Home Again

In less than a week, we’ll be heading south to our Florida home, where we’ll spend the next six months. We’ve been doing this since 2002, except during the coronavirus pandemic, and we currently live in our third home. To say we’ve been blessed is an understatement.


We used to take it for granted that we’d be going every year, but that assumption has been modified somewhat—first by the pandemic, then by the American political situation, but mostly by our advancing age. We still plan on going each year, but don’t count on it; the vagaries of health are a reality.


Well-meaning friends (and others) have asked us why we continue to go. Are we not worried about the hostile political rhetoric? Are we not angry about the economic warfare imposed on our country by a formerly-friendly ally? Are we not patriotic enough to support a boycott of all things American?


We are aware of such concerns, of course. And we’re all too cognizant of the hurtful exchange rate on our dollar. But honestly, we don’t believe our going or not going matters one iota to the big picture. It’s reported that thousands of Canadians have stopped going south—which has caused a significant loss to
American businesses, tourism especially—but our individual decision wouldn’t make a dent in that. And many of those who have stopped had other reasons for doing so, as well; the political squabble merely lent impetus to their decision.


So, why do we continue to go? Well, first of all, it’s like going home. We live in an active, caring community, surrounded by people like us, most of them transplanted Americans and Canadian snowbirds. Some of our good friends here in Canada now are people we didn’t even know until we met them in Florida.


No one in our community worries about where we’re from, or what we used to do, or how we worship, or how we vote. When they find out we’re Canadian, they’re almost apologetic about the tension on the international scene. We accept each other for who we are.


Our current next-door neighbour, a Michigander, was in her garden when we arrived last year. She came to offer a hug and a cheery, “Welcome home!”


And that’s how it always feels.


We go, too, to escape the perils of a Canadian winter. Time was, we enjoyed winter’s offerings, especially during the years we lived on a northern lake. Hardly a day would pass when we weren’t outdoors—skiing, snowshoeing, skating—or indoors at a curling rink or hockey arena. Long walks across the frozen lake under a starry canopy, bundled up in parkas and mukluks, were joyful experiences. And cozying up in front of the fireplace on a blizzardy day was wonderful.


Alas, age has snatched many of those joys away. Were we to go outside now for a wint’ry walk, it would be with halting steps, mindful of the precarious ice, vigilant against a fall. I have this ludicrous image of myself after tumbling into a snowbank, unhurt but flailing madly, unable to stand up.


At home in the south, by contrast, we are outdoors every day—walking, gardening, exercising, swimming, mostly clad in shorts and tees. Why, from mid-November to mid-May, I don’t even wear socks!


Our children and adult grandchildren come to visit us when they can, and always at Christmas. And it’s such fun to see them experiencing the same things we did when we used to visit my parents in their Florida home. At our age now, we get tired just watching the young uns’ non-stop pursuits.


I try to refrain from telling them, “I used to do that back when…”


This will be the twenty-fifth season for us since buying in Florida, and at the time we bought, neither of us ever thought about when it might end. We were going to be there…well, forever! We’re more than aware now, however, of its inevitable end—though, like King Canute’s effort to hold back the tide, we keep pushing it off, year after year.


Our son-in-law and his brother left last weekend to drive our car to Florida, and are now enjoying a week of golf. When we fly in, they’ll meet us at the airport and fly home. The house will be open and organized when we get there…though with an empty fridge, I’m sure.


And we’ll be home again

Java Jive

The weekly prompt from my Florida writers’ group was ‘coffee’, and this is my submission. I hope you’ll enjoy reading and listening to it.

Among the disappointments in life for me, one of the greatest is the vast difference between the aroma and taste of coffee. I find the first mouth-watering, the second lip-puckering.

My parents were never true coffee-drinkers, so I didn’t grow up with the aroma of percolating coffee every morning. At one time, however, both drank instant coffee, made by pouring boiling water over powder in a mug.

Yecchhh!

A friend of mine back then was an only child, so his parents would invite me to their cottage frequently as a playmate for him. Both those parents enjoyed real coffee, and I still remember waking on cool, autumn mornings to the delicious fragrance of coffee wafting to our bedroom from the kitchen. It mingled deliciously with the smell of woodsmoke from the pot-bellied stove they used to warm the cottage. To this day, when my nostrils catch either of those sweet scents, I’m immediately transported back to those halcyon days.

Ahhhhh!

