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—rick.mickelson@telus.net
**************************************************************************************************************************
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—rick.mickelson@telus.net
**************************************************************************************************************************
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
***********************************************************
info from Don Wilkes Basic duties of the executor or administrator include:
Don Wilkes FREE DENTAL CARE FOR SENIORS? Several months ago I noted that—perhaps due to retaining the NDP’s backing to protect a minority Liberal government—3 personal issues were supposed to be in the works. Free dental for kids under 12. Same for Seniors. (with conditions). Pharmacare. Children item underway, has discussion regarding dental for the latter started? Seems Pharmacare requires as-yet-unobtained provincial support. Thus, dental for seniors is my current pursuit. I started to explore online, and that set me off on what became a strange journey, one challenging my prior success with online searching. You can judge that, after browsing what follows…
My first error (or not) was thinking the matter was a federal issue. My next one was accepting new ‘1-880’ numbers to call; that step involved as many as 4 suggested to me by numbers I’d called. Dialing another number, it seemed familiar, and was so; I ended up with B.C.’s current plan, one that seemed a bit bizarre and complex to me, one that involved periods of time on odd or even-numbered years, allowances for this and that, a suggestion that the dental office may pay directly for some items, and more confusion to sort out. More digging came up with a message from our prime minister about the Canadian Dental Care Plan—suggested to be in place ‘by the end of 2023’.
Now you know what I know—not much beyond the above. Or...perhaps you are aware of more information? Anyway, I’ll just keep digging... As for Freeland’s 2023 fall economic statement, seems that increasing affordable (ha ha) housing construction shadows all else…
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Don Wilkes In the early 1960s I worked at IBM (in internal systems). Artificial intelligence then not an issue, one project I spent time pursuing: how to reduce paper consumption, a quest not popular with some managers who thought the number of reports received was a measure of one's position in the company.
Encountered in later years, after I’d returned to finance, an IBM computer was pitted against several chess masters. Positive moves from those matches were added to the device’s program. An early form of AI? A start on the issue? Move forward years and the topic is now all the rage, is considered to be threatening by some folk—like asking chatgpd for 500 words on a topic and using those as one’s own.
To get a start on writing about my favourite movie, AI not involved, what I did could be construed to be somewhat related. I downloaded a movie plot outline from Wikipedia, and altered content. Among changes made was not using the actual cast leads but ‘Grant’ for Cary Grant and ‘Kerr’ for Deborah Kerr. For another important cast member, Grant's grandmother, I did use her film name.
GOT A FAVOURITE MOVIE? / DonW
I have one. The title? An Affair to Remember. A 1957-version flic starring Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, the latter has long been an actor admired by me. Grant, a well-known playboy sort-of ‘engaged’ and Kerr, in a similar situation, meet aboard a ship traveling from Europe to New York. Drawn one to the other, they try to avoid attracting the attention of other passengers enjoying their antics...but fail to do so.
Durring a shore stop, Kerr joins Grant on a brief all-but-enchanting visit to his grandmother Janou at her home on the Mediterranean coast. Kerr sees Grant with new eyes and their feelings deepen. During their visit, Janou tells Kerr that Grant is a talented painter. Arriving at New York, the pair agree to reunite at the top of the Empire State Building in 6 months if each succeeds in ending their other relationship and becoming involved in new careers.
On the day to meet, Kerr, hurrying to reach their rendezvous, is struck down by a car while crossing a busy street. She was rushed to the hospital. Grant, after waiting long past the appointed time on the observation deck atop the building, and unaware of what occurred, leaves at midnight, believing that he’d been rejected.
After the accident and unable to walk, Kerr refuses to contact Grant, finds work as a music teacher. Grant pursues his painting and displays his work in an art gallery. Six months after the accident, Kerr spots Grant at the ballet. Because she’s seated Grant does not notice her condition. They nodded at each another.
As told to do so, Grant arranges to deliver a shawl that Janou, who’d died, had set aside for Kerr. Address found, on Christmas Eve Grant pays Kerr a surprise visit. Striving to get her to explain her actions, Kerr dodges the subject, never leaving the couch on which she lies.
Ready to leave, Grant mentions a painting given to a woman who liked it but had no money.
About to say that the woman was in a wheelchair, he pauses, suspecting why Kerr hadn’t budged from the couch.He walks into her bedroom, sees the painting hanging on the wall and realizes that she was the woman in the wheelchair.
The film ends with the 2 embracing as Kerr says, "If you can paint, I can walk, don't you think?"
A DVD set aside, I’ve watched the movie at least 6 times. Still yields a tear or 2.
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by Don Wilkes GREECE Having visited a variety of destinations in past years, I’ve read several travel pieces to the writing group. While Paris yet rates as my best city visited, Greece still tops my list as a country to explore. A couple of its islands provided settings for one of my novels.
Several years ago a couple Mediterranean cruises provided a sampling of Greece and its islands. Rhodes, Mkyonos, Lesbos and Corfu, to name a few. Deciding to return on our own, Adele and I flew KLM to Athens airport, and from there to our first destination from a battered Olympic terminal used for domestic flights. Landing on Santorini—what’s been called the black pearl of Greece and its most spectacular island—people were sorted into buses to head off in darkness to different destinations.
Arriving in a quiet Fira, the island’s principal town, few had a room booked. A man with minimal English appeared. Fortunately one among us spoke Greek and negotiated rooms for all. Picturesque Fira is where most tourists settle. Cars are excluded from the core and there’s much to see and do in the town housing most of the island’s inhabitants. An evening stroll along the caldera-edging roadway is spectacular. As is venturing down the zigzag cliff path to the yachting dock for those wishing to visit the lagoon isles. The caldera was created by an ancient upheaval estimated as being 4 to 5 times the best efforts of today’s Krakatoa volcano. In 1958 an earthquake toppled half of Fira's buildings.
