
“Why yes, of course,” replied the minister.
“I’m engaged to a man I don’t love. In fact he drives me crazy and I don’t think marriage and
family are my destiny. I was thinking about breaking the whole thing off, but he really loves
me, wants to have kids with me and frequently acts completely dependent on my support.
I’m worried he’ll do something stupid if I dump him.”
“I’m not one to give advice on marital matters, Roxy but I will say this: it’d be cruel to marry
a man you don’t love. That wouldn’t serve him, or you—ever!”
“I’ll have to meditate on that idea, Rev and thanks for listening to me.” I trust this guy totally
and what he’s saying does make sense, she thought.
The complete book can be found and purchased on my publisher’s website. (Filidh Publishing) Just Google filidhbooks.com click on Author’s Bios and scroll down to RP Mickelson.
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by Don Wilkes JAPAN ... In the mid-1990s Adele and I flew to Japan, there to visit an acquired a pen pal, with whom I’d exchanged letters for over 20 years. From there we’d go on to Hong Kong, and try to contact a sister of someone I’d met at an Ontario wine tasting, perhaps share a meal with her.
Japan, about a third the size of Ontario, has many customs that differ from ours. A smile encountered may reflect embarrassment or be used to avoid having to say 'no.’ Chopsticks, widely used, follow rules. Bowing (depth according to age /importance) is pervasive. An initiated handshake may offend. Mount Fuji, a dormant volcano and home to Shinto gods, quietly monitors a people where individuality is encouraged to adopt industry, commercial pursuits and enterprise. Workday dress similar to North America, affluence is more evident than poverty.
Landing in Japan we were tired and confused, and wandered about until spotted by our host. Entering a Japanese home, shoes are doffed inside. Slippers worn on wooden floors; others await by the bathroom door. Stepping on a door-sill is to be avoided. Entering a room with tatami mats, slippers are removed. Getting about and doing what’s needed, the rapidity with which slippers are adopted and abandoned does improve. Distributed gifts brought along, subdued reactions called into question our choices.
Tokyo can be cold in winter and nowhere is that more apparent than in a home where only areas in use are heated. Portable heaters appear in the evening and hotpot meals provide inner warmth that might just reach chilled fingers wrestling with chopsticks. Gathered in a shared room more used than where we’d distributed gifts, a hibachi burned in the corner. Next morning I awoke with a headache.
Land around Tokyo expensive, Kazuo's lot and house on short stilts weren’t large by Canadian standards. Interior stairs leading to the second floor were steep. Space limited, nooks and crannies became storage spaces, as did areas over doorways. Toilet facilities upstairs, a bathing room was located on the main floor, off the kitchen. When his father died, Kazuo inherited the house, with his mother remaining number 2. While Katsue spoke no English, at times I found dealing with her almost easier. My Brother David had managed to learn some Japanese while obtaining his karate black belt in Japan. He’d often visited the Arai home and the eldest woman in the household seemed a tad perturbed that I couldn’t handle her language better. As dusk descended, exterior paper doors were joined first by sliding glass and then by shutters.
In daylight, even if a mite cool, doors to the outside were flung wide. Futons returned to cupboards, bedding was hung outside to air. In the multi-use room of the house, a traditional low table that once sat atop a hibachi pit had an underside electrical heater for warmth. A table-attached comforter was to be wrapped around the lower body. Sitting on the floor and tucking legs under the table proved to be beyond awkward. Also found there was a TV that provided early morning rather violent cartoons for the household youngster. The child’s name now forgotten, according to custom he was permitted great latitude, until age 10 or 12, at which time he’d be expected to conform. For travelling I wore disposable jackets with lots of pockets. While seated at the low table, the youngster was reaching for something on the table and his foot tore off a pocket. Grandma merely shrugged, her expression more or less suggesting ‘that’s the way it goes.’ According to a picture later received, that boy became a tall police officer.
After a chilling night, hot soup and steaming rice for breakfast was a treat, one more appreciated that a cold fried egg served as an honest effort to provide something more familiar to us. Katsue was a wonderful hostess. I offered Kazuo and family a night out, to a restaurant of their choice; no response was received. Odd?
Bathing in Japan became a treasured source of heat. Hot water never plentiful, it was only intended for soaking—after a thorough scrubbing while squatting aside a low-wall cold-water tap. Entering the tub, shorter but deeper than found back home, one immersed with only the head exposed. Comfort was short-lived as the tub became progressively shared. Male and female guest. Household males and then females, older to younger—with Katsue thus being last on the list. Done and cherishing the heat after drying the body, we juggled slippers and burrowed under a comforter and futon atop tatami mats, with pillows stuffed with rice husks. Once settled, even the odd earth tremor failed to register. Larger ones often ignored by the natives, not so for Adele and me in our room of unfinished wood and sliding shoji paper screens (wall panels). For our first night there a house rattler (our welcome to Japan?) received no mention the next morning.
Getting around Tokyo by train, and seeking signs that included English, proved to be easier than expected. Finding the local station, boarding the correct train and nervously eyeballing a map and station signs flashing by, we managed to reach the city core and asked someone to take a photo of us by the Imperial Garden. Also we visited Tokyo's Ginza district, a neon-infested bustling intersection of numerous white road stripes. There a sea of people surged back and forth, in and out of upscale shops. On other days we headed out to explore city sections focusing on books or other specialty products. In one area we bought a camera. Made in Hong Kong, instructions were in Japanese; fortunately it was a point and shoot model.
For a day out and about, we boarded a train to Kamakura, about an hour away from Tokyo, and a room booked in a hilly, shrine-laden town that in summer attracted folk fleeing Tokyo’s heat and humidity. There we inspected a large bronze Buddha, second only to the one in Nara. Some 20 metres tall, what we saw was 700 hundred years old. From there we meandered about engaging streets and then sought our hostel. Under renovation, we encountered untouched hallways and our Japanese-styled room, with a gender-less bathroom 'down the hall', and one offering more privacy was found on a floor below.
In Japan New Years is a major event, one demanding early household scrubbing. The Japanese in general very polite, we initially failed to understand that we’d be in the way. Message received and appreciation expressed, we left—with Hong Kong our destination*
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THE RIDE by Garry Schumacher Roger Wood, a resident of south western British Columbia, experiences a life or death situation while travelling home from a fall hunting trip with his son Jeff in northern Alberta. Stopping along the highway to answer nature's call Roger encounters a situation that results in his getting shot at close range and then is thrown into the back of his pickup only to recover consciousness in the dark of night with no idea where he is or where he can get help. The next few hours find him fleeing for his life as he is pursued through the boreal forest east of the Rockies.
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by Don Wilkes CAN YOU USE APPLE AIRPODS AS A HEARING AIDE? Using an iPhone or iPad? In 2018 Apple introduced Live Listen, that may permit AirPods to operate with compatible hearing aids. One guy tried to assist with AirPods and it worked for his grandfather. Worth checking out? Keep reading...
This Little-Known AirPods Feature Allowed My 95-Year-Old Grandfather To Hear Me Again “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this before?” Posted on January 10, 2023 at 1:02 pm Whenever I visited Aba, my maternal grandfather, who lives in India, he burst with questions. He
wanted to know how I was, and whether I still liked my job. He wanted to know what I had for dinner each day, and whether I still worked out. He wanted to know how the internet works, and what exactly was a Facebook. Each time I answered, however, his face would settle into a puzzled expression. He’d lean in closer and look faintly annoyed. I spoke again, and again, and then one more time, my voice growing louder and louder until I was practically shouting at him. Then his shoulders drooped, and he waved me away with a resigned sigh. At 95, Aba can’t hear much. He started to lose his hearing pretty early in life, back when he was a strapping young medical school student in the 1940s who knocked out a couple thousand squats a day. He was frighteningly fit except for bouts of cold that would strike him more and more frequently as the years went by. Doctors later diagnosed him with otitis media, a condition caused by repeated infections of the ear canals that were triggered by his colds. Still, he powered through life, living in Narayangaon, a small town in western India where he built an eye hospital from scratch. Aba was a social animal. He loved company, and loved having long, winding conversations. But by the time he turned 80, doctors said that more than 70% of his hearing capacity was gone. Aba spent thousands on expensive, medical-grade hearing aids. They were functional, but he despised them.
“They make all noises loud,” he complained. “I just need to hear the person I am speaking with. I don’t need everything amplified. It hurts, and I can’t stand it.” - Simple conversations were now Herculean efforts that ended in shouting matches and frustration. As he neared 90, Aba’s world shrank. He spent his days reading and watching TV, listening to the sound through a pair of oversized wireless headphones over his ears with the volume cranked to the max. He still wore his hearing aids, but as his ears got worse and worse, the devices became even less effective. Simple conversations were now Herculean efforts that ended in shouting matches and frustration. “DO YOU WANT DINNER?” “ARE YOU SLEEPY?” “CAN I GET YOU SOME TEA?” Phone calls were impossible — Aba had to put his phone on speaker, press it right up against his ear, and ask the person on the other end to shout as loudly as they could. Eventually, “talking” to Aba on the phone meant getting him on a video call and smiling and waving at him.
When I visited him in the fall of 2022, I was wearing a pair of AirPods, and he gestured to my ears with a puzzled expression on his face. “HEADPHONES!” I shouted. “I USE THESE TO LISTEN TO MUSIC!” And then, I wondered if I could use them for something more important. In 2018, Apple made Live Listen, a feature of iOS that lets iPhones and iPads transmit audio from their microphones directly to compatible hearing aids, work with regular AirPods. I hadn’t had any reason to use the feature myself, but now I was curious. Could Live Listen help me have a conversation with my grandfather after all these years? I slipped the AirPods out of my ears and put them in his. I turned on Live Listen on my iPhone, brought it close to my mouth, and spoke into it. “Hi, can you hear me?” Aba’s face broke into a grin, and he nodded excitedly. “I can hear you! I can hear you!”
AirPods aren’t my favorite Apple product. I think they’re overpriced, and they don’t sound great for what you pay. But it’s also true that no other wireless buds work so seamlessly with iPhones, which is why they’re the default wireless earphones for most people, including me. They’re also an environmental hazard. Vice called AirPods “future fossils of capitalism,” destined for landfills once their tiny batteries, encased in hard plastic, wear out after a couple of years. And I resent the fact that Apple eliminated headphone jacks that worked perfectly well and forced people to pay for something that they used to get in the box for free. But with Live Listen, AirPods helped me reconnect with my grandfather in a way that no other device has been able to. I’m willing to look past my misgivings for that.