It was several years before I was allowed to drink coffee, of course. And just as I remember its delightful aroma, so, too, do I remember how devastated I was to actually taste the foul brew. I wondered then, and do to this day, how something that promised so much could deliver so little!

I mean, bacon smells delicious, right? And it tastes wonderful!

Fried onions and mushrooms tickle the olfactory senses, do they not? And they, too, fulfil their promise in the eating.

Alas, not coffee!

Mind you, I did try to make it sweeter for me, but sugar made it worse! The closest I ever got to enjoying a cuppa (and the word enjoying is employed generously here) is when I doused it with triple shots of flavoured creamer—hazelnut, French vanilla, even Baileys’ liqueur. But more often than not, most of the vile concoction grew cold in the mug.

I even tried fooling myself by referring to coffee with many a favourable sobriquet, such as java, brew, jamocha, or joe. But invariably, I ended up using more unflattering terms—ink, mud, battery acid, varnish remover.

Several years ago, I toured a coffee plantation in Guatemala in the company of family and friends, all of whom enjoy a cuppa. I happened to mention to one of our hosts that, although I didn’t really like drinking it, I loved the aroma of coffee.

To my surprise, he told me aroma is not the best way to judge coffee. Other factors—bean origin, processing methods, roast level, quality grading, brewing technique, and freshness—are more critical.

“You Americans are addicted to fragrance,” he told me, “so it is to you we export our most aromatic beans. But it is to Asia our most flavourful beans are shipped.”

When I quickly let him know I was Canadian, he merely shrugged and said, “¡Es lo mismo!” It is the same!

My aversion to coffee may be partially explained by the fact that I suffer uncomfortable symptoms after consuming caffeine, including palpitations. At one point, I considered trying decaffeinated versions of the brew, but as another aficionado once told me, “If it ain’t got caffeine, mate, it ain’t coffee!”

The closest I ever came to liking the stuff was during the years I sang in the bass section of a men’s barbershop chorus, Harbourtown Sound. One of our favourite songs was Java Jive, written by Ben Oakland and Milton Drake in 1940, recorded by both The Ink Spots and Manhattan Transfer, and by many barbershop choruses. The combination of melody, tempo, lyrics, and humour cheers me to this day.

I include a YouTube clip of the song here for your enjoyment, sung not by my chorus, but by the marvellous Westminster Chorus: Westminster Chorus – Java Jive | 2026 BinG!

For me, and I hope for you, that little ditty, unlike a real mug of coffee, is good to the last drop!

Diamond Jubilee

In 1967, Canada’s 100th birthday, it seemed everyone had a centennial project. I was no exception, but mine was intensely personal. I married the young gal who had captured my heart four years earlier.

We’ve been married now in parts of seven decades, and recently celebrated our 59th anniversary—happily embarked upon our 60th year together, looking ahead to our diamond jubilee.

The celebration was dinner at a fine restaurant in the company of our two daughters and their husbands, and we were marking their anniversaries, as well—twenty-eight and twenty-six years, respectively.

The in-laws of one of our daughters celebrated their own 60th a week or so ago, having wed a year-less-a-day before we did. During the festivities, someone asked them if they could identify one essential factor that had enabled the longevity of their union.

And that question got me to thinking.

I first met the girl I would marry a few months before she turned seventeen, shortly after I had turned twenty. She served me an extra dollop of chocolate on my ice cream cone at the DQ window where she worked, and our attraction to each other was born in that moment.

This is how I described it in Being Me, a memoir I wrote for family members:

It wasn’t long before I brought Donna home to meet my family, and every one of them fell in love with her.  Graced with a beautiful smile and sparkling eyes to match, she captured their hearts as easily as she had mine.  My mother was particularly enamoured of her, and not-so-subtly let me know this lissome lass was a keeper.

I recognized her beauty right away, of course, and soon learned she was also intelligent, vivacious, and athletic. But it was her composure that first captured me—her poise, her self-assurance, her confidence. I discovered she had a high moral standard for herself and for those around her, a standard I made sure to embrace. We dated steadily for four years (except during an interminably-long year when she was living hundreds of kilometres away with her family in northern Ontario).

In my memoir, I described that period:

During the long, forced separation, we talked to the extent we could afford the long-distance phone charges, and exchanged frequent letters.  I went north to visit on Thanksgiving and Christmas…It was an excruciatingly lonely period for both of us, although we continued to enjoy a robust (if celibate) social life. 