North from Fira a narrow road initially rimmed the caldera and then moved into rugged country. Switching to eastern-facing mountainous flanks, it clung to untamed rocky slopes descending to a meager coastal plain. Relieved to be car-free, we appreciated it all safely from the seat of a bus skillfully handled by a seasoned driver. Draped atop what little separates the Aegean at the top of the island, a tiny oft-overlooked town flows over and around craggy outcroppings. Down from the highest point in Oia, but up from a ridge path’s lowest point, the walls of a lands-end fortress recalled earlier and bloodier times. In Fira, jumbled white and cubed buildings cling to the caldera's cliff edge, but we found those at Oia more awe-inspiring. Wandering along a walkway walled on the sheer-drop side, unexpected blue chapel domes appeared. As did varied dwellings, down from signs offering rooms. No precipice protrusion wasted, narrow steps descended to flat rooftops and patios scooped into rock.
Once a haven for sea-weary merchant skippers, typically Greek Oia offered what discerning travellers crave, have visited from afar to see. With vehicles remaining in the town-edging square, moving about on foot is the proper way to explore the meandering and cluttered town passages that, narrow and straight for brief stretches, closed in at bends, twisted and plunged abruptly. With accommodation in Fira, we couldn’t spend a night in Oia, enjoying waning hours of the day in a sunny cafe, sipping sludgy Greek coffee or glasses of Santo wine nurtured on powdered volcanic rock and pumice.
The following morning we were on our way to my all-time favourite place, Crete. The zigzag switchback descent to the Athinious ferry dock was a remarkable finale to our time on Santorini. I don’t know how the bus driver managed. The busload spilled out onto the dock area, where a sizable ship appeared in the distance, and drew nearer. The ferry trip proved unexciting, until we approached our destination. An obscure smudge became a landmass and we docked at Iraklion, Crete’s administration centre. In earlier times, Crete was invaded by Dorians and Saracen Arabs, and thereafter sold to Venice. The island joined Greece in 1913, was later subjected to Nazis occupation.
With about 3 weeks to see the fourth largest island in the Mediterranean, we rented a car for comfort and flexibility, and to encourage getting off the beaten track. Nearby, Knossos, said to be Europe’s most ancient city, with its oldest throne, had been obliterated by a long-ago upheaval in Santorini. From Iraklion we headed eastward, to jog southward to sample what can be found in the lower part of the island. Then westward. Our ultimate destination was Hania, where the car could be turned in without extra charge. That done, bus service would accommodate exploring points south and west, should any prove inviting.
The initial drive eastward along the north shore highway disclosed Cretan road habits. Keep clear of road edges unless reluctantly shifting aside to provide space for those in a bigger hurry. Pass wherever. Dispute the speed limit. Provocative discoveries along highways and byways were ever framed by an awe-inspiring and shifting landscape. Roads ever wound up, down and around mountains or wannabe mounds. Stretches of asphalt, with or without potholes, rounded tight curves to become narrowing passages lacking guardrails. Goats and sheep, surefooted and unruffled, rambled above and below or shared the pavement. Donkeys klipp-klopping peacefully along road edges were a roadside hazard. As were cliff debris and boulders anchoring ditch nets to catch dropping olives. Bullying buses, tense tourists and kamikaze natives craved a middle-road positioning. Yet, surprisingly, we never encountered an accident while there
On the highway to Ierapetra, the island’s fourth largest urban area and Europe's most southern modt city, we headed westward. Enticing roads dropped to the south coast. We chose one and 14 kilometres of twisting downhill driving produceda peaceful hamlet. Several chock full greenhouses exploited its ‘micro climate.’ Off-season (before April 1st), we found Arvi's only hotel closed. No matter, aside the ocean, rooms were available; our tiny space was adequate. While the descent had been a mite nerve-wracking, the steep and curvy uphill drive was more memorable.
Back on the road continuing westward, the road deteriorated and dwindles to a dirt track unmarked as such on our map. Curving to the north and west, the route was headed toward Rethimnon. Arriving there we found the surroundings lush. Arranging digs for 2 nights and sharing an evening meal, we wandered about. Adele purchased a shoulder bag and I bought leather sandals that lasted for years.
The next day, we were on our way to Hania. Having missed noting the opening date for the Samaria Gorge and finding little of interest west of Hania, we returned there and disposed of the rental car. Exploring the city, we discovered many things of interest. A naval museum. A Venetian lighthouse. Minarets and mosques, plus many cafes sharing the curved edging of the inner harbour quayside.
Return flight confirmed, we relaxed and savoured our favourite island city. A morning trip to the market provided breakfast and lunch: yoghurt, great bread, cheese, a bottle of wine and veggies. In part we attributed our ongoing good health to a daily dose of yoghurt—there, the best ever tasted. For less than the cost of a container bought at home, we purchased a huge clay pot of it. Accumulated pots accompanied us home. For evening meals, we explored in daylight and selected inexpensive tavernas after peeking into steaming pots and examining tray content. At one evening meal I dropped scraps for a persistent cat that scratched Adele’s finger when she held out a morsel. Feeling utterly relaxed and with little left unseen, routine set in. Up and out for a trek around the harbour. Then off to the market in search of something perhaps missed the day before. One Sunday we joined a holiday gathering celebrating the expulsion of the Turks.