Nearly 30 million US adults could benefit from using hearing aids, according to the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders. But in adults over 70 with hearing loss, fewer than 1 in 3 have actually used them. That’s because hearing aids are expensive. In the US, they can cost as much as $5,000 and often aren’t covered by insurance. In October, in an effort to drive down hearing aid prices, the Food and Drug Administration allowed some types to be sold over the counter for the first time. But even with the new rules, the devices can still cost well over $1,000. Meanwhile, the most expensive pair of Apple’s in-ear buds are $249.
Last year, a team of researchers from Taipei Veterans General Hospital in Taiwan read a short sentence out loud to people with mild to moderate hearing loss. The subjects listened to the sentence multiple times — with basic and premium hearing aids, as well as with two kinds of AirPods. Then they were asked to repeat the line back. In some cases, the researchers found that the AirPods performed as well
as the premium hearing aids. The study was published in November in the journal iScience. “They won’t replace hearing aids but it’s a good way for people to experience what the world would be like if they could get some help, an upgrade for their hearing,” Yen-Fu Cheng, an ear, nose, and throat specialist who co-wrote the study, told the Wall Street Journal.
Apple says that Live Listen can help people “hear a conversation in a noisy area or even hear someone speaking across the room,” but the company doesn’t explicitly market the feature as a hearing aid. Still, Apple has been quietly researching turning AirPods into health devices that can be used more than just to listen to audio, the Wall Street Journal reported. Apple has studied using AirPods to monitor people’s
body temperature, correct their posture, and boost their hearing. Apple’s earbuds already include sensors, microphones, an amplifier, and a high-end chip that could make them ideal for helping people who have moderate hearing loss, experts told the Journal. (Apple declined to respond to BuzzFeed News’ questions about Live Listen on the record.)
Minutes into wearing my AirPods, Aba had a question: “Can I get my own pair?” Of course, I said, and a few days later, a package from Amazon showed up at his doorstep. I paired Aba’s new AirPods to an old iPhone SE that once belonged to my mom and set him up. For the first time in years, Aba and I talked. I spoke, directly and quietly, into the phone and watched him nod his head in comprehension, and when he responded, clearly and in complete sentences, it felt like a chasm had closed. No longer restricted to transactional monosyllables and gestures, Aba talked and talked. We talked about his childhood and what growing up in an India still ruled by the British was like. We talked about politics (sigh) and India and America and the internet and, yes, Facebook. These days, Aba and his AirPods are inseparable. He’s far less lonely. He can finally meet people again and hold entire conversations, as long as they speak into his phone. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this before?” he asked me recently over a video call. I didn’t have an answer, but it didn’t matter because he was also smiling the biggest smile I have seen on his face in years.
Use Live Listen with AirPods or Beats - With Live Listen, your iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch can act like a microphone that sends sound to your AirPods or Beats. Live Listen can help you hear a conversation in a noisy area or even hear someone speaking across the room. To use Live Listen with your AirPods, AirPods Pro, AirPods Max, Powerbeats Pro, or Beats Fit Pro, your iOS or iPadOS device needs iOS or
iPadOS 14.3 or later. You also need to connect your AirPods, AirPods Pro, AirPods Max, Powerbeats Pro, or Beats Fit Pro to your device.
iOS Control Center Settings - Add Live Listen to Control Center - To use Live Listen, you need to add it to Control Center: Go to Settings > Control Center. Scroll down and tap the Add button add icon next to the Hearing button hearing icon. Tap Settings to save the changes.
iOS Control Center with Hearing shown - Use Live Listen - Open Control Center on your iPhone or iPod touch, or your iPad. Tap the Hearing button hearing icon. Tap Live Listen. Place your iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch in front of the person that you want to hear. If you can't hear well enough, make sure to adjust the volume on your device. You can also see your headphone audio levels in real time as you're listening to content. You can quickly glance to see detailed decibel-level information. To use Live Listen with an external wired microphone, connect the microphone to the Lightning port or headphone jack on your iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch. If you can't connect to your AirPods, AirPods Pro, AirPods Max, Powerbeats Pro, or Beats Fit Pro, or if Live Listen won't turn on, make sure that Bluetooth is on and that your headphones are charged.
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JUST ANOTHER DATA HACK? by Don Wilkes
I recently heard that in Canada a car is stolen every 6 minutes. How often is an online database hacked, or encrypted with a demand for a fee to release the files? Doubt that the latter equals the car count, even gets close to it. But...nowadays database hacks are far from being unusual occurrences.
That being so, it’s alarming to find that so many people so freely donate their personal information. Via social media and emails and public Wi-Fi, on which some folk even do their banking. SIN numbers. Names and addresses. Dates of birth. And, much more…
A background that included an internal-system stint at IBM in the early 1960s and possessing computers since the 1980s got me past being a computer newbie. For several years I provided a seniors computer drop-in. No doubt many attending could, or would, say that I’m paranoid about scams and data security—and they’d be right! Near the top of my safety precautions list, I try to avoid putting anything personal in emails.
Recently I encountered the aftermath of a data hack, one not exactly the norm. This time it wasn’t an attack on a database. And it wasn’t the life insurer (LI) owner’s blame or fault. That belonged to a data transfer sub-contractor.
SIGNIFICANT DATES: The intrusion incident occurred January/March of this year. It’s notification was sent in a late May letter. A 3-year free access to one of the credit-rating services (see below) was offered—that supposedly to expose indications of possible abuse of personal information.
CLARIFICATION, LETTER CONTENT: ‘Policyholder.’ ‘Life insurance information.’ Segregated fund policies.’ Other LI mutual funds. But the mutual fund totals details were generated by a non-related operation that likely provided no more than closing numbers: quarterly, semi-annually, annually.
ACCESS TO CREDIT RATING SERVICE: Activation code (advised in letter). Provide personal details and email address. Create and enter a password—access to credit-rating service? Respond to 1 to 4 identity verification questions.
DECISION: Subject to what follows next and considering the connection between LI and remote data transactions from the same mutual fund as mine, the time gap between Jan/Mar incident and it now being late June, passing up the free credit-rating offer could seem reasonable. But...when in doubt, don’t just bow out? Take the safe path? After having considered what next follows...
OUTSTANDING: Clarify tracking operation. Contents of a Confirmation page and how to get a copy? And, what about email details sent to participants; given Google’s rep, should use of Gmail be avoided? And then are those 4 question responses needed to verify the participant?
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Deciding to pursue a matter debated, I noted the connection between the life insurance operation involved and remote data transactions for Tracey from the same mutual fund as mine—plus the time gap between January/March incident and it now being early July. Passing up the free credit-rating offer could seem reasonable. But...when in doubt, don’t just bow out. Taking the safer path became the decision.
I’d hoped to clarify a few items before tackling the application. No such luck! So, I commenced the application process. Along the way a query or two did get cleared up.
THE PROCESS:
<1> Enter into browser: equifax.ca/activate, plus the 12-digit activation code in the original letter.
<2> I’d initially assumed that her email address was @gmail.com—not somewhere I’d like personal info to appear. But that destination didn’t work. However @icloud.com did! Required for activation: respond to 4 questions to verify ID, enter an email address (TR’s: @icloud.com) enter, and create a passcode: 8 characters minimum, numbers and letters, one upper case and one symbol; as for any new passcode, write it down before using this one! In addition, enter other details plus a cellphone number (mine, so I can respond to anything critical arising).
<3> With ‘I’m not a robot’ popups to tackle (one a motorcycle photo with boxes to tick for inclusion of any vehicle parts) plus a few choices: stacked circles, one of which to tick as applicable to Tracey.
<4> All done, and a confirmation page promised, I awaited its arrival in Tracey’s icloud.com email account. In closing the application acceptance, a current credit score was provided. More than being a good one, it suggested that nothing sinister had yet occurred. Included was a contact number (1-800-871-3250), that to be added to one I’d found before starting to complete the application (1-877-237-8104). Stumbling on the odd item, and backtracking a bit, completing the application consumed 30+ minutes.
<5> For access to credit status and account details, enter my.equifax.com in browser and, plus ID (TR’s @icloud.com) and passcode. Respond to anything further.
<6> Accessing my wife’s icloud.com emails, I forwarded the Equifax one to my Windows Mail app address. Reviewed, aside from her email address, there was little personal info included (good!). It also indicated that any alerts would be sent to her email account.
One free data check per year from either, annually available → contact info:
EQUIFAX CANADA CO. www.equifax.ca 1-800-465-7166
TRANSUNION www.transunion.ca 1-800-663-9980
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NO TRACE by Garry Schumacher In 1996, in the Vancouver Island city of Nanaimo a single, enterprising, individual held up an armoured vehicle as the guards were filling the cash machine at the Costco store. He subdued the guards and made off with thousands of dollars from the proceeds of the store as well as what was left in the machine. Using some rather innovative techniques, the brazen thief managed to elude the local authorities and vanish.
The story is based on that incident and although it uses specific facts and details that actually occurred in the original robbery, this story is otherwise a COMPLETE work of fiction. The places and names of the persons in the tale are entirely fictitious. The street names and some other locations are as they existed then. Info: [email protected]
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by Don Wilkes TARNISHED GOLDEN YEARS A few years ago, I collapsed onto an un-carpeted floor portion in our apartment, Taken to a Victoria hospital by ambulance, I had a few days of double-vision. Initially judged to be a stroke, after a week I was released and returned for a couple Stroke Clinic tests. A stroke or was it vertigo? While there, in a corridor bed I chatted with an adjacent guy who I discovered was dealing with terminal cancer. What right did I have to complain about my situation?
A few months ago, I collapsed in our bathroom, while my wife was visiting her daughter in Sooke. I called 911 and requested an ambulance. Paramedics checked my vitals, and agreed that a trip to the hospital seemed debatable. I signed that judgment and they left. I then called my wife. Family arrived. Feeling okay, I suspected that what had occurred might have been another item to blame on vertigo.
A few days ago, while attending a 55+ writing group meeting, I collapsed at the table. In the ambulance, my blood pressure having dropped, paramedics gave me 81 mg aspirin to chew. Initial suspicion: a heart attack? At the Jubilee Hospital my blood pressure was monitored, and remained in an acceptable range. A CT scan advised no damage. Three ECG tests were positive. Beds in short supply, I was walk-tested and released, with a post-event checkup to be arranged. Was this incident a heart attack...or what? Or, should I blame it on having to do our 2022 tax year returns? Maybe it’s time to pay someone to tackle that annual chore. But I’d still have to first gather all the bits and pieces. What would we be charged for two a bit more complicated? How then can this accountant not do our taxes next year?