Throughout, we remained true to each other, and we married in our fifth summer after that fateful meeting.

So, what has held us in wedlock over the years since? What is that one essential factor, the glue, the tie that binds?

An easy answer would be enduring love for one another. But what exactly is love? And why might it endure?

A brief survey of the literature on the subject yields a list, far from complete, but including: vulnerability, the willingness to open oneself up to the other; compassion, the ability to de-centre and examine issues from the other’s viewpoint; curiosity, an enthusiasm for moving forward to discover and share life’s journey with the other; service, the willingness to sublimate one’s own desires to serve the other’s; intimacy, the encompassing of both friendship and sexual communion; connection, the ability to compromise when necessary and give more when needed; and commitment, the will to hold fast to the other, trusting in the other to return that devotion in the face of life’s unfolding.

Of these—all important, to be sure—the most significant to me is the last, commitment. And that would be my answer to the question asked of my daughter’s in-laws. Devotion and faithfulness are needed as we wend our way along the paths and roads we choose, and those chosen for us.

Life does not stand still, after all. The poet Kahlil Gibran phrased it beautifully this way:

…life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.

Our paths and roads have changed, circumstances have changed, people around us have changed. And of course we, too, have changed, the more so as we age. That lass I met sixty-four summers ago is an old woman now, and finds herself married to an old man. But our love, though different from the ardour of youth, remains steadfast. I cherish the way the poet W.B. Yeats wrote of his love for Maud Gonne:

…But one man loved the pilgrim Soul in you, And loved the sorrows of your changing face…

We are both more vulnerable now; more in need of compassion; still curious, but less able to pursue our quests; wanting to serve, but more needing of service; intimate still, but without the urgency of bygone youth; desiring still to connect, but aware of our shrinking circle.

Our commitment to each other, however, is as deep-seated as ever it was.

In this beginning of our diamond jubilee year, we consider our meeting at that long-ago ice cream stand as the seminal moment in our lives. There was the time before; and ever since, there has been the time after.

Did I know how it would be when I accepted that double-dipped cone so many years ago? Did she? Who can say?

But here we are.

My Vote Goes Elsewhere!

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In the sixty-plus years since I attained voting age, I have never run for public office. Nor, at my age, am I about to do so.

Folks who know me well are likely heaving a sigh of relief at that.

To the best of my recollection, however, I have voted in every election affecting me—federal, provincial, municipal, even neighbourhood. And I always voted for the candidate who had persuaded me her or his position on the issues I deemed important was superior to the others.

Unlike my parents, lifelong conservatives both personally and politically, I was never an habitual devotee of any particular political party. Early in my teaching career, exposed to a wide variety of familial and economic conditions under which children had to live, increasingly cognizant of the privileged status I had enjoyed in my own childhood, I became a much more liberal, progressive thinker than earlier generations of my family.

I never held or professed extreme views, though. My stance was, and is, centrist, leaning more left than right. Politically, I would describe myself as socially and culturally liberal, fiscally conservative—which is to say, I favour social programmes that benefit the less fortunate, but without running up unsustainable deficits.

That is easier said than done. But then, anyone with nary a thought as to how it might be accomplished should probably not be standing for office.

As a teacher, my approach with students was to appear less as one teaching them what I thought they should know, and more as one helping them learn what they wanted and needed to know. In my classrooms, there was always more discovery than lecture happening. I strove to be a guide on the side, rather than the sage on the stage, as one aphorism had it.

My objective was to win my students’ trust in the pursuit of their studies, rather than to instruct them as to what they must do simply because I said so.

Later on, as a principal and eventually CEO of two school districts, I tried to use the same approach. Explaining issues to the people whose work I was overseeing proved to be much more effective than issuing fiats from my office. My belief was that, once folks understood why I was planning to do something, and after they had an opportunity to discuss it and have their questions answered, they would more likely be convinced of its wisdom.

In practice, some of those discussions and question/answer sessions convinced me to switch directions, having seen the wisdom of others’ arguments. They won me over in such cases, and we all benefitted.

Alas, such is not the case in politics—not in my experience. Only rarely have I felt a politician seeking my vote wanted me to truly understand why (s)he deserved it. In almost every case, I feel as if I’m being told to vote for that person, told to agree with her or his position, told why other candidates are not worthy.