With our time on the island running out, it was time to pack up and head for the airport at nearby Souda. In Athens we had a rough last night, since an early flight precluded staying in a hotel. Plastic formed seats in the airport passenger area didn’t quite fit our bodies. Thinking back, I’m surprised at what we endured on occasion, things today I’d certainly not consider.
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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 rick.mickelson@telus.net
Roxanne’s Salvation
Chapter 1--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.”
Chapter 2
The next morning, Roxy was downtown on the streets at the crack of dawn with Reverend James. Her breath formed a steam cloud as she exited his van. The first homeless person she saw was James Bacon, leaning against a telephone pole. “Thanks for the coffee, ma’am—I was freezing and it warmed me up,” James muttered. She noticed his blue hands shaking. “You’re most welcome, Jimmy. Would you like a doughnut?” “Yeah please,” he moaned. As she handed over a Tim Horton’s croissant she took a closer look at him. He wore a black patch over his right eye and smelled of urine, like a piece of paper soaking in a dirty toilet. He was filthy, his two front teeth were missing, his clothes were tattered and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. “I need a pair of boots. These socks don’t keep the frost from biting my toes,” he whined. “I’ll see what I can find,” she answered. “I’ll be back tomorrow with something. What kind of shoes do you wear?” “Size nine.”
After their rounds, Roxanne invited the priest for lunch at a nearby A & W. Over cheese burgers and black coffee she opened up.
“I’m depressed, Rev.” “Why?” “The plight of these homeless people is wrong. Most of us have way more than we need, while our street brothers and sisters have nothing—not even a place to sleep. It’s not right.” “I’ve been ministering to them for twenty-two years and during that whole time there’ve been tons of good intentions. But when it comes right down to it, the average person’s not prepared to change their lifestyle, or give anything up that’ll help poor people.” “I’d like to donate $5000 to your ministry,” she blurted. “Can you afford that much?” “Yes—but keep it a secret,” she answered wryly. “You’re most generous, Roxanne.”
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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.
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: JDF55webmaster@gmail.com
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ISLAND ONCE BENEATH A WARMER SUN by Don Wilkes → global climate warming...In the mid-1960s, Adele and I, particularly me, acquired an irresistible urge, for a sunny escape haven, something special ‘in the sun.’ We encountered Canadian firm attempting to sell lots on Grenada (Spice Island). And couldn’t resist going to a meeting. Considered by many to be the prettiest island in the Caribbean, one born of volcanic activity, it had a population of 100.000 back then. Adele and I listened to a captivating spiel, watched a film, studied the topographical layout, debated available lots and signed a purchase agreement for 2 that included free adult flight tickets for each. And why not include our offspring? Greg. Laura. Melissa. The latter 4 years old, I first got on a plane in my 20s.
When the plane touched down in Bermuda most seats emptied. Next landing: Barbados. Underway, an accommodating aircrew shamelessly catered to 3 willing waifs. A trip to the flight deck. Candy and gum. Playing cards. Overnighting in Barbados, we boarded a smaller plane for Grenada. Descending to Grenada’s Pearls airport, we became alarmed. The single landing strip appeared too short. One end, the sea. At the other, the base of hills. Gates had been closed to block a roadway that crossed the landing strip. Engines off, we descended steps and walked to a non-impressive building. From which baggage emerged on a squeaky belt in a corner. Without comment a customs officer leaned forward, chalked visitor's bags and waved them along. Outside, a bevy of taxi drivers clamoured for attention. Bags under arms and one in each hand, one guy led us to his vehicle. Trunk unable to hold all, the rest shared space inside the taxi.
Barrier gates open, cars entered the southbound roadway, bound for the principal city, the best part of an hour’s drive from the airport. Our driver chatted and pointed out this or that along the way. He also told us about the 30-kilometre route to the capital, and added the horrendous cost of wear and tear suffered by island vehicles. The route, curving around this or that and never flat, was bumpy and narrow. To pass, two wheels of each car had to use a shoulder. The paved strip shared by the remaining wheels was potted and in places the blacktop dwindled to little more than a trace.
Ramshackle dwellings interrupted a screen of lush flora and plants edging the road. Avocado Pear. Bananas. Papaya. Cashew. Mango. Guava. Bamboo. Ferns, bushes and flowers turned the road into a glorious corridor. Even the odd abandoned car, rusted and stripped, didn't insult the scenery, as up, down and around we went. At the trip's apex, the driver ushered us out of the taxi to introduce Grand Etang: a crater lake reputed to be bottomless. Descending to picturesque St George's we passed through a short tunnel and into harbour portions of the hilly city
Passing through the city core, we were delivered to a small stucco house along the main roadway that sat across from the far end of Grand Anse Beach. The corner porch was screened with flowering bushes and ripening mangoes. The simple house interior: small kitchen, living room, two tiny bedrooms. The bathroom was ridiculously large, with unfinished concrete-block walls and poor lighting. In one corner curbing edged the open shower stall. At times, while relishing cascading water, we had to nudge a tiny frog or two back down the drain and out to the roadside ditch. Across the road, beyond a patch of scrubby land, we faced the rear walls of one of several beach resorts. One morning we watched a man in shorts taking his morning scrub under a roadside tap, while providing an island melody.
For our first urban venture we joined the natives and waited alongside the road for a van bus. Amazed at how many people could be packed inside, we first reacted to being in the minority. That feeling was short-lived. Smiles came our way and we smiled back. Underway, the bus passed a few of the larger and more colourful open-sided buses that roamed the island. Each vehicle named, exterior surfaces were adorned with colourful eye-catching pictures. After a brake-screeching descent, the van emptied at what we discovered to be the town’s market square. A good a place to start exploring St George's traffic-signal-free confines. Streets ran parallel to the water or steeply climbed away from it. The superb harbour appeared to justify being considered by many to be the finest in the Caribbean.
