It was two days before Christmas in 1957 and I was crying, sobbing my heart out into a pillow on our neighbour’s sofa.
Their living-room was decorated to bursting with every type of Christmas ornament imaginable and, in the middle, a Coca Cola sign blinked on and off. Mr. Gorman, our neighbour, ran the local Coca Cola bottling plant and their house was a living display of everything Coke. Read
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As an adult working in Somalia, I was sent to Rome, Italy to take a course. Walking through the streets of the Eternal City, I looked around and realized that mine was the only black face. It was an astonishing moment of cultural shock. How could I be the only black person in Rome? But in that place and at that time, I was. Read
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Jennie loved to visit Gramma's
Farm each summer. Gramma's
farm was very special. Do you know
why? Well, it was because everywhere
you looked there were beautiful
flowers of every colour in the rainbow
and then some! Read
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Let me preface
this article
with the fact that I
am not a gardener,
but my wife on the
other hand tries very hard to be one.
We live in British Columbia, Surrey to
be exact, a suburb of Vancouver. The
climate here is very pleasant if you are
a slug, a snail or a duck. My wife saw
fit to introduce a couple of ducks to
the snails and slugs in an effort to
reduce the number of slugs, having
heard that ducks like to eat slugs. It is
damp here in the fall, it is wet in the
winter, it is wet in the spring and quite
often it is damp in the summer as well.
Now don’t misunderstand me; it
doesn’t rain constantly. Quite often we
will experience a hot summer and or a
pleasant fall. Read
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During a visit with friends one
summer evening, the
conversation turned to their love of
camping. I casually mentioned that
Amanda, my nine-year-old daughter,
was eager to go camping but we just
hadn’t got around to it yet. Actually,
this was an activity which I was not
keen to pursue because although I
have always been an enthusiastic
hiker and a Girl Guide in my younger
years, and even knew how to light a
fire and cook outdoors, I had never
slept in a tent at night with the scary
prospect of being devoured by hungry
bugs. Read
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The young man stares at silver upon silver,
a ceiling, a lack of reflection, a mirror paved
with rough texture. Silvery is the voice resting
at his side. Something delicate submerged in
puddles of esoteric stillness. What words are
spoken in dreams beside him? How deep is
her fear? He listens and listens...then sandpaper. Read
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Almost the first thing I do each morning, as I stumble about the kitchen, is perk two cups of coffee. Then, I sit in the den with a mug in my right hand and a book in my left hand, while my "shadow," our dog, Madisyn, snuggles beside me. I am man enough to admit that coffee provides me with a "kick." (Perhaps it isn't all that strange that, in my years of pulpit ministry as a minister, I never preached on addictions!) Read
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At the age of seven my family made a big change in Ottawa. Due to circumstances, we had to move into a house that had tenants who complained about it being bitterly cold in the winter. In order to kick out the tenants in those days, the owner (being my brother Ken) had to occupy the home. This included our parents, sister, Ken and me. We moved in at the end of October 1942 and sure enough the house did not have insulation in the walls and we were very cold that winter. Ken had to get the walls insulated with wool insulation blown in by pump and pipe. The original contractor went broke. That's another story.
That Christmas I received a present from my oldest sister Mildred and her husband Jack (...) Read
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Each of us can surely remember the
many “Firsts” in our lives: First
day in school, first invitation to a
birthday party, first job, first date, first
baby ...etc. The most important “first”
in my earlier years was the entry into
the hallowed walls of our small town
opera house. I was eleven years old
and the opera was “Carmen”
(wouldn’t you know!). My mother,
careful not to corrupt my tender,
young mind, thought that it was a safe
enough opera to start with. She didn’t
consider that I could adopt some of
Carmen’s coquettery. Read
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The thin slip of red mercury barely
rose above its bulbous pool at the
bottom of the thermometer. The
Yukon was proving its myths to be
true. The place is more than cold.
When I ventured out, the mystery of it
made me stand still, watching,
listening. I knew I risked frozen lungs
if I removed my scarf, but I could
breathe out heavily through its wool
and hear my breath crackle. Read
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