Increasingly over the past few years, I’ve been told by so-called leaders on the world stage that the truth doesn’t matter; that caring for and assisting one’s less fortunate fellow-citizens is socialism, and must be avoided; that women must be prevented from making decisions concerning their own health; that trans people are lesser citizens than the rest of us; that immigrants, especially people of colour or of different faiths, are a threat to national well-being; that trickle-down economics works for everyone; that LGBTQ+ people are somehow aberrant; that taxing lower-income folks makes more sense than taxing billionaires; that certain books, many heretofore considered classics, must be banned; and on and on.

And for most of my voting life, most of the people telling me such things have been white men—wealthy white men more often now. Men who, it seems, wish only to preserve their own standing, their own influence and power, while the less fortunate must submit and accept their fate.

I’m a white man myself—comfortable in my retirement, not wealthy when compared to these would-be demagogues—but I have never ascribed to the idea of telling people what they must do, what they must believe.

It’s better, I believe, to try to explain. Seek questions and answer them. Win people over. And be open to being won over in turn.

John Stuart Mill wrote this among his many published works: So long as we do not harm others we should be free to think, speak, act, and live as we see fit, without molestation from individuals, law, or government.

Mankind are greater gainers by suffering each other to live as seems good to themselves, than by compelling each to live as seems good to the rest.

He believed actions are right and good if they produce the greatest happiness for the greatest number of people.

And, of course, he acknowledged that such utopian ideals may not always be attainable, and that breaches of a common moral standard must be dealt with: The only purpose for which power can be rightfully exercised over any member of a civilized community, against his will, is to prevent harm to others.

I am no expert on Mill, but the little I do know resonates with me. And so, when I vote, I favour the person who has best managed to explain herself or himself to me. I never vote for the one who demands I do so.

And I never choose the candidate who disparages the idea of helping others, lifting them up—basic humanity—by calling it socialism.

My vote goes elsewhere.

Driving a Computer

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It’s been sixty-eight years since I started driving legally, and in that time I’ve owned or co-owned twenty-five cars, the first of which was a used Corvair, a disaster on wheels.

For most of those years, we were a two-car family, although no longer. Our latest new car, a Mazda CX30 (which, given my age, may well be our last new car), is a virtual computer on wheels.

I was always a good driver, but never one who understood how to service or maintain my cars. I was able to change a flat tire (once I mastered how to work the jack!); I could refill the windshield washer reservoir; I knew how to check the dipstick and add oil when needed (though I never understood those 5W30 and 10W30 numbers); I even mastered the art of jumpstarting another car with the red and black cables connected correctly!

But I never understood terms like crankshaft, manifold, differential, torque, or gear-ratio. And to this day, I cannot explain the difference between carburetor and fuel-injector. Whenever I encountered a problem at that level, I called a tow-truck!

I am much the same with computers. My first was an IBM PCjr, purchased (perhaps portentously) in 1984. I mastered the art of writing my stories on it after I learned the critical significance of the SAVE key, but I am hard-pressed to explain the difference between hardware and software. My explanation runs along the lines of: the hardware is the thing itself, and the software is what’s inside it.

I write these days on a laptop that is linked in some mysterious fashion to my smartphone and tablet, allowing me to write drafts on the first and edit them on the latter two. I even know how to transfer those edited versions back to the laptop (although finding them is sometimes a problem!). This piece you are reading has successfully transited the gulf.

At some point after 1984, I graduated to Microsoft Windows (which, I was told, was similar to the Apple iOS operating system, neither of which I fully grasped). I’m now at the point where I understand that android systems are anything that isn’t Apple. As far as computers go, I suspect I may be an idiot-savant, minus the second part.

Aside from using computers for my writing, the best part of using them has been the social media aspect. It’s not as if I’m a slavish devotee of online communities, scrolling my way through my senior years, for I am not. After all, my password is nofriends, for I have none other than immediate family online. And I long ago abandoned the toxicity of the tweeting fraternity and other dark areas of the web.

But it is a joy to be able to see our children and grandchildren online when we are physically far apart. I am in daily contact with my three sisters through text messaging, and I feel I know their far-flung families in a way I would otherwise not. We have friends of bygone years we are no longer able to visit with in person, either because of distance or frailty, but with whom we are in regular contact through emails and face-to-face online conversations.

I remember my parents telling me how, as they aged, their world grew smaller. For me, the opposite is true. Thanks to my computer, my world has expanded, even if vicariously to some extent.