Ever working our way toward the water, we passed windows and doors we couldn't resist peeking into. We’d been told that buildings could not exceed the height of palm trees. Dwellings or businesses, some interiors were dark and quiet. Others contained merchandise, or people involved in some activity. In one dingy shop an ancient press clattered, hissed and spewed out newsprint pages. Intrigued by people passed on the streets, we noted the lilting patois introduced by our taxi driver while underway from the upper island airport. Roughly dressed and carrying machetes no doubt occasionally used for non-agricultural purposes, burly men swaggered about. Others, in more tidy attire, went sedately about their business. A few men wore what, in warmer climes, passed for a suit jacket: a guayabera. Women displayed a montage of colourful blouses and long swaying skirts. As they moved about, only the lack of music indicated they weren't enacting an intricate and exotic dance. Many of the children we saw returning from school were dressed better than those found in most Toronto schools. Poverty on the island didn't equate to poverty at home. In Grenada, despite scores of squatters and jobs few and far between, decent temperatures encouraged outdoor living. Food hung from accessible trees or could be found in the sea. Public water taps were plentiful. Excessive time with little to do appeared more the problem.
Available hotel accommodation seemed in short supply. Eventually we reached Wharf Road and the horseshoe-shaped Carenage, seemingly the focal point for tourists and locals. The Lagoon housed a forest of masts and curling flags. Above, the Islander Hotel dominated a lofty point known as the Ballast Grounds. Wandering in and out of assorted shops, we came upon a bookstore with a modest doorway sign: 'The Nutmeg.' Mounting stairs within, we entered a restaurant. A busy one. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling. Walls displayed fishing achievements and paraphernalia.
Those serving dispensed food, frosty bottles of beer or other drinks. On the waterside of the room, we noticed large top-hinged shutters pushed out, and managed to get a waterside table, where we could lean out and view below and, beyond. Carib beer or soft drink in hand, we debated the lunch selection. Fish and chips prevailed. Our table container had 'hot sauce' handwritten on the top. I added a generous dab to my plate, dipped a fish morsel into it and discovered that the label was more accurate than legible. The contents of that second beer bottle did little to reduce a conflagration that hindered speech. Restaurants were inexpensive and we tried to include the kids, but they preferred eating at the cottage. Tempted, we declined. The fearsome threesome tolerated few options, were fully prepared to make their own peanut butter sandwiches, despite the odd taste of what we’d purchased on the island.
The next morning we were up with the sun. Breakfast finished, we took off to the beach, as on most mornings during our two weeks there. Refreshed, we spent considerable time in and around St George's, ever learning more about it. First called Fort Royale by the French, it was later renamed by the English. An age-old inter-nation rivalry, the two countries, even between conflicts, found being civil to one another difficult at best.
Ah, Grand Anse Beach! Splendid indeed, each day we spent some time there, wandered along its 3-kilometre stretch of golden sand, stopping at one beach bar or another. Hotels as a backdrop were single-story. Magnificent! At chest height in the water, with goggles in place, we drifted along, keeping an eye on a parade of colourful fish. Or the kids dragged feet through the sand to see what might pop up. On one occasion our oldest persuaded the youngest to hold out her hand for a tiny crab that nipped her finger. Aren't kids wonderful…and so loving to one another!
One day we rented a car, fortunately a Volkswagen Beetle, a vehicle we’d owned. I had enough trouble paying attention to which side of the road I was supposed to stay on, without having to figure out what was where inside the car. Heading up the west side of the island at a leisurely pace, we passed beaches where stones were gathered and sorted by size for construction use. From glimpses of sparkling salty waters we passed into foliage-covered passages that always somehow curved back to the sea. Having checked out Annandale Falls, we drove on, took a wrong turn and ended up in a banana plantation. Managing to find our way out of there, at Gouyave we visited a spice station dealing in cloves, cinnamon, red/orange mace (what’s wrapped around nutmeg) and cocoa.
At the top of the island we found Sauteurs and the nearby development we sought. Called Levera Beach, dirt roads were laid out and a few houses had been built. We expected more, after the pep talk back in Toronto. We were taken to our two lots selected, which we changed to get 2 side by side. At its beach site, we found the water considerably rougher than noted elsewhere. However, the view out to an island was inspiring. Heading down the windier east side of the island we entered Grenville, Grenada's ‘breadbasket’ and second largest centre. Wandering done we returned to St George's.
In 1970 Adele and I revisited the island and booked space in Ross Point Inn. Cottages and a central building with reception and a restaurant. Its food was reputed to be among the best on the island. A specialty, crab back, rather ugly land crabs, those noted skittering back into holes aside drainage ditches. Our cottage, perched on a bluff, had a rail-less veranda overlooking the sea below. After dumping our bags in the stuccoed building with jalousie windows on three sides, we wandered down a path to the water, where a cheerful fellow shouted and pointed out creatures affixed to rocks: sea urchins, small black spiny balls. Waving, he then marched off the dock and uphill. Following him we noted a covered walkway that led into a bamboo and thatch-roofed bar. Soothing music encouraged us to enter. A banana rum punch suggested, and yet early in the day, it was impossible to resist another.
Back home, reality set in. Practicality wiped out enthusiasm. On the island I’d talked with a couple of builders and got some idea of building cost. Supervising from afar? Financing? Build on un-deeded lots? Other roadblocks. Anyway, free flights considered, our island dream ultimately fizzled. We abandoned the lots, losing some $5000. A lesson learned? For sure, not one of my better ideas..
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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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by RP Mickelson
If you like this story or have suggestions for further submissions, please email Rick at rick.mickelson@telus.net
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 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).