With such incidents as outlined above occurring, do they suggest that we are at a living stage (88, my wife 84) when it’s time to explore assisted living? visit a few such establishments. Perhaps get on a waiting list for one found more-or-less suitable (likely, one bathroom?). Maybe so, but having spotted a suite ad for one nearby, I re-costed the price for the two of us. The resulting annual charge almost consumed our annual income! Moreover, we are happy where we have been for seven years, at a cost that might be considered a bargain during these days of high rental costs. Next step: check for stay-where-we-are dollars and use them to bring in requirements or folk to deal with what is becoming more difficult for us. Being happier and staying solvent does have its appeal. At the moment we’re managing.
Paramedics and hospital staff fully appreciated, the only hitch with the third incident dealt was contacting my wife after it occurred. Asking, I was assured she’d been called. But talked to? She’s deaf, without hearing aids in place or not handy to the phone! Three of her calls were on my cellphone, that being in my hospital clothing bag. She discovered what ‘d occurred by calling the 55+ Centre. The hospital called family when I was to be discharged. Days later, I wore a 24-hour home check results device. While awaiting my doctor’s translation of its results, I pondered what I’d done recently to adopt a safer life path forward? Having been of good health in earlier years, in no way is what follows a personal health-related complaint! That said, how do I stack up compared to others in my age bracket? Are current responses to some lessor incidents beyond what they should be, perhaps over-reactions?
At 88, it seemed appropriate to examine activities, adopt positive steps. A couple of years ago my wife and I addressed our driving. No more at night or downtown. Seldom drive non-local or in the afternoon (appointments aside). My 55+ Computer Drop-In on Thursday mornings, that left Tracey with Recreation Centre aquatics and me driving a few blocks to Walmart for 7am shopping and to the 55+ Tuesday morning writing group.
A copy of the home test in hand, I must admit the content meant nothing to me: premature ventricular and atrial contractions? My doctor advised that such results weren’t critical, of concern. So far, so good! I queried a VGH hospital test requested to ensure it was not a duplication. It wasn’t. Echocardiography, early May. He said that the test was similar to what some pregnant women get. Really!
VGH results yet to learn, what then is wrong with me? Too easily tipped into anxiety? Insufficient sleep? Vertigo? Tiring eyes added to the mix? Eyesight fine, adopting sunglasses helped, even inside. As did reducing reading and computer time. Falling a significant concern for seniors, along with wobbly legs, I use a cane outdoors, a walker within our apartment for stability and a speedier trip). Diminishing memory for each of us a factor we differ as to what we forget. I’m somewhat sheltered by a habit of making lists and notes of what needs doing. Perhaps I’m just a deteriorating old fart?
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by Don Wilkes GOT A WILL?
While using a reasonable-cost lawyer (notary?) and having a Power Of Attorney (POA) can make life easier should they be required, those fall far short of having a will at hand when the testator’s demise is imminent. Have you got a will? No? Why not? Can’t afford the lawyer’s fee? Don’t want to talk about dying? As you can see below, no will in place the province will appoint an administrator to deal with the matter, make decisions you could have made if a will had been organized for/by you.
INFO: In British Columbia, the new Wills, Estates and Succession Act ("WESA"), the Supreme Court Civil Rules, several other Acts and the common law govern what happens when a person passes away. If the deceased died with a will, the person named in the will as the executor (or executrix if a woman), may apply to the Court for what is called a Grant of Probate of the will. The authority of the executor arises from the appointment in the deceased's will. If the deceased died without a will, an interested person applies to the Court for what is called a Grant of Administration of the deceased's estate. The person appointed is called the administrator (or administratrix if a woman) Unlike the previous governing Act, WESA clearly sets out who is entitled to priority over another when making the application to become administrator. The spouse has priority and may also nominate someone else who is entitled to that same priority without the consent of the children. The word probate means to prove or validate. Probate is the procedure by which a will is approved by the Court as the valid and
witnessed by two people, with the exception of testators who are in the armed forces, or are mariners (Nov 6, 2021).
Related comment: [1] Several years ago a friend (now deceased) found online a free blank will form. He downloaded it and, with few assets to deal with, completed it himself and got 2 people to witness his signature. That worked for him, maybe not do so for others with more assets. When I recently went online to seek something similar, I found few ‘free’ will forms not associated with a lawyer ($). Compare carefully will kits that can be found in outlets such as Monk’s, Staples, Grand&Toy. [2] Only weeks ago, a family member, lacking a will, was in bad shape and obviously approaching end of life. Had his daughter not stepped in and hustled up a lawyer to prepare a will, her father would have died days later, without one. [3] At our ages—to shorten terms+executor role—our RIFs/GICs, on renewal, are arranged to ‘rollover’ as a similar investment if unaltered by us before maturity. => Following is a simple, bare-bones content example – ONLY THAT, may or may not suit all circumstances: Last will of [name, address]. I cancel any/all my former wills and codicils. In this will ‘my Trustee’ is both Executor and Trustee of my estate.
I appoint my wife/husband/other to be my Trustee. If she/he is unable or unwilling or can not act, then I appoint ‘?’ [name, address] to be my Trustee in her/his place. I give my Trustee all my property of every kind to administer as directed in this will. She/he is directed to pay my debts and estate-related costs and taxes, and to be reimbursed for estate-related costs paid on my behalf. She/he is to deliver any will-specified bequests in the will and thereafter, specific exceptions sorted, to divide any estate residue equally between my children (if that is what’s wanted, or other arrangement?). Should any of my children die before me, that share should, or should not, go to her/his offspring. She/he is also directed to have or not my remains cremated, along with advising or not my family of any proposed gathering.
The will form is to be signed and dated by testator in front of 2 witnesses [names, addresses, signatures]. An excluded child, natural or adopted, should be explained (proper phrasing for doing so?) to reduce the possibility of a will challenge.
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by Dale Lovell
For My High School Math Teacher
Her reputation preceding her
She sailed into the classroom like a battleship
All order and stern efficiency
Mathematics allowed no excuses
And neither would she
What she saw in us God only knows
We were all awkward adolescence
Knowing everything and nothing at all
The boys just trying to be
And the girls caught up in the art of becoming
But really, we just wanted to have fun
Algebra, what did that have to do with Saturday night
But she saw further
She took all that a hard life had left her
And turned it into a gift for us
We would learn our math
Mrs. Trask you saved us from ourselves.
And although we never thanked you
Wherever your students gather
You are always there **********************************************************************************************
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The class, then named Words R Us, was formed around 2001 by a wise lady author by the name of Gertrude Story, who had been a teacher, a news caster and politician in small-town Saskatchewan. Before relocating to the Centre, the group met in her apartment. Fay Mace inherited the class and served as its leader until her death in 2018. Current member count: 8 (max 10). While backgrounds and perspectives differ, with some published, they share a keen interest in improving what they write. Each member reads; that’s followed by a round of oral critique (constructive comment).
Chapter 1—An Engagement
If you looked at Roxanne Wilson’s life from the outside you’d assume she lived an ordinary
middle-class Canadian existence. But if you were ever fortunate enough to probe a little
deeper, you’d learn she was extraordinarily complex. Her character was like a maze.
She was twenty-four years old, lived in one half of a two bedroom duplex on Belmont Street
in the Fernwood District of Victoria, BC and worked part time as a primary school teacher
at Oaklands Elementary School. Actually, she shared a job with her friend and colleague
Donalda Simpson, working from Monday morning until lunch on Wednesday.
She stood six feet tall, had long brown hair often tied in a tight bun just above her neck,
dressed very professionally and was considered quite attractive by men. Her eyes were a
deep green, like the color of a manicured golf course.
Roxanne was an Anglican and occasionally attended St. Paul’s Church in Saanich. That was
the church of her parents and she’d been a congregant since she was baptized just after her
birth. At one point, she even taught Sunday school there for two years. Although she could
never be considered extremely pious, she was moved, touched and inspired by the life of
Christ and read a few verses of the New Testament on a daily basis. She was definitely a
Christian in good standing despite the fact that she felt the official Anglican doctrine was
dated, like an ancient bible.
“Jesus is my idea of a perfect human being, that’s why I study His word daily,” she told
Donalda one day when they were having coffee in a dark corner of the Quadra Street
Starbucks. “His life truly inspires me.”
She was a very private person. Although she had many acquaintances none knew her very
well. Not even her fiancé, Brian Williams, understood her inner life and there were many
aspects of her that no one knew anything about.
For example, no one knew she owned the duplex where she lived or that she was heavily
addicted to any form of cannabis that had a high THC content. No one knew she suffered
from depression on a regular basis or that she wrote violent murder mysteries.
What people did know about her was that she was a law-abiding adult who held
progressive political views and loved Taylor Swift’s music. Also, anyone who had even
minimal contact with her knew she was very compassionate. How else could you explain
her habit of rising at 3 am twice a week to drive downtown and meet up with Reverend
James Allen to distribute coffee and doughnuts to the hundreds of homeless folk who lived
on the streets of Victoria?
“I grew up in the Uplands—a suburb where mostly rich people live,” she told Brian. “I was
an only child and had every conceivable material advantage. Most homeless people didn’t
have that advantage.”
“Were your parents good to you?” asked her partner.
“No—my mom was a raving alcoholic who smoked, drank booze and watched TV all day
long and my dad, who was a successful building contractor, didn’t spend any quality time
with me. He bought me off with gifts. For my sixteenth birthday he gave me a brand new
red Toyota Corolla.”
“What motivated you to get high marks and play on the high school basketball team?”
Roxanne frowned as she responded.
“Dad pressured me constantly to excel in school and sports and I routinely did as he
commanded. In fact, I always obeyed. Actually, I was afraid of him.”
At her father’s funeral, Roxanne shed many inauthentic crocodile tears and claimed she
was too distraught to give the eulogy. She dressed in black, stood frozen at the grave site
and talked to no one. Nevertheless, she was able to quite gracefully accept 1.8 million
Canadian dollars and the duplex as her inheritance—facts she kept secret from everyone,
including her beau.
“I think we should get married this summer,” stated Brian rather enthusiastically at Easter,
2006. Roxanne’s reply was telling.
“No, let’s wait one more year until we’ve saved money enough to buy a condo.”