My parents, who lived into the first decade of this century, were not tech-savvy, and never owned a computer or smartphone. My mother, distrustful of technology, used the microwave in her Florida home as a breadbox. My father thought it a miracle when they purchased a Panasonic cordless phone that allowed him to pace the room as he talked without tripping on a tangled cord! And neither of them ever rode in a car that talked to them.

Our new car talks to us, though. She talks non-stop, as a matter of fact, through her pleasantly-modulated, AI female voice, and communicates via any number of buzzers, beeps, chimes, and dings. She also connects effectively with us on a large, dashboard-mounted computer screen (a touch-screen, no less!), and via a covert CarPlay link that allows me to use my smartphone for a number of tasks. I can actually start the engine before I am anywhere near the car, although I’ve yet to figure out why I’d want to.

Miracle of miracles, I never get lost anymore while driving. And I’m never late arriving anywhere. If I follow the instructions of Siri, our silken-voiced guide (whom we have yet to rename), I am sure to arrive to my destination. My father, who used to curse the endless unfolding and refolding of those old paper maps, would be gobsmacked!

I am, too! For, just as I have never understood how my cars actually work or how my computers actually function, I am mystified how they have come together so seamlessly. It astounds me that, rather than buying this latest car, we could have acquired a self-driving one that would ferry us to and fro (rendering me obsolete, as it were!). I confess I would balk at that, distrusting the technology just as my mother did with her microwave.

I receive continuous updates and alerts on my smartphone now pertaining to this new car. And if anything is amiss when the car is parked somewhere (an unlocked door, for example, an interior light left on, or a tire losing pressure), I am notified immediately. It really is quite reassuring in a way—although I do have recurring misgivings from that great movie, 2001, where HAL is talking to Dave in such comforting, dulcet tones even as he plots his destruction.

Surely, Siri seeks simply to solve our issues. Or so I suppose.

In any case, we are comfortably acclimatized already to this computerized car’s cocoon of comfort and safety in which we’re ensconced on our road-trips. We are virtually assured that nothing will go wrong. Still, true to my ever cautious nature, I do have a back-up plan, just in case.

I do remember how to call a tow-truck!

The Allure

This story placed sixth out of 500+ entries in the 2026 Florida Weekly Writing Challenge. Based on this picture prompt, it had to be no more than 750 words.

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“What’s them flowers for?”

“A chica bonita. What’s it to you?”

“Nothin’, amigo. Don’t get steamed! Who’s the chica?”

“Nobody you know, tio.”

Carlos glanced at the sign behind his nephew, Allure Showgirls. “This chica work there?” he asked, jerking his thumb at the building.

“What if she does?”

“So, maybe I do know her. I been there, know lotsa them peelers. What’s this chica’s name?”

“Miranda. And she ain’t no peeler! She’s a…whaddya call it…exotic dancer.” Ramon’s face was red as he tried to explain.

Carlos laughed, a phlegmy rasp erupting from between stained teeth clenching the plastic tip of his cigarillo. “You got a lot to learn, niño pequeño! Your madre know you out here, makin’ like a greasy taco?”

“I ain’t no greasy taco! An’ I ain’t no little boy, neither! Miranda an’ me are…y’know, inamorata.”

Tossing the cigarillo stub away, Carlos wiped his bewhiskered cheek with a beefy hand. “Ramon, you damn-sure bitin’ off more’n you can chew, amigo. Them chicas in there, they don’t love nothin’ but money! Dinero americano!”

“Not Miranda! Her an’ me are sympatico!”

Carlos spat on the ground, wiped his mustache, then pointed at the building. “Okay, amigo, you ever been inside there?”

“Not yet. So what? It’s a gen’lmen’s club.”

“That so? An’ you think you’re a gen’lman now, on account of this raindancer told you so? Where’d you meet her, anyways?”

“None of your business!” Ramon exclaimed. A moment later, he added, “What’s a raindancer?”

Carlos laughed again. “Boy, you a bebé en el bosque, y’know that? Only a babe in the woods don’t know it means a stripper you throw money at.”

Ramon thrust his chin to within inches of his uncle’s face. “I already told you, Miranda ain’t no stripper!”

Changing tack, Carlos said, “Them flowers are for her, right? She know you’re comin’?”

Shuffling his feet, Ramon replied, “It’s a s’prise. She told me she starts at five.” Glancing at his phone, he said, “I gotta go, catch her before she goes on.”