- 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
Don Wilkes FREE DENTAL CARE FOR SENIORS? Several months ago I noted that—perhaps due to retaining the NDP’s backing to protect a minority Liberal government—3 personal issues were supposed to be in the works. Free dental for kids under 12. Same for Seniors. (with conditions). Pharmacare. Children item underway, has discussion regarding dental for the latter started? Seems Pharmacare requires as-yet-unobtained provincial support. Thus, dental for seniors is my current pursuit. I started to explore online, and that set me off on what became a strange journey, one challenging my prior success with online searching. You can judge that, after browsing what follows…
My first error (or not) was thinking the matter was a federal issue. My next one was accepting new ‘1-880’ numbers to call; that step involved as many as 4 suggested to me by numbers I’d called. Dialing another number, it seemed familiar, and was so; I ended up with B.C.’s current plan, one that seemed a bit bizarre and complex to me, one that involved periods of time on odd or even-numbered years, allowances for this and that, a suggestion that the dental office may pay directly for some items, and more confusion to sort out. More digging came up with a message from our prime minister about the Canadian Dental Care Plan—suggested to be in place ‘by the end of 2023’.
Now you know what I know—not much beyond the above. Or...perhaps you are aware of more information? Anyway, I’ll just keep digging... As for Freeland’s 2023 fall economic statement, seems that increasing affordable (ha ha) housing construction shadows all else…
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Don Wilkes In the early 1960s I worked at IBM (in internal systems). Artificial intelligence then not an issue, one project I spent time pursuing: how to reduce paper consumption, a quest not popular with some managers who thought the number of reports received was a measure of one's position in the company.
Encountered in later years, after I’d returned to finance, an IBM computer was pitted against several chess masters. Positive moves from those matches were added to the device’s program. An early form of AI? A start on the issue? Move forward years and the topic is now all the rage, is considered to be threatening by some folk—like asking chatgpd for 500 words on a topic and using those as one’s own.
To get a start on writing about my favourite movie, AI not involved, what I did could be construed to be somewhat related. I downloaded a movie plot outline from Wikipedia, and altered content. Among changes made was not using the actual cast leads but ‘Grant’ for Cary Grant and ‘Kerr’ for Deborah Kerr. For another important cast member, Grant's grandmother, I did use her film name.
GOT A FAVOURITE MOVIE? / DonW
I have one. The title? An Affair to Remember. A 1957-version flic starring Cary Grant and Deborah Kerr, the latter has long been an actor admired by me. Grant, a well-known playboy sort-of ‘engaged’ and Kerr, in a similar situation, meet aboard a ship traveling from Europe to New York. Drawn one to the other, they try to avoid attracting the attention of other passengers enjoying their antics...but fail to do so.
Durring a shore stop, Kerr joins Grant on a brief all-but-enchanting visit to his grandmother Janou at her home on the Mediterranean coast. Kerr sees Grant with new eyes and their feelings deepen. During their visit, Janou tells Kerr that Grant is a talented painter. Arriving at New York, the pair agree to reunite at the top of the Empire State Building in 6 months if each succeeds in ending their other relationship and becoming involved in new careers.
On the day to meet, Kerr, hurrying to reach their rendezvous, is struck down by a car while crossing a busy street. She was rushed to the hospital. Grant, after waiting long past the appointed time on the observation deck atop the building, and unaware of what occurred, leaves at midnight, believing that he’d been rejected.
After the accident and unable to walk, Kerr refuses to contact Grant, finds work as a music teacher. Grant pursues his painting and displays his work in an art gallery. Six months after the accident, Kerr spots Grant at the ballet. Because she’s seated Grant does not notice her condition. They nodded at each another.
As told to do so, Grant arranges to deliver a shawl that Janou, who’d died, had set aside for Kerr. Address found, on Christmas Eve Grant pays Kerr a surprise visit. Striving to get her to explain her actions, Kerr dodges the subject, never leaving the couch on which she lies.
Ready to leave, Grant mentions a painting given to a woman who liked it but had no money.
About to say that the woman was in a wheelchair, he pauses, suspecting why Kerr hadn’t budged from the couch.He walks into her bedroom, sees the painting hanging on the wall and realizes that she was the woman in the wheelchair.
The film ends with the 2 embracing as Kerr says, "If you can paint, I can walk, don't you think?"
A DVD set aside, I’ve watched the movie at least 6 times. Still yields a tear or 2.
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by Don Wilkes GREECE Having visited a variety of destinations in past years, I’ve read several travel pieces to the writing group. While Paris yet rates as my best city visited, Greece still tops my list as a country to explore. A couple of its islands provided settings for one of my novels.
Several years ago a couple Mediterranean cruises provided a sampling of Greece and its islands. Rhodes, Mkyonos, Lesbos and Corfu, to name a few. Deciding to return on our own, Adele and I flew KLM to Athens airport, and from there to our first destination from a battered Olympic terminal used for domestic flights. Landing on Santorini—what’s been called the black pearl of Greece and its most spectacular island—people were sorted into buses to head off in darkness to different destinations.
Arriving in a quiet Fira, the island’s principal town, few had a room booked. A man with minimal English appeared. Fortunately one among us spoke Greek and negotiated rooms for all. Picturesque Fira is where most tourists settle. Cars are excluded from the core and there’s much to see and do in the town housing most of the island’s inhabitants. An evening stroll along the caldera-edging roadway is spectacular. As is venturing down the zigzag cliff path to the yachting dock for those wishing to visit the lagoon isles. The caldera was created by an ancient upheaval estimated as being 4 to 5 times the best efforts of today’s Krakatoa volcano. In 1958 an earthquake toppled half of Fira's buildings.