“But we’ve already been engaged for two years!” he gasped. “Save for a condo? Surely you
inherited lots of money from your dad.”
“We’ll be married for a lifetime so there’s definitely no need to hurry. As for my dad—he
didn’t leave me a penny,” she lied. “He bequeathed all his money to the law school at UVIC.”
“Well at least we could start living together. I’d like to move into your place because I hate
being away from you.”
“Yes, in time, darling—but I’m not quite ready for that,” she responded.
A few days later, she met her friend Lucie Savarov for lunch at Capone’s Chicken Den in
Esquimalt. Lucie sang in the church choir, played the guitar and wrote her own songs.
“Glad you could make it today,” Roxy said. “Let’s take that table by the window.”
“Sounds good,” replied her friend.
“Our special today is a fresh chicken sandwich with onions and dill pickles,” stated their
waitress. “It’s a two for the price of one deal.”
“I’ll order one,” said Roxy.
“I’ll have the other,” added Lucie.
Between bites of her delicious sandwich, Roxy expanded on her prolonged engagement.
“Brian wants to get married this summer but I put him off for another year,” she related.
“Why?” replied Lucie.
“Because I’m still not sure about the relationship,” answered Roxanne curtly.
“Do you love him?”
“Not particularly—but he’s a good companion at times and when he’s finished his
accounting degree he’ll definitely make good money.”
“Why don’t you love him?” asked her friend.
“Because he’s pretty boring and just doesn’t make me feel safe, or protected. Also, he’s a
terrible lover with a small dong. We don’t have sex very often.” I’ve never really loved
anyone, she thought. But I better not mention that.
“I think you should be totally honest with him and break it off,” urged Lucie. “You can’t
marry someone you don’t love!”
“Thanks for the advice. You might be right. I’ll have to think about that,” answered Roxy.
“Do you love Herman, Lucie?”
“Yes, totally—that’s why I’m going to marry him. He’s fabulous in bed and we make love at
least once every day. I’m his whenever he wants me.”
The complete book can be found and purchased on my publisher’s website. (Filidh Publishing) Just Google filidhbooks.com click on Author’s Bios and scroll down to RP Mickelson.
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Don Wilkes ISTANBUL Decades ago my first wife and I travelled to the East Mediterranean, where erstwhile Constantinople and Byzantium, now Istanbul, straddles Europe and Asia, both geographically and politically. Bosphorus waters serve as the dividing line. Craft-laden Golden Horn waters separate old and newer European portions. A maze of alley markets and strolling hawkers on well-worn streets, much of what must be seen in the city is manageable on foot.
Not far from our arrival docking area the beleaguered Galata Bridge spans the Golden Horn. Packed with vehicles and pedestrians and offering a nearby spice market, it was flanked by floating restaurants and vendor barges. Uphill to one side the Tower of Galata is a watchtower built in the 14th century. Later, leaving the port and buying something, I extended a handful of coins from assorted countries; the vendor picked among them. Airports: no donation bins?
The 6 minarets of the Mosque of Sultan Ahmed (Blue Mosque) drew both worshippers and tourists. Shoes lined exterior walls either side of a leather-draped doorway. Inside we found blue /green glazed tiled walls and assorted carpets atop foot-scooped stone floors.
From there a brief stroll delivered us to Hagia Sophia, a Christian church when built about 1500 years ago. A museum when we visited the interior, we admired the 4th largest dome anywhere, and carefully poked a finger into the weeping/wishing column before climbing a ramp to an upper level where walls were being stripped to expo se yesteryear’s facings. We missed a peek at its underground cistern used in a movie: Inferno, with Tom Hanks. In 2020 the building again became a mosque, re-using the wooden discs with calligraphy.
Amidst the city’s hustle and bustle, we gained entry to the sprawling underground Kapali Carsi (covered bazaar) by following a crowd vanishing into an alleyway. Inside, we joined eager shoppers browsing stalls organized along product lines: leather, lace, jewellery. At one or two of the 4500 stalls we tried our hand at bargaining and acquired several turquoise-stoned bracelets. Later, distributing gifts, we wished we’d bought more of them.
Downhill and closer to water, we visited peaceful Topkapi palace, displaying assorted treasures of the Ottoman Empire. Among other mind-boggling exhibits, its famed 1741 emerald dagger was featured in a 1964 movie: Topkapi, with Peter Ustinov. Strolling through but a few of some 300+ rooms, conjured up visions of Arabian Nights.
We stopped for an outdoor coffee that was thick and sweet and accompanied by a glass of water. Approached by 3 fellows, I was initially suspicious, but relaxed when realizing they wished to practice their English.
Upriver and beyond the extensive Bosphorus suspension bridge linking two continents, we passed shores lined with luxury villas, hotels and crumbling remnants of a more prosperous era. Reaching the Black Sea, our ship turned about and, passing Istanbul, it entered the Dardanelles in darkness, from there passing into the Aegean and Greek waters.
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Don Wilkes ONEDRIVE & CLOUDY THEREIN? A few years ago I started using Microsoft’s OneDrive to transfer files between a Windows laptop and an Android tablet, with no intent regarding cloud data backup. Had I wished to do so, to add storage space would have cost little. Alternately, at the outset, I could have shifted items between the 2 devices via email attachment. Using the app as I did hardly dented the 5GB of free storage. That went well...until the situation became the most annoying aftermath of trying to get rid of OneDrive. While I hope it was not something I did in error on either device, I can’t really blame the mess created on anyone else—unless a ghost gremlin had sneaked in and caused the damage and effort yet to be invested.
For instance, on the laptop, icons vanished from the screen/desktop. A folder for TurboTax (source of personal data to auto-feed into new year’s tax form) lost its content and could not be deleted. Other folders emptied and couldn’t be removed. A peek at the tablet screen shocked me, as 50+ shortcuts for PDF files transferred to there by me vanished before my eyes, as did the actual files. Tracking the folder path to a couple items, I discovered why I couldn’t delete empty folders, or find files I sought—OneDrive had inserted itself into the chain of the original path to where what I sought had been located.
After seeking online assistance and a couple of corrective attempts failed to resolve restructuring of files I gave up and—for the last time—uninstalled OneDrive on the laptop and restarted the device. Then I disabled the app on the tablet. With recovery data backup at hand, I doubted any loss of files created by me; I just had to find and restore them. Mucking about with OneDrive sure had provided a jumble for me to fix, likely one with problems as yet not encountered. Checking the contents of a recovered Recycle Bin, I came upon a few items to restore. To test shifting files by email I sent a PDF from Windows Outlook to Gmail on both the tablet, and laptop. That worked fine and—debating Google’s assumed ownership and little risk regarding items transferred, I expected reverse traffic to be the same.
I’m not suggesting that OneDrive is a menace to be avoided, although some folk do object to their data being in the hands of others. If you wish to use it, do seek help from someone already familiar with the app. And, as I did before the fiasco (and after), do backup all files and photos to an external hard-drive—something I can no longer do with mine, since doing so would mess up those files too. Also, should you wish to duplicated extra precious items to a USB stick, do so to 2 of them. Also, by habit, I routinely copy files created and edited to a current16GB USB stick that accompanies me should I leave our apartment building.
The above is a good example of why file backup is so important! Considering the extensive fiasco that using OneDrive as I did became for me, I must admit that closing in the latter part of 2023 the Computer Drop-in I’d provided for several years at the 55+ seniors centre was a good decision, perhaps one overdue for this old guy!.
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info from Don Wilkes Basic duties of the executor or administrator include:
- Completing an inventory and valuation of all assets and debts
- Gathering names and addresses of all beneficiaries and next-of-kin
- Cancelling subscriptions and charge cards, redirecting mail and wrapping up other personal matters
- Taking control of all assets, including the transfer of ownership registrations and the collection of any debts
- Paying all valid or proven debts left to the estate (the executor or administrator may be held personally liable for these debts if they remain unpaid after the distribution of the estate)
- Filing tax returns for the deceased and for the estate
- Selling assets as necessary and distributing the estate
- Preparing and obtaining approval from the beneficiaries, heirs-at-law or the court for accounts showing assets, receipts, disbursements, and distribution of the estate
by RP Mickelson
If you like this story or have suggestions for further submissions, please email Rick at [email protected]
Life in Prison This story is completely fictional.
In 1972 I was sentenced to ten years in prison for armed robbery and subsequently lived in a medium security jail for seven years, three months and nine days. They were very difficult times and many experiences in that setting scarred me for life. But that period also had one wonderful outcome—I learned to be happy living my life in a very simple way.
For one thing, I’ve been eternally grateful to have ever been released at all and I’ll never go back to the life of a prisoner. But in the slammer I found a way to be happy with none of the accoutrements or complexities of modern life.
I lost my external freedom in 1972 but not my ability to choose to be happy. Living in a cell ten feet wide by ten feet long left me a great deal of time to just think and contemplate in silence. Sleeping on a canvas cot was easy because it was soft and I was always tired from exercising.
I started doing twenty push-ups daily, but after a year I was up to one hundred and fifty. By then my body had lost all its fat. Muscles rippled in my arms, legs, thighs and chest. The pot belly was long gone.
The food I ate during those years was not fancy. We got three small meals a day: dry cereal for breakfast; soup with stale bread for lunch; meat, potatoes and a limp salad for supper. What I required to be in top physical condition was a floor and small amounts of plain food.
During my second year of confinement, I started taking meditation classes under the tutelage of Zen monk Basu Nishikori. He taught us to stare at a wall and watch our breaths coming and going—without interfering in the process. Six months later I was calm, poised and happy most of the time. What I required to be worry-free and relaxed was a wall and a watchful practice.
Every inmate was issued two cotton orange T-shirts, two black nylon track pants and one pair of second-hand runners. I washed my gear every three days with Ivory soap then hung them up to dry in my cell. What I required to be comfortably and adequately clothed was twenty bucks worth of sportswear and two old sneakers.
When I was released in 1979 simple living was a habit.
My father had died while I was away and left me twenty-one thousand dollars in his will. So I moved into a five hundred square foot bachelor apartment. I furnished it with one chair, one table, one bed and one lamp. At a second hand store I bought two T-shirts, two track pants and a pair of runners. The small fridge I had could hold a few fresh vegetables and a bag of fruit. I was ready to live like a king.