“I know this chica, Carlos said.  “I seen her perform more’n once, okay? When she gets near that pole, she don’t go on! She goes off, know what I mean! She’s la bomba!”

Ramon looked uncertain. “Yeah, okay…but that’s good, right?”

“Yeah, it’s good, amigo, but dancin’s not all she does. All them peelers hafta get up close an’ personal with whatever pervertida flashes the dinero. Miranda ain’t what you think she is, Ramon! An’ she sure as hell ain’t your inamorata!”

Ramon stared silently at the flowers in his hand for a moment.

Carlos almost felt sorry for him. “Where’d you an’ her meet, anyways?”

“Church.”

“Church?” Carlos echoed. “Miranda?”

“Yesterday,” Ramon nodded. “We finished makin’ confession in diff’rent booths an’ walked out together. I told her I thought she was espléndida, which she is. An’ that’s when she told me she’s an exotic dancer.”

“She tell you she works at a strip club?” Carlos asked, pointing again to the building, still amazed Miranda had been to church. “You know that’s what Allure Showgirls is, right? Check their website.”

“I didn’t know where she worked, but I followed her from the church. Decided I’d come back today, bring her flowers.”

“You’re tellin’ me she came to work here right after confession yesterday?”

“Yeah, so? Dancers can go to church, too!”

“I know, I know, but…”

“Listen, tio, I really wanta see her again, give her these here flowers. Even if it’s true what you say, her an’ me might, y’know…”

“Ramon, the chica is at least forty years old! Older’n your mama! She ain’t gonna have nothin’ to do with a seventeen year old chico! Not even if you got mucho dinero!”

Smiling guiltily, Ramon said, “I told her I was twenty-two.”

As he spoke, a black car pulled into the lot behind them, mufflers growling. When they turned to look, they saw Miranda climb out, accompanied by a slender, muscular man in a white, linen suit. Heading for the club, he had his hand clasped firmly on her buttocks, boldly visible in her short shorts.

After they disappeared inside, Ramon looked at his uncle. Carlos said nothing. With a shrug of his shoulders, Ramon tossed the flowers to the asphalt.

“Let’s go get a cerveza, tio! I ain’t in the mood for Miranda no more. I guess the…whaddya call it…the allure is gone! Desapareció!”

I Am Waterfall

This is a piece I recently submitted to a writing contest, responding to the picture of a woman and man near a waterfall.

I have been here ever since, I shall be here evermore, crashing from River above to Pool below, a lagoon I have carved into Rock at my feet. I have no name, but I am eternal, persistent, and powerful—what the two-legged creatures who come to witness call Waterfall. 

I am never still, always dashing and splashing, spraying foam on granite walls seeking vainly to contain me. My colour changes constantly, chaotically, from green to ebony. As I fall, I throw off clouds of mist—wet, wraithlike wisps that first seek the sky, then drift and look to hide until, discovered by Sun’s relentless rays, surrender to the light that banishes such elusive phantoms from his gaze.

I speak no language, but am heard by any who choose to listen. The thunder of my precipitous plunge to Pool is overpowering, rendering all around me mute. Waves ebb to ripples, spreading across Pool’s surface in incessant arcs, caressing her furthest, moss-lined shore more gently than ever I could.

In darkness of Night, I am invisible, save for a gentle luminescence belying the pitiless power driving me. But I am never silent, and I do not sleep.

In light of Day, I cast beauteous bows of colour spanning the spectrum into the air as Sun awakes to turn trees of green to gold. Pool traps their images in her mirrored mere, quicksilver and cold, and her surface reflects Sun back to bluing sky above, a demonic diamond-dance of light atop the waves.

The two-legs have come forever to marvel at my might and menace. They came first in animal-skins, clutching spears; then in helmet and breastplate, grasping swords; more recently in camouflage, wielding guns. They come still, clad mostly in thin strips of colourful cloth that shield them from each other’s greedy gaze. But unfailingly, they gape at me with awe.

There is one in front of me right now, on Pool’s far shore, one of those the two-legs call Woman, her arms raised in obeisance, eyes agog, nostrils flared, ears cocked—all her senses fiercely attuned to the freak of nature I am. Her companion, a creature they call Man, picks his way across the rocky shore to fetch the little device they hold in front of them to record my presence, to memorialize my magnificence.

It is as if they think I can be captured, contained, conjured later for their puerile pleasure.

As if!