North from Fira a narrow road initially rimmed the caldera and then moved into rugged country. Switching to eastern-facing mountainous flanks, it clung to untamed rocky slopes descending to a meager coastal plain. Relieved to be car-free, we appreciated it all safely from the seat of a bus skillfully handled by a seasoned driver. Draped atop what little separates the Aegean at the top of the island, a tiny oft-overlooked town flows over and around craggy outcroppings. Down from the highest point in Oia, but up from a ridge path’s lowest point, the walls of a lands-end fortress recalled earlier and bloodier times. In Fira, jumbled white and cubed buildings cling to the caldera's cliff edge, but we found those at Oia more awe-inspiring. Wandering along a walkway walled on the sheer-drop side, unexpected blue chapel domes appeared. As did varied dwellings, down from signs offering rooms. No precipice protrusion wasted, narrow steps descended to flat rooftops and patios scooped into rock.
Once a haven for sea-weary merchant skippers, typically Greek Oia offered what discerning travellers crave, have visited from afar to see. With vehicles remaining in the town-edging square, moving about on foot is the proper way to explore the meandering and cluttered town passages that, narrow and straight for brief stretches, closed in at bends, twisted and plunged abruptly. With accommodation in Fira, we couldn’t spend a night in Oia, enjoying waning hours of the day in a sunny cafe, sipping sludgy Greek coffee or glasses of Santo wine nurtured on powdered volcanic rock and pumice.
The following morning we were on our way to my all-time favourite place, Crete. The zigzag switchback descent to the Athinious ferry dock was a remarkable finale to our time on Santorini. I don’t know how the bus driver managed. The busload spilled out onto the dock area, where a sizable ship appeared in the distance, and drew nearer. The ferry trip proved unexciting, until we approached our destination. An obscure smudge became a landmass and we docked at Iraklion, Crete’s administration centre. In earlier times, Crete was invaded by Dorians and Saracen Arabs, and thereafter sold to Venice. The island joined Greece in 1913, was later subjected to Nazis occupation.
With about 3 weeks to see the fourth largest island in the Mediterranean, we rented a car for comfort and flexibility, and to encourage getting off the beaten track. Nearby, Knossos, said to be Europe’s most ancient city, with its oldest throne, had been obliterated by a long-ago upheaval in Santorini. From Iraklion we headed eastward, to jog southward to sample what can be found in the lower part of the island. Then westward. Our ultimate destination was Hania, where the car could be turned in without extra charge. That done, bus service would accommodate exploring points south and west, should any prove inviting.
The initial drive eastward along the north shore highway disclosed Cretan road habits. Keep clear of road edges unless reluctantly shifting aside to provide space for those in a bigger hurry. Pass wherever. Dispute the speed limit. Provocative discoveries along highways and byways were ever framed by an awe-inspiring and shifting landscape. Roads ever wound up, down and around mountains or wannabe mounds. Stretches of asphalt, with or without potholes, rounded tight curves to become narrowing passages lacking guardrails. Goats and sheep, surefooted and unruffled, rambled above and below or shared the pavement. Donkeys klipp-klopping peacefully along road edges were a roadside hazard. As were cliff debris and boulders anchoring ditch nets to catch dropping olives. Bullying buses, tense tourists and kamikaze natives craved a middle-road positioning. Yet, surprisingly, we never encountered an accident while there
On the highway to Ierapetra, the island’s fourth largest urban area and Europe's most southern modt city, we headed westward. Enticing roads dropped to the south coast. We chose one and 14 kilometres of twisting downhill driving produceda peaceful hamlet. Several chock full greenhouses exploited its ‘micro climate.’ Off-season (before April 1st), we found Arvi's only hotel closed. No matter, aside the ocean, rooms were available; our tiny space was adequate. While the descent had been a mite nerve-wracking, the steep and curvy uphill drive was more memorable.
Back on the road continuing westward, the road deteriorated and dwindles to a dirt track unmarked as such on our map. Curving to the north and west, the route was headed toward Rethimnon. Arriving there we found the surroundings lush. Arranging digs for 2 nights and sharing an evening meal, we wandered about. Adele purchased a shoulder bag and I bought leather sandals that lasted for years.
The next day, we were on our way to Hania. Having missed noting the opening date for the Samaria Gorge and finding little of interest west of Hania, we returned there and disposed of the rental car. Exploring the city, we discovered many things of interest. A naval museum. A Venetian lighthouse. Minarets and mosques, plus many cafes sharing the curved edging of the inner harbour quayside.
Return flight confirmed, we relaxed and savoured our favourite island city. A morning trip to the market provided breakfast and lunch: yoghurt, great bread, cheese, a bottle of wine and veggies. In part we attributed our ongoing good health to a daily dose of yoghurt—there, the best ever tasted. For less than the cost of a container bought at home, we purchased a huge clay pot of it. Accumulated pots accompanied us home. For evening meals, we explored in daylight and selected inexpensive tavernas after peeking into steaming pots and examining tray content. At one evening meal I dropped scraps for a persistent cat that scratched Adele’s finger when she held out a morsel. Feeling utterly relaxed and with little left unseen, routine set in. Up and out for a trek around the harbour. Then off to the market in search of something perhaps missed the day before. One Sunday we joined a holiday gathering celebrating the expulsion of the Turks.
With our time on the island running out, it was time to pack up and head for the airport at nearby Souda. In Athens we had a rough last night, since an early flight precluded staying in a hotel. Plastic formed seats in the airport passenger area didn’t quite fit our bodies. Thinking back, I’m surprised at what we endured on occasion, things today I’d certainly not consider.