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by Don Wilkes HONG KONG Following a mid-1990’s visit to Japan, Adele and I travelled on to Hong Kong, just ahead of its return to China. As I recall, the 1997 handover included a 50-year period within which little was to be changed by China. Guess what! No surprise. That supposed grace period didn’t last long. The heavy hand descended, and only got worse...
Someone I’d met at a wine tasting in Toronto had a sister in Hong Kong, and he’d insisted he’d write to her, and he told me to call her when we got there. A younger brother rounded out that family of diverse cultures. The eldest more British in nature, the sister we’d find to be decidedly Chinese. The youngest would be more Portuguese, perhaps like his father I was told. That said, all 3 were to be decidedly Asian in appearance.
To reach our destination we had to make a connection in Taiwan. Arriving there we wandered about the terminal, unsure what to do. Anyway, we did find our plane and got underway, with no reserved room awaiting at our the destination.
Then an island plus a tiny chunk of mainland leased from massive China, arriving in frantic Hong Kong (fragrant harbour) assaulted our
senses. Descending to the slim landing strip jutting out into a traffic-laden harbour was awesome, if not a tad terrifying. The plane slowly lowered, as if pausing to consider whether continuing would be a good idea. Would the wing tips clear the high-rise buildings? Was that really a face in that apartment window? Was there sufficient runway to accommodate the 747? How close was the next plane following us in? Scary indeed…
Years earlier what once enclosed the notorious Walled City had been demolished and became rubble used to extend the airport runway. Avoided even by authorities, The Walled City’s maze of meandering alleys and tunnels were entered via narrow passages tucked between buildings. A damp and decayed warren of squalid dwellings, bare light bulbs strung among exposed ceiling wiring provided minimal lighting within confining and grubby walls. Unintended for tourists, even those craving something unique to explore shouldn’t encourage entry. That airport was later shifted to one of the larger islands.
Unlike at home, in this city of Asian contrasts, joss sticks, incense and wall-to-wall people is the norm for our destination that supported some 6 million. There, pushing and shoving wasn’t unusual. Daytime roadways clogged with traffic became after-dark precious space for a foot-shuffling mob. Tables appear. Charcoal or gas burners follow. Gas snakes through flexible tubing to sustain simmering pots of unknown fare. Lingering auto fumes taints an atmosphere redolent with teasing odours. Clicking chopsticks clatter competed with jumbled voices. Dishes get scrubbed curbside; once emptied, tainted water further obstructs sewer openings or meanders about in search of unblocked openings.
For tourists dining can merely abate hunger or be eventful. Peking duck in a posh hotel? Perhaps something more venturesome? Squid or eel? Chicken feet? Snake? Goose intestines? Ox offal? Hairy crab? Shark fin? Bear paws? I must admit that we were little tempted by such options, or entering any of some 600 temples to be found in the Colony. There was just too much to see and do. Walking is by far the best way to get about.
Joining those boarding a Star Ferry provided a short and inexpensive harbour tour, in a craft similar to those that’d served inhabitant and visitors since the mid-1800s. In Central, Hong Kong's commercial core, taxis, double-decker buses, trams and an occasional rickshaw battle for space already fought over by an ocean of pedestrians who’d discovered that even crossing a street can be exciting. Early each day narrow lane-ways rapidly fill with rickety stalls, leaving a slender path between for those browsing. All this is tucked between towers stretching skyward in search of lofty Victoria Peak. Buses struggle upward but the 1888 Peak Tram, said to be the steepest funicular rail anywhere, is the preferred method to reach the top. Either way, the expansive panoramic view from above is awe-inspiring, a blessing and a means to escape the chaos below.
Mongkok, up from the Kowloon-side ferry docks, where we stayed, is the most densely populated part of the Colony. Arriving, we’d checked with an airport help-desk and booked YMCA accommodation. Far from fancy, our room was spacious and clean, albeit situated in a grubbier part of the mainland portion of Hong Kong. That said, It proved to be a decent spot from which to start off each day.
To navigate the area around the intersection of Nathan and Waterloo Roads required both skill and a native attitude. Spot space in the right direction, best grab it, before someone else moved in. Expect to be pushed and shoved. Learn to go with the flow. In Hong Kong clothing wore more rapidly on the outer side! Packed sidewalks, uneven and rough, offered no space to stumble. Patiently queuing for anything was foolish. Natives responded to opportunity.
A half-hour by bus got us to Aberdeen, the island's oldest settlement. Awash with activity, what was once a haven for bloodthirsty pirates housed floating eateries, bobbing junks and sampans. As we wandered about, chattering fisher-folk in traditional long shirts peddled the day’s catch. We didn’t choose to sample the wares of Jumbo, a huge floating restaurant; but we should have taken a sampan tour of the bay. From there, Adele and I moved on to the more sedate Stanley with its sandy beach edging the South China Sea. Once the site of the island's largest Japanese prisoner-of-war camp, crafty merchants conjured up ways for tourists to leave with emptier pockets. Unable to resist, we bought something or other before seeking a waterside pub we’d spotted earlier.
For an overnighter to China’s Guangzhou (Canton to foreign devils), we travelled north by boat and returned by train. Starting up the Pearl River felt like poking a finger into a large soft belly, since we barely penetrated the vast country. With over 3 million people and myriad bicycles zipping about, the warmer city lacked much of what we’d found in Hong Kong. Crowded, baggy green garb and red-trimmed military uniforms dominated dress. English on the streets? Well, yes, if ‘hello’ counted. Guangzhou is Guangdong province’s centre for Cantonese cuisine. When dim sum (to touch the heart) and assorted steaming nibbles arrives at the table by cart, most folk just point and nod to select. All done, the bill’s based upon an empty container tally.
Unsure just when we’d leave, we’d arrived just before Chinese New year (gung hay fat choy) with an open exit ticket. Bad idea. Awaiting a flight out, we finally got one, gave up our room, only to get bumped. That ended up in a battle with the airline as to who would arrange and pay for a hotel room. To top it all off, leaving the hotel we were accused of stealing a blanket not worth taking. I then suggested that he was welcomed to open our bags and, no blanked found, then pay us what he’d proposed to charge for the item. He declined and we left.
Before we left Hong Kong we did get together with the Toronto-linked sister. As it happened, the younger brother was also in town. Arriving at the restaurant, we were seated at a round table bearing a spotless white cloth. Of those attending, few spoke English or offered to. By the time the entertaining meal was over, the table covering had fallen prey to chopsticks reaching out to bowls clustered in the centre of the table. A memorable experience to add to the list about our stay in Hong Kong!
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by RP Mickelson
If you like this story or have suggestions for further submissions, please email Rick at [email protected]
ROXANNE’S SALVATION By RP Mickelson
Chapter 4—A Proposal
The next morning she was out again with the Reverend, dressed in an Inuit parka that had a
mink collar. He was a man of infinite compassion and charisma and street people loved
him.
“Here’s a pair of German leather boots George, size nine and a half,” she told the vagabond.
“They were owned by the brother of a good friend of mine who always buys high quality
footwear. But he doesn’t want them anymore.”
George Bacon looked up at her through tears. He was still leaning against a telephone pole,
shivering in the wind, shoeless, depressed and alone. Like a scarecrow in a barren winter
garden.
“Oh my God—they beautiful,” he said, slipping them on. “A perfect fit—you’re so kind.
Thank ya’ and thank ya’ friend.”
“George, why are you crying?” she asked.
“My wife has diabetes and we can’t afford the medication. She’s slowly dying.”
“Can I speak with her?”
Getting up slowly George said, “Follow me,” as he limped away, using a crooked old oak
cane to hold him up. Inside a makeshift plastic tent with two roof holes that let in the rain,
Gloria lay in a tattered, zipper less sleeping bag. Roxanne saw black rings under puffy eyes
inside a hollowed-out face of exhaustion. She bent down and touched Gloria’s shoulders.
They were cold. She was fifty two years old but the hard life of a former prostitute had
taken its toll. Roxanne turned away from her shriveled body, looked up at George and
spoke these words,
“I’ll return later today with some insulin George. Could you stay in the tent with her until I
get back?”
“Yeah, of course I will,” he moaned.
Somehow the compassion in Roxanne’s heart was unlocked and flowing outward. She
experienced Gloria’s suffering as if it was her own in that moment. The barriers between
her and a desperate woman suddenly broke down.
“You’re going to be okay my dear,” said Roxy. “All you need is a steady supply of insulin.”
Through a medical connection at the Open Door, a local homeless resource center,
Reverend Allen was able to secure a six month’s supply of insulin for Gloria which Roxanne
took straight back to her. After injecting her with a shot of the much-needed drug, she
Chapter --Engagement
If you looked at Roxanne’s life from the outside you’d assume she lived an ordinary middle-class Canadian existence. But if you were ever fortunate enough to probe a little deeper, you’d learn she was extraordinarily complex.
She was twenty-four years old, lived in one half of a two bedroom duplex on Duxbury Road in Sidney, BC and worked part time as a primary school teacher in Saanich. Actually, she shared a job with her good friend and colleague Donalda Simpson. She worked from Monday morning until lunch on Wednesday.
She stood six feet tall, had long blonde hair tied in a tight bun just above her neck, dressed very professionally and was considered quite attractive. Her eyes were a deep green, like the color of a manicured golf putting area.
Roxanne was an Anglican and occasionally attended St. Paul’s Church in Broadmead. Although she could never be considered extremely pious, she was moved, touched and inspired by the life of Christ and read a few verses of the New Testament on a daily basis. “Jesus is my idea of a perfect human being, that’s why I study His word daily,” she told Donalda.
She was a very private person. Although she had many acquaintances none knew her very well. Not even her fiancé, Brian Williams, understood her inner life and there were many aspects of her that no one knew anything about. For example, no one knew she owned the duplex or that she was heavily addicted to any form of cannabis that had a high THC content. No one knew she suffered from depression on a regular basis or that she wrote violent murder mysteries.
What people did know about her was that she was a law abiding adult who held conservative political views. Also, anyone who had even minimal contact with her knew she was very compassionate. How else could you explain her habit of rising at 3 am twice a week then driving downtown with Rev. James Allen to distribute coffee and doughnuts to the hundreds of homeless folk who lived on the streets of Victoria? “I grew up in the Uplands—a suburb where mostly rich people live,” she told Brian. “I was an only child and had every conceivable material advantage.” “Were your parents good to you?” asked her partner.