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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 rick.mickelson@telus.net
Roxanne’s Salvation
Chapter 1--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.”
Chapter 2
The next morning, Roxy was downtown on the streets at the crack of dawn with Reverend James. Her breath formed a steam cloud as she exited his van. The first homeless person she saw was James Bacon, leaning against a telephone pole. “Thanks for the coffee, ma’am—I was freezing and it warmed me up,” James muttered. She noticed his blue hands shaking. “You’re most welcome, Jimmy. Would you like a doughnut?” “Yeah please,” he moaned. As she handed over a Tim Horton’s croissant she took a closer look at him. He wore a black patch over his right eye and smelled of urine, like a piece of paper soaking in a dirty toilet. He was filthy, his two front teeth were missing, his clothes were tattered and he wasn’t wearing any shoes. “I need a pair of boots. These socks don’t keep the frost from biting my toes,” he whined. “I’ll see what I can find,” she answered. “I’ll be back tomorrow with something. What kind of shoes do you wear?” “Size nine.”
After their rounds, Roxanne invited the priest for lunch at a nearby A & W. Over cheese burgers and black coffee she opened up.
“I’m depressed, Rev.” “Why?” “The plight of these homeless people is wrong. Most of us have way more than we need, while our street brothers and sisters have nothing—not even a place to sleep. It’s not right.” “I’ve been ministering to them for twenty-two years and during that whole time there’ve been tons of good intentions. But when it comes right down to it, the average person’s not prepared to change their lifestyle, or give anything up that’ll help poor people.” “I’d like to donate $5000 to your ministry,” she blurted. “Can you afford that much?” “Yes—but keep it a secret,” she answered wryly. “You’re most generous, Roxanne.”
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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.
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: JDF55webmaster@gmail.com
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ISLAND ONCE BENEATH A WARMER SUN by Don Wilkes → global climate warming...In the mid-1960s, Adele and I, particularly me, acquired an irresistible urge, for a sunny escape haven, something special ‘in the sun.’ We encountered Canadian firm attempting to sell lots on Grenada (Spice Island). And couldn’t resist going to a meeting. Considered by many to be the prettiest island in the Caribbean, one born of volcanic activity, it had a population of 100.000 back then. Adele and I listened to a captivating spiel, watched a film, studied the topographical layout, debated available lots and signed a purchase agreement for 2 that included free adult flight tickets for each. And why not include our offspring? Greg. Laura. Melissa. The latter 4 years old, I first got on a plane in my 20s.
When the plane touched down in Bermuda most seats emptied. Next landing: Barbados. Underway, an accommodating aircrew shamelessly catered to 3 willing waifs. A trip to the flight deck. Candy and gum. Playing cards. Overnighting in Barbados, we boarded a smaller plane for Grenada. Descending to Grenada’s Pearls airport, we became alarmed. The single landing strip appeared too short. One end, the sea. At the other, the base of hills. Gates had been closed to block a roadway that crossed the landing strip. Engines off, we descended steps and walked to a non-impressive building. From which baggage emerged on a squeaky belt in a corner. Without comment a customs officer leaned forward, chalked visitor's bags and waved them along. Outside, a bevy of taxi drivers clamoured for attention. Bags under arms and one in each hand, one guy led us to his vehicle. Trunk unable to hold all, the rest shared space inside the taxi.
Barrier gates open, cars entered the southbound roadway, bound for the principal city, the best part of an hour’s drive from the airport. Our driver chatted and pointed out this or that along the way. He also told us about the 30-kilometre route to the capital, and added the horrendous cost of wear and tear suffered by island vehicles. The route, curving around this or that and never flat, was bumpy and narrow. To pass, two wheels of each car had to use a shoulder. The paved strip shared by the remaining wheels was potted and in places the blacktop dwindled to little more than a trace.
Ramshackle dwellings interrupted a screen of lush flora and plants edging the road. Avocado Pear. Bananas. Papaya. Cashew. Mango. Guava. Bamboo. Ferns, bushes and flowers turned the road into a glorious corridor. Even the odd abandoned car, rusted and stripped, didn't insult the scenery, as up, down and around we went. At the trip's apex, the driver ushered us out of the taxi to introduce Grand Etang: a crater lake reputed to be bottomless. Descending to picturesque St George's we passed through a short tunnel and into harbour portions of the hilly city
Passing through the city core, we were delivered to a small stucco house along the main roadway that sat across from the far end of Grand Anse Beach. The corner porch was screened with flowering bushes and ripening mangoes. The simple house interior: small kitchen, living room, two tiny bedrooms. The bathroom was ridiculously large, with unfinished concrete-block walls and poor lighting. In one corner curbing edged the open shower stall. At times, while relishing cascading water, we had to nudge a tiny frog or two back down the drain and out to the roadside ditch. Across the road, beyond a patch of scrubby land, we faced the rear walls of one of several beach resorts. One morning we watched a man in shorts taking his morning scrub under a roadside tap, while providing an island melody.
For our first urban venture we joined the natives and waited alongside the road for a van bus. Amazed at how many people could be packed inside, we first reacted to being in the minority. That feeling was short-lived. Smiles came our way and we smiled back. Underway, the bus passed a few of the larger and more colourful open-sided buses that roamed the island. Each vehicle named, exterior surfaces were adorned with colourful eye-catching pictures. After a brake-screeching descent, the van emptied at what we discovered to be the town’s market square. A good a place to start exploring St George's traffic-signal-free confines. Streets ran parallel to the water or steeply climbed away from it. The superb harbour appeared to justify being considered by many to be the finest in the Caribbean.