“No--my mom was a raving alcoholic who smoked, drank and watched TV all day long and my dad, who was a successful building contractor, didn’t spend any quality time with me. He bought me off with gifts. For my sixteenth birthday he gave me a brand new Honda
Civic.” “What motivated you to get high marks and play rep basketball?” Roxanne frowned as she responded. “Dad pressured me constantly to excel in school and sports and I obeyed him.”
At her father’s funeral, Roxanne shed many inauthentic crocodile tears and claimed she was too distraught to give the eulogy. She dressed in black, stood frozen at the grave site and talked to no one. Nevertheless, she was able to quite gracefully accept 1.8 million Canadian dollars and the duplex as her inheritance—facts she kept secret from everyone, including her beau. “I think we should get married this summer,” stated Brian at Easter, 2003. Roxanne’s reply was telling. “No, let’s wait one more year until we’ve saved enough to buy a condo.” “But we’ve already been engaged for two years!” he added. “Save for a condo? Surely you inherited lots of money from your dad.” “We’ll be married for a lifetime so there’s definitely no need to hurry. As for my dad—he didn’t leave me a penny,” she lied, “He bequeathed all his money to the law school at UVIC.” “Well at least we could start living together. I’d like to move into your duplex.” “Yes, in time, my dear—but I’m not quite ready for that,” she responded. A few days later, she met her best friend Lucie Savarov for lunch at Capone’s Chicken Den. “Glad you could make it today,” Roxy said. “Let’s take that table by the window.” “Sounds good.”
“Our special today is a fresh chicken sandwich with onions and dill pickles,” stated their waitress. “I’ll order one,” said Roxy. “Me too,” added Lucie. Between bites of her delicious sandwich, Roxy expanded on her prolonged engagement. “Brian wants to get married this summer but I put him off for another year,” she related. “Why?” replied Lucie. “Because I’m still not sure about the relationship,” answered Roxanne curtly. “Do you love him?” “Not particularly but he’s a good companion at times and when he’s finished his legal training he’ll definitely make good money.”
“I’ve never really loved anyone,” she thought. “But I better not mention that.” “I think you should be totally honest with him and break it off,” urged Lucie. “Thanks for the advice. You might be right. I’ll have to think about that.”
showed Gloria how to administer the treatments. Soon the afflicted woman was feeling
much better.
“You’ve saved my life today Ms. Roxanne,” she cried out unashamedly. “I’ll never forget
that.”
“It was nothing Gloria, just part of my job today. Please stay warm and let George look after
you. You’re going to be fine.”
During lunch that day Reverend Allen praised her and pointed out how compassionate she
could be.
“Your sensitivity to Gloria was amazing, Roxanne. You have a real mission with my street
people. As a matter of fact, I’d like to recommend you for my job. I’m going to retire in six
weeks.”
“Why do you think I’d be able to do your work?” She mused, taken aback.
“You’re an ideal candidate—you’re experienced and you care passionately about the plight
of our clients and they know it. If I recommend you, the Board will hire you, guaranteed.”
But I’m too busy writing a novel and planning a wedding, she thought.
“Let me think about it, Rev. I am a bit shocked and need to process this slowly. It’s true the
situation regarding destitute folks in our city speaks to me in a powerful way. Somehow I
want to make a difference with the whole problem of homelessness in this town. Just leave
it with me. In the meantime, can I talk to you about a personal matter?”
“Why yes, of course,” replied the minister.
“I’m engaged to a man I don’t love. In fact he drives me crazy and I don’t think marriage and
family are my destiny. I was thinking about breaking the whole thing off, but he really loves
me, wants to have kids with me and frequently acts completely dependent on my support.
I’m worried he’ll do something stupid if I dump him.”
“I’m not one to give advice on marital matters, Roxy but I will say this: it’d be cruel to marry
a man you don’t love. That wouldn’t serve him, or you—ever!”
“I’ll have to meditate on that idea, Rev and thanks for listening to me.” I trust this guy totally
and what he’s saying does make sense, she thought.
The complete book can be found and purchased on my publisher’s website. (Filidh Publishing) Just Google filidhbooks.com click on Author’s Bios and scroll down to RP Mickelson.
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by Don Wilkes JAPAN ... In the mid-1990s Adele and I flew to Japan, there to visit an acquired a pen pal, with whom I’d exchanged letters for over 20 years. From there we’d go on to Hong Kong, and try to contact a sister of someone I’d met at an Ontario wine tasting, perhaps share a meal with her.
Japan, about a third the size of Ontario, has many customs that differ from ours. A smile encountered may reflect embarrassment or be used to avoid having to say 'no.’ Chopsticks, widely used, follow rules. Bowing (depth according to age /importance) is pervasive. An initiated handshake may offend. Mount Fuji, a dormant volcano and home to Shinto gods, quietly monitors a people where individuality is encouraged to adopt industry, commercial pursuits and enterprise. Workday dress similar to North America, affluence is more evident than poverty.
Landing in Japan we were tired and confused, and wandered about until spotted by our host. Entering a Japanese home, shoes are doffed inside. Slippers worn on wooden floors; others await by the bathroom door. Stepping on a door-sill is to be avoided. Entering a room with tatami mats, slippers are removed. Getting about and doing what’s needed, the rapidity with which slippers are adopted and abandoned does improve. Distributed gifts brought along, subdued reactions called into question our choices.
Tokyo can be cold in winter and nowhere is that more apparent than in a home where only areas in use are heated. Portable heaters appear in the evening and hotpot meals provide inner warmth that might just reach chilled fingers wrestling with chopsticks. Gathered in a shared room more used than where we’d distributed gifts, a hibachi burned in the corner. Next morning I awoke with a headache.
Land around Tokyo expensive, Kazuo's lot and house on short stilts weren’t large by Canadian standards. Interior stairs leading to the second floor were steep. Space limited, nooks and crannies became storage spaces, as did areas over doorways. Toilet facilities upstairs, a bathing room was located on the main floor, off the kitchen. When his father died, Kazuo inherited the house, with his mother remaining number 2. While Katsue spoke no English, at times I found dealing with her almost easier. My Brother David had managed to learn some Japanese while obtaining his karate black belt in Japan. He’d often visited the Arai home and the eldest woman in the household seemed a tad perturbed that I couldn’t handle her language better. As dusk descended, exterior paper doors were joined first by sliding glass and then by shutters.
In daylight, even if a mite cool, doors to the outside were flung wide. Futons returned to cupboards, bedding was hung outside to air. In the multi-use room of the house, a traditional low table that once sat atop a hibachi pit had an underside electrical heater for warmth. A table-attached comforter was to be wrapped around the lower body. Sitting on the floor and tucking legs under the table proved to be beyond awkward. Also found there was a TV that provided early morning rather violent cartoons for the household youngster. The child’s name now forgotten, according to custom he was permitted great latitude, until age 10 or 12, at which time he’d be expected to conform. For travelling I wore disposable jackets with lots of pockets. While seated at the low table, the youngster was reaching for something on the table and his foot tore off a pocket. Grandma merely shrugged, her expression more or less suggesting ‘that’s the way it goes.’ According to a picture later received, that boy became a tall police officer.
After a chilling night, hot soup and steaming rice for breakfast was a treat, one more appreciated that a cold fried egg served as an honest effort to provide something more familiar to us. Katsue was a wonderful hostess. I offered Kazuo and family a night out, to a restaurant of their choice; no response was received. Odd?
Bathing in Japan became a treasured source of heat. Hot water never plentiful, it was only intended for soaking—after a thorough scrubbing while squatting aside a low-wall cold-water tap. Entering the tub, shorter but deeper than found back home, one immersed with only the head exposed. Comfort was short-lived as the tub became progressively shared. Male and female guest. Household males and then females, older to younger—with Katsue thus being last on the list. Done and cherishing the heat after drying the body, we juggled slippers and burrowed under a comforter and futon atop tatami mats, with pillows stuffed with rice husks. Once settled, even the odd earth tremor failed to register. Larger ones often ignored by the natives, not so for Adele and me in our room of unfinished wood and sliding shoji paper screens (wall panels). For our first night there a house rattler (our welcome to Japan?) received no mention the next morning.
Getting around Tokyo by train, and seeking signs that included English, proved to be easier than expected. Finding the local station, boarding the correct train and nervously eyeballing a map and station signs flashing by, we managed to reach the city core and asked someone to take a photo of us by the Imperial Garden. Also we visited Tokyo's Ginza district, a neon-infested bustling intersection of numerous white road stripes. There a sea of people surged back and forth, in and out of upscale shops. On other days we headed out to explore city sections focusing on books or other specialty products. In one area we bought a camera. Made in Hong Kong, instructions were in Japanese; fortunately it was a point and shoot model.
For a day out and about, we boarded a train to Kamakura, about an hour away from Tokyo, and a room booked in a hilly, shrine-laden town that in summer attracted folk fleeing Tokyo’s heat and humidity. There we inspected a large bronze Buddha, second only to the one in Nara. Some 20 metres tall, what we saw was 700 hundred years old. From there we meandered about engaging streets and then sought our hostel. Under renovation, we encountered untouched hallways and our Japanese-styled room, with a gender-less bathroom 'down the hall', and one offering more privacy was found on a floor below.
In Japan New Years is a major event, one demanding early household scrubbing. The Japanese in general very polite, we initially failed to understand that we’d be in the way. Message received and appreciation expressed, we left—with Hong Kong our destination*
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THE RIDE by Garry Schumacher Roger Wood, a resident of south western British Columbia, experiences a life or death situation while travelling home from a fall hunting trip with his son Jeff in northern Alberta. Stopping along the highway to answer nature's call Roger encounters a situation that results in his getting shot at close range and then is thrown into the back of his pickup only to recover consciousness in the dark of night with no idea where he is or where he can get help. The next few hours find him fleeing for his life as he is pursued through the boreal forest east of the Rockies.
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by Don Wilkes CAN YOU USE APPLE AIRPODS AS A HEARING AIDE? Using an iPhone or iPad? In 2018 Apple introduced Live Listen, that may permit AirPods to operate with compatible hearing aids. One guy tried to assist with AirPods and it worked for his grandfather. Worth checking out? Keep reading...
This Little-Known AirPods Feature Allowed My 95-Year-Old Grandfather To Hear Me Again “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this before?” Posted on January 10, 2023 at 1:02 pm Whenever I visited Aba, my maternal grandfather, who lives in India, he burst with questions. He
wanted to know how I was, and whether I still liked my job. He wanted to know what I had for dinner each day, and whether I still worked out. He wanted to know how the internet works, and what exactly was a Facebook. Each time I answered, however, his face would settle into a puzzled expression. He’d lean in closer and look faintly annoyed. I spoke again, and again, and then one more time, my voice growing louder and louder until I was practically shouting at him. Then his shoulders drooped, and he waved me away with a resigned sigh. At 95, Aba can’t hear much. He started to lose his hearing pretty early in life, back when he was a strapping young medical school student in the 1940s who knocked out a couple thousand squats a day. He was frighteningly fit except for bouts of cold that would strike him more and more frequently as the years went by. Doctors later diagnosed him with otitis media, a condition caused by repeated infections of the ear canals that were triggered by his colds. Still, he powered through life, living in Narayangaon, a small town in western India where he built an eye hospital from scratch. Aba was a social animal. He loved company, and loved having long, winding conversations. But by the time he turned 80, doctors said that more than 70% of his hearing capacity was gone. Aba spent thousands on expensive, medical-grade hearing aids. They were functional, but he despised them.
“They make all noises loud,” he complained. “I just need to hear the person I am speaking with. I don’t need everything amplified. It hurts, and I can’t stand it.” - Simple conversations were now Herculean efforts that ended in shouting matches and frustration. As he neared 90, Aba’s world shrank. He spent his days reading and watching TV, listening to the sound through a pair of oversized wireless headphones over his ears with the volume cranked to the max. He still wore his hearing aids, but as his ears got worse and worse, the devices became even less effective. Simple conversations were now Herculean efforts that ended in shouting matches and frustration. “DO YOU WANT DINNER?” “ARE YOU SLEEPY?” “CAN I GET YOU SOME TEA?” Phone calls were impossible — Aba had to put his phone on speaker, press it right up against his ear, and ask the person on the other end to shout as loudly as they could. Eventually, “talking” to Aba on the phone meant getting him on a video call and smiling and waving at him.
When I visited him in the fall of 2022, I was wearing a pair of AirPods, and he gestured to my ears with a puzzled expression on his face. “HEADPHONES!” I shouted. “I USE THESE TO LISTEN TO MUSIC!” And then, I wondered if I could use them for something more important. In 2018, Apple made Live Listen, a feature of iOS that lets iPhones and iPads transmit audio from their microphones directly to compatible hearing aids, work with regular AirPods. I hadn’t had any reason to use the feature myself, but now I was curious. Could Live Listen help me have a conversation with my grandfather after all these years? I slipped the AirPods out of my ears and put them in his. I turned on Live Listen on my iPhone, brought it close to my mouth, and spoke into it. “Hi, can you hear me?” Aba’s face broke into a grin, and he nodded excitedly. “I can hear you! I can hear you!”
AirPods aren’t my favorite Apple product. I think they’re overpriced, and they don’t sound great for what you pay. But it’s also true that no other wireless buds work so seamlessly with iPhones, which is why they’re the default wireless earphones for most people, including me. They’re also an environmental hazard. Vice called AirPods “future fossils of capitalism,” destined for landfills once their tiny batteries, encased in hard plastic, wear out after a couple of years. And I resent the fact that Apple eliminated headphone jacks that worked perfectly well and forced people to pay for something that they used to get in the box for free. But with Live Listen, AirPods helped me reconnect with my grandfather in a way that no other device has been able to. I’m willing to look past my misgivings for that.
Nearly 30 million US adults could benefit from using hearing aids, according to the National Institute on Deafness and Other Communication Disorders. But in adults over 70 with hearing loss, fewer than 1 in 3 have actually used them. That’s because hearing aids are expensive. In the US, they can cost as much as $5,000 and often aren’t covered by insurance. In October, in an effort to drive down hearing aid prices, the Food and Drug Administration allowed some types to be sold over the counter for the first time. But even with the new rules, the devices can still cost well over $1,000. Meanwhile, the most expensive pair of Apple’s in-ear buds are $249.
Last year, a team of researchers from Taipei Veterans General Hospital in Taiwan read a short sentence out loud to people with mild to moderate hearing loss. The subjects listened to the sentence multiple times — with basic and premium hearing aids, as well as with two kinds of AirPods. Then they were asked to repeat the line back. In some cases, the researchers found that the AirPods performed as well
as the premium hearing aids. The study was published in November in the journal iScience. “They won’t replace hearing aids but it’s a good way for people to experience what the world would be like if they could get some help, an upgrade for their hearing,” Yen-Fu Cheng, an ear, nose, and throat specialist who co-wrote the study, told the Wall Street Journal.
Apple says that Live Listen can help people “hear a conversation in a noisy area or even hear someone speaking across the room,” but the company doesn’t explicitly market the feature as a hearing aid. Still, Apple has been quietly researching turning AirPods into health devices that can be used more than just to listen to audio, the Wall Street Journal reported. Apple has studied using AirPods to monitor people’s
body temperature, correct their posture, and boost their hearing. Apple’s earbuds already include sensors, microphones, an amplifier, and a high-end chip that could make them ideal for helping people who have moderate hearing loss, experts told the Journal. (Apple declined to respond to BuzzFeed News’ questions about Live Listen on the record.)
Minutes into wearing my AirPods, Aba had a question: “Can I get my own pair?” Of course, I said, and a few days later, a package from Amazon showed up at his doorstep. I paired Aba’s new AirPods to an old iPhone SE that once belonged to my mom and set him up. For the first time in years, Aba and I talked. I spoke, directly and quietly, into the phone and watched him nod his head in comprehension, and when he responded, clearly and in complete sentences, it felt like a chasm had closed. No longer restricted to transactional monosyllables and gestures, Aba talked and talked. We talked about his childhood and what growing up in an India still ruled by the British was like. We talked about politics (sigh) and India and America and the internet and, yes, Facebook. These days, Aba and his AirPods are inseparable. He’s far less lonely. He can finally meet people again and hold entire conversations, as long as they speak into his phone. “Why didn’t anyone tell me about this before?” he asked me recently over a video call. I didn’t have an answer, but it didn’t matter because he was also smiling the biggest smile I have seen on his face in years.
Use Live Listen with AirPods or Beats - With Live Listen, your iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch can act like a microphone that sends sound to your AirPods or Beats. Live Listen can help you hear a conversation in a noisy area or even hear someone speaking across the room. To use Live Listen with your AirPods, AirPods Pro, AirPods Max, Powerbeats Pro, or Beats Fit Pro, your iOS or iPadOS device needs iOS or
iPadOS 14.3 or later. You also need to connect your AirPods, AirPods Pro, AirPods Max, Powerbeats Pro, or Beats Fit Pro to your device.
iOS Control Center Settings - Add Live Listen to Control Center - To use Live Listen, you need to add it to Control Center: Go to Settings > Control Center. Scroll down and tap the Add button add icon next to the Hearing button hearing icon. Tap Settings to save the changes.
iOS Control Center with Hearing shown - Use Live Listen - Open Control Center on your iPhone or iPod touch, or your iPad. Tap the Hearing button hearing icon. Tap Live Listen. Place your iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch in front of the person that you want to hear. If you can't hear well enough, make sure to adjust the volume on your device. You can also see your headphone audio levels in real time as you're listening to content. You can quickly glance to see detailed decibel-level information. To use Live Listen with an external wired microphone, connect the microphone to the Lightning port or headphone jack on your iPhone, iPad, or iPod touch. If you can't connect to your AirPods, AirPods Pro, AirPods Max, Powerbeats Pro, or Beats Fit Pro, or if Live Listen won't turn on, make sure that Bluetooth is on and that your headphones are charged.
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JUST ANOTHER DATA HACK? by Don Wilkes
I recently heard that in Canada a car is stolen every 6 minutes. How often is an online database hacked, or encrypted with a demand for a fee to release the files? Doubt that the latter equals the car count, even gets close to it. But...nowadays database hacks are far from being unusual occurrences.
That being so, it’s alarming to find that so many people so freely donate their personal information. Via social media and emails and public Wi-Fi, on which some folk even do their banking. SIN numbers. Names and addresses. Dates of birth. And, much more…
A background that included an internal-system stint at IBM in the early 1960s and possessing computers since the 1980s got me past being a computer newbie. For several years I provided a seniors computer drop-in. No doubt many attending could, or would, say that I’m paranoid about scams and data security—and they’d be right! Near the top of my safety precautions list, I try to avoid putting anything personal in emails.
Recently I encountered the aftermath of a data hack, one not exactly the norm. This time it wasn’t an attack on a database. And it wasn’t the life insurer (LI) owner’s blame or fault. That belonged to a data transfer sub-contractor.
SIGNIFICANT DATES: The intrusion incident occurred January/March of this year. It’s notification was sent in a late May letter. A 3-year free access to one of the credit-rating services (see below) was offered—that supposedly to expose indications of possible abuse of personal information.
CLARIFICATION, LETTER CONTENT: ‘Policyholder.’ ‘Life insurance information.’ Segregated fund policies.’ Other LI mutual funds. But the mutual fund totals details were generated by a non-related operation that likely provided no more than closing numbers: quarterly, semi-annually, annually.
ACCESS TO CREDIT RATING SERVICE: Activation code (advised in letter). Provide personal details and email address. Create and enter a password—access to credit-rating service? Respond to 1 to 4 identity verification questions.
DECISION: Subject to what follows next and considering the connection between LI and remote data transactions from the same mutual fund as mine, the time gap between Jan/Mar incident and it now being late June, passing up the free credit-rating offer could seem reasonable. But...when in doubt, don’t just bow out? Take the safe path? After having considered what next follows...
OUTSTANDING: Clarify tracking operation. Contents of a Confirmation page and how to get a copy? And, what about email details sent to participants; given Google’s rep, should use of Gmail be avoided? And then are those 4 question responses needed to verify the participant?
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Deciding to pursue a matter debated, I noted the connection between the life insurance operation involved and remote data transactions for Tracey from the same mutual fund as mine—plus the time gap between January/March incident and it now being early July. Passing up the free credit-rating offer could seem reasonable. But...when in doubt, don’t just bow out. Taking the safer path became the decision.
I’d hoped to clarify a few items before tackling the application. No such luck! So, I commenced the application process. Along the way a query or two did get cleared up.
THE PROCESS:
<1> Enter into browser: equifax.ca/activate, plus the 12-digit activation code in the original letter.