Ever working our way toward the water, we passed windows and doors we couldn't resist peeking into. We’d been told that buildings could not exceed the height of palm trees. Dwellings or businesses, some interiors were dark and quiet. Others contained merchandise, or people involved in some activity. In one dingy shop an ancient press clattered, hissed and spewed out newsprint pages. Intrigued by people passed on the streets, we noted the lilting patois introduced by our taxi driver while underway from the upper island airport. Roughly dressed and carrying machetes no doubt occasionally used for non-agricultural purposes, burly men swaggered about. Others, in more tidy attire, went sedately about their business. A few men wore what, in warmer climes, passed for a suit jacket: a guayabera. Women displayed a montage of colourful blouses and long swaying skirts. As they moved about, only the lack of music indicated they weren't enacting an intricate and exotic dance. Many of the children we saw returning from school were dressed better than those found in most Toronto schools. Poverty on the island didn't equate to poverty at home. In Grenada, despite scores of squatters and jobs few and far between, decent temperatures encouraged outdoor living. Food hung from accessible trees or could be found in the sea. Public water taps were plentiful. Excessive time with little to do appeared more the problem.
Available hotel accommodation seemed in short supply. Eventually we reached Wharf Road and the horseshoe-shaped Carenage, seemingly the focal point for tourists and locals. The Lagoon housed a forest of masts and curling flags. Above, the Islander Hotel dominated a lofty point known as the Ballast Grounds. Wandering in and out of assorted shops, we came upon a bookstore with a modest doorway sign: 'The Nutmeg.' Mounting stairs within, we entered a restaurant. A busy one. Fishing nets hung from the ceiling. Walls displayed fishing achievements and paraphernalia.
Those serving dispensed food, frosty bottles of beer or other drinks. On the waterside of the room, we noticed large top-hinged shutters pushed out, and managed to get a waterside table, where we could lean out and view below and, beyond. Carib beer or soft drink in hand, we debated the lunch selection. Fish and chips prevailed. Our table container had 'hot sauce' handwritten on the top. I added a generous dab to my plate, dipped a fish morsel into it and discovered that the label was more accurate than legible. The contents of that second beer bottle did little to reduce a conflagration that hindered speech. Restaurants were inexpensive and we tried to include the kids, but they preferred eating at the cottage. Tempted, we declined. The fearsome threesome tolerated few options, were fully prepared to make their own peanut butter sandwiches, despite the odd taste of what we’d purchased on the island.
The next morning we were up with the sun. Breakfast finished, we took off to the beach, as on most mornings during our two weeks there. Refreshed, we spent considerable time in and around St George's, ever learning more about it. First called Fort Royale by the French, it was later renamed by the English. An age-old inter-nation rivalry, the two countries, even between conflicts, found being civil to one another difficult at best.
Ah, Grand Anse Beach! Splendid indeed, each day we spent some time there, wandered along its 3-kilometre stretch of golden sand, stopping at one beach bar or another. Hotels as a backdrop were single-story. Magnificent! At chest height in the water, with goggles in place, we drifted along, keeping an eye on a parade of colourful fish. Or the kids dragged feet through the sand to see what might pop up. On one occasion our oldest persuaded the youngest to hold out her hand for a tiny crab that nipped her finger. Aren't kids wonderful…and so loving to one another!
One day we rented a car, fortunately a Volkswagen Beetle, a vehicle we’d owned. I had enough trouble paying attention to which side of the road I was supposed to stay on, without having to figure out what was where inside the car. Heading up the west side of the island at a leisurely pace, we passed beaches where stones were gathered and sorted by size for construction use. From glimpses of sparkling salty waters we passed into foliage-covered passages that always somehow curved back to the sea. Having checked out Annandale Falls, we drove on, took a wrong turn and ended up in a banana plantation. Managing to find our way out of there, at Gouyave we visited a spice station dealing in cloves, cinnamon, red/orange mace (what’s wrapped around nutmeg) and cocoa.
At the top of the island we found Sauteurs and the nearby development we sought. Called Levera Beach, dirt roads were laid out and a few houses had been built. We expected more, after the pep talk back in Toronto. We were taken to our two lots selected, which we changed to get 2 side by side. At its beach site, we found the water considerably rougher than noted elsewhere. However, the view out to an island was inspiring. Heading down the windier east side of the island we entered Grenville, Grenada's ‘breadbasket’ and second largest centre. Wandering done we returned to St George's.
In 1970 Adele and I revisited the island and booked space in Ross Point Inn. Cottages and a central building with reception and a restaurant. Its food was reputed to be among the best on the island. A specialty, crab back, rather ugly land crabs, those noted skittering back into holes aside drainage ditches. Our cottage, perched on a bluff, had a rail-less veranda overlooking the sea below. After dumping our bags in the stuccoed building with jalousie windows on three sides, we wandered down a path to the water, where a cheerful fellow shouted and pointed out creatures affixed to rocks: sea urchins, small black spiny balls. Waving, he then marched off the dock and uphill. Following him we noted a covered walkway that led into a bamboo and thatch-roofed bar. Soothing music encouraged us to enter. A banana rum punch suggested, and yet early in the day, it was impossible to resist another.
Back home, reality set in. Practicality wiped out enthusiasm. On the island I’d talked with a couple of builders and got some idea of building cost. Supervising from afar? Financing? Build on un-deeded lots? Other roadblocks. Anyway, free flights considered, our island dream ultimately fizzled. We abandoned the lots, losing some $5000. A lesson learned? For sure, not one of my better ideas..
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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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by RP Mickelson
If you like this story or have suggestions for further submissions, please email Rick at rick.mickelson@telus.net
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 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).