<2> I’d initially assumed that her email address was @gmail.com—not somewhere I’d like personal info to appear. But that destination didn’t work. However @icloud.com did! Required for activation: respond to 4 questions to verify ID, enter an email address (TR’s: @icloud.com) enter, and create a passcode: 8 characters minimum, numbers and letters, one upper case and one symbol; as for any new passcode, write it down before using this one! In addition, enter other details plus a cellphone number (mine, so I can respond to anything critical arising).
<3> With ‘I’m not a robot’ popups to tackle (one a motorcycle photo with boxes to tick for inclusion of any vehicle parts) plus a few choices: stacked circles, one of which to tick as applicable to Tracey.
<4> All done, and a confirmation page promised, I awaited its arrival in Tracey’s icloud.com email account. In closing the application acceptance, a current credit score was provided. More than being a good one, it suggested that nothing sinister had yet occurred. Included was a contact number (1-800-871-3250), that to be added to one I’d found before starting to complete the application (1-877-237-8104). Stumbling on the odd item, and backtracking a bit, completing the application consumed 30+ minutes.
<5> For access to credit status and account details, enter my.equifax.com in browser and, plus ID (TR’s @icloud.com) and passcode. Respond to anything further.
<6> Accessing my wife’s icloud.com emails, I forwarded the Equifax one to my Windows Mail app address. Reviewed, aside from her email address, there was little personal info included (good!). It also indicated that any alerts would be sent to her email account.
One free data check per year from either, annually available → contact info:
EQUIFAX CANADA CO. www.equifax.ca 1-800-465-7166
TRANSUNION www.transunion.ca 1-800-663-9980
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NO TRACE by Garry Schumacher In 1996, in the Vancouver Island city of Nanaimo a single, enterprising, individual held up an armoured vehicle as the guards were filling the cash machine at the Costco store. He subdued the guards and made off with thousands of dollars from the proceeds of the store as well as what was left in the machine. Using some rather innovative techniques, the brazen thief managed to elude the local authorities and vanish.
The story is based on that incident and although it uses specific facts and details that actually occurred in the original robbery, this story is otherwise a COMPLETE work of fiction. The places and names of the persons in the tale are entirely fictitious. The street names and some other locations are as they existed then. Info: [email protected]
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by Don Wilkes TARNISHED GOLDEN YEARS A few years ago, I collapsed onto an un-carpeted floor portion in our apartment, Taken to a Victoria hospital by ambulance, I had a few days of double-vision. Initially judged to be a stroke, after a week I was released and returned for a couple Stroke Clinic tests. A stroke or was it vertigo? While there, in a corridor bed I chatted with an adjacent guy who I discovered was dealing with terminal cancer. What right did I have to complain about my situation?
A few months ago, I collapsed in our bathroom, while my wife was visiting her daughter in Sooke. I called 911 and requested an ambulance. Paramedics checked my vitals, and agreed that a trip to the hospital seemed debatable. I signed that judgment and they left. I then called my wife. Family arrived. Feeling okay, I suspected that what had occurred might have been another item to blame on vertigo.
A few days ago, while attending a 55+ writing group meeting, I collapsed at the table. In the ambulance, my blood pressure having dropped, paramedics gave me 81 mg aspirin to chew. Initial suspicion: a heart attack? At the Jubilee Hospital my blood pressure was monitored, and remained in an acceptable range. A CT scan advised no damage. Three ECG tests were positive. Beds in short supply, I was walk-tested and released, with a post-event checkup to be arranged. Was this incident a heart attack...or what? Or, should I blame it on having to do our 2022 tax year returns? Maybe it’s time to pay someone to tackle that annual chore. But I’d still have to first gather all the bits and pieces. What would we be charged for two a bit more complicated? How then can this accountant not do our taxes next year?
With such incidents as outlined above occurring, do they suggest that we are at a living stage (88, my wife 84) when it’s time to explore assisted living? visit a few such establishments. Perhaps get on a waiting list for one found more-or-less suitable (likely, one bathroom?). Maybe so, but having spotted a suite ad for one nearby, I re-costed the price for the two of us. The resulting annual charge almost consumed our annual income! Moreover, we are happy where we have been for seven years, at a cost that might be considered a bargain during these days of high rental costs. Next step: check for stay-where-we-are dollars and use them to bring in requirements or folk to deal with what is becoming more difficult for us. Being happier and staying solvent does have its appeal. At the moment we’re managing.
Paramedics and hospital staff fully appreciated, the only hitch with the third incident dealt was contacting my wife after it occurred. Asking, I was assured she’d been called. But talked to? She’s deaf, without hearing aids in place or not handy to the phone! Three of her calls were on my cellphone, that being in my hospital clothing bag. She discovered what ‘d occurred by calling the 55+ Centre. The hospital called family when I was to be discharged. Days later, I wore a 24-hour home check results device. While awaiting my doctor’s translation of its results, I pondered what I’d done recently to adopt a safer life path forward? Having been of good health in earlier years, in no way is what follows a personal health-related complaint! That said, how do I stack up compared to others in my age bracket? Are current responses to some lessor incidents beyond what they should be, perhaps over-reactions?
At 88, it seemed appropriate to examine activities, adopt positive steps. A couple of years ago my wife and I addressed our driving. No more at night or downtown. Seldom drive non-local or in the afternoon (appointments aside). My 55+ Computer Drop-In on Thursday mornings, that left Tracey with Recreation Centre aquatics and me driving a few blocks to Walmart for 7am shopping and to the 55+ Tuesday morning writing group.
A copy of the home test in hand, I must admit the content meant nothing to me: premature ventricular and atrial contractions? My doctor advised that such results weren’t critical, of concern. So far, so good! I queried a VGH hospital test requested to ensure it was not a duplication. It wasn’t. Echocardiography, early May. He said that the test was similar to what some pregnant women get. Really!
VGH results yet to learn, what then is wrong with me? Too easily tipped into anxiety? Insufficient sleep? Vertigo? Tiring eyes added to the mix? Eyesight fine, adopting sunglasses helped, even inside. As did reducing reading and computer time. Falling a significant concern for seniors, along with wobbly legs, I use a cane outdoors, a walker within our apartment for stability and a speedier trip). Diminishing memory for each of us a factor we differ as to what we forget. I’m somewhat sheltered by a habit of making lists and notes of what needs doing. Perhaps I’m just a deteriorating old fart?
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by Don Wilkes GOT A WILL?
While using a reasonable-cost lawyer (notary?) and having a Power Of Attorney (POA) can make life easier should they be required, those fall far short of having a will at hand when the testator’s demise is imminent. Have you got a will? No? Why not? Can’t afford the lawyer’s fee? Don’t want to talk about dying? As you can see below, no will in place the province will appoint an administrator to deal with the matter, make decisions you could have made if a will had been organized for/by you.
INFO: In British Columbia, the new Wills, Estates and Succession Act ("WESA"), the Supreme Court Civil Rules, several other Acts and the common law govern what happens when a person passes away. If the deceased died with a will, the person named in the will as the executor (or executrix if a woman), may apply to the Court for what is called a Grant of Probate of the will. The authority of the executor arises from the appointment in the deceased's will. If the deceased died without a will, an interested person applies to the Court for what is called a Grant of Administration of the deceased's estate. The person appointed is called the administrator (or administratrix if a woman) Unlike the previous governing Act, WESA clearly sets out who is entitled to priority over another when making the application to become administrator. The spouse has priority and may also nominate someone else who is entitled to that same priority without the consent of the children. The word probate means to prove or validate. Probate is the procedure by which a will is approved by the Court as the valid and
witnessed by two people, with the exception of testators who are in the armed forces, or are mariners (Nov 6, 2021).
Related comment: [1] Several years ago a friend (now deceased) found online a free blank will form. He downloaded it and, with few assets to deal with, completed it himself and got 2 people to witness his signature. That worked for him, maybe not do so for others with more assets. When I recently went online to seek something similar, I found few ‘free’ will forms not associated with a lawyer ($). Compare carefully will kits that can be found in outlets such as Monk’s, Staples, Grand&Toy. [2] Only weeks ago, a family member, lacking a will, was in bad shape and obviously approaching end of life. Had his daughter not stepped in and hustled up a lawyer to prepare a will, her father would have died days later, without one. [3] At our ages—to shorten terms+executor role—our RIFs/GICs, on renewal, are arranged to ‘rollover’ as a similar investment if unaltered by us before maturity. => Following is a simple, bare-bones content example – ONLY THAT, may or may not suit all circumstances: Last will of [name, address]. I cancel any/all my former wills and codicils. In this will ‘my Trustee’ is both Executor and Trustee of my estate.
I appoint my wife/husband/other to be my Trustee. If she/he is unable or unwilling or can not act, then I appoint ‘?’ [name, address] to be my Trustee in her/his place. I give my Trustee all my property of every kind to administer as directed in this will. She/he is directed to pay my debts and estate-related costs and taxes, and to be reimbursed for estate-related costs paid on my behalf. She/he is to deliver any will-specified bequests in the will and thereafter, specific exceptions sorted, to divide any estate residue equally between my children (if that is what’s wanted, or other arrangement?). Should any of my children die before me, that share should, or should not, go to her/his offspring. She/he is also directed to have or not my remains cremated, along with advising or not my family of any proposed gathering.
The will form is to be signed and dated by testator in front of 2 witnesses [names, addresses, signatures]. An excluded child, natural or adopted, should be explained (proper phrasing for doing so?) to reduce the possibility of a will challenge.
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by Dale Lovell
For My High School Math Teacher
Her reputation preceding her
She sailed into the classroom like a battleship
All order and stern efficiency
Mathematics allowed no excuses
And neither would she
What she saw in us God only knows
We were all awkward adolescence
Knowing everything and nothing at all
The boys just trying to be
And the girls caught up in the art of becoming
But really, we just wanted to have fun
Algebra, what did that have to do with Saturday night
But she saw further
She took all that a hard life had left her
And turned it into a gift for us
We would learn our math
Mrs. Trask you saved us from ourselves.
And although we never thanked you
Wherever your students gather
You are always there **********************************************************************************************
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The class, then named Words R Us, was formed around 2001 by a wise lady author by the name of Gertrude Story, who had been a teacher, a news caster and politician in small-town Saskatchewan. Before relocating to the Centre, the group met in her apartment. Fay Mace inherited the class and served as its leader until her death in 2018. Current member count: 8 (max 10). While backgrounds and perspectives differ, with some published, they share a keen interest in improving what they write. Each member reads; that’s followed by a round of oral critique (constructive comment).