In fact, I have captured many of them, a truth that has never dissuaded others from approaching too closely. They speak of finding a way to peek behind my watery curtain, wondering what mysteries I hide from view. They dip their toes in Pool’s shiny water, sorely tempted to savour her silky caress. I simply watch and wait, and when they succumb to ambitions beyond their capabilities, they succumb to me.

More two-legs than I care to count lie atop Rock on Pool’s murky bottom, perfectly preserved by her icy-cold water, too deep to be disturbed by the currents that stir her upper levels. I feel no guilt, for it is the two-legs’ hubris that ensnares them, not I.

Even now, seemingly oblivious to the danger, Woman is coming closer, her long hair drenched by the spray I toss off. She picks her way carefully across the slippery surface of the shoreline, alternately glancing down to ensure her footing, then up at me, enraptured by my grandeur.

Man reappears, clutching his device, motioning Woman ever closer. She stops to pose, moves nearer, poses again. Her body is glistening-wet now, she is shivering slightly, but still she comes on. And then, as so many others have before her, she slips on Rock, teeters precariously, then falls into my churning maw. Her screams of terror are lost in the pounding roar of my majesty.

Man drops his device, rushes forward, slips and trips, picks himself up, madly throws himself into Pool, thrashes his way towards me, frantic to get to where Woman sank from view, irretrievably gone. And then, with no warning, he, too, is taken.

Although they will not be found, I know others will eventually come in search of these latest foolish victims, and as ever, I await them. I feel no remorse, for I am but a force of nature—uncaring, ordained to do what I do, unimpeded by reckless, feckless two-legs.

I am Waterfall. 

The Physics of Music

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More years ago than I care to count, I took my one and only high school physics class. I was overwhelmed.

In fairness, so was the poor teacher. He spoke with an accent, and his most oft-uttered plea was, “Please-a! You have-a to pay attention-a!”

Needless to say, most of us did not. Unlike many of my peers, I was never a prime disruptor of high school classes, most of which I enjoyed, but I was definitely one of those not paying much attention in physics class.

As I recall, we all passed the course. But I’m sure some of us, myself included, were awarded a passing grade by that teacher only to ensure he would not have to face us again in the following semester.

In the threescore-and-five years since then, I have learned—first to my chagrin, eventually to my delight—that it is the laws of physics that govern the universe we inhabit, and everything in it. Alas, I really should have paid more attention.

The physics of music is one example. One of my favourite pastimes while writing, reading, driving—pretty much anything—is listening to music. I enjoy big band arrangements, ‘40s swing, ‘50s rock ‘n’ roll, ragtime and stride piano, to name a few genres. But my preferred music from quite a young age has been the classical repertoire—opera overtures, ballet scores, symphonies, sonatas, piano concertos, and the like. When engaged in passive pursuits today, I am rarely without airpods stuck in my ears.

This fondness for the classical catalogue was ingrained early by my father, who would join me and my younger brother to listen to radio broadcasts in our bedroom as we were falling asleep. On occasion, Dad was asleep before we were, but that didn’t spoil our enjoyment. His favourite piece was the Prelude to Act III of Lohengrin, by Richard Wagner, which opened the weekly broadcast of the Toronto Symphony Orchestra.

My brother’s favourite was Pictures at an Exhibition by Modest Mussorgsky, while I delighted to the stirring, operatic overtures by Giacomo Rossini. To this day, I relish listening to their rollicking sounds.

So, imagine my surprise when I recently discovered in an online podcast that sounds, of whatever type, regardless of origin, make no noise. Sound, I learned, is silent. In space, in our earthly atmosphere, everywhere.

Everywhere, that is, except in our brains. And that is where physics enters the picture, confounding me yet again.

Without our brains, I’m now led to believe, we would hear not even the loudest sound. Mind you, without brains we would be conscious of nothing, so that does make sense. But until recently, I never realized that the very best music ever composed by Mozart, Joplin, Count Basie, Dylan, Kristofferson, Cohen, and all the others makes no noise whatsoever until perceived by our brains. The fact is, nothing in the universe makes a noise until it is registered by our brains.

Forgive me if you have long known this, but sound, rather than being noisy, is a series of silent waves, produced when the source of that sound—a violin perhaps, or a jackhammer—vibrates, pushing against the surrounding air and creating areas of high and low pressure.

The length of these sound waves varies, of course, producing different frequencies, pitches, volumes, and amplitudes. Physics naif that I am, I had to look up the meaning of those terms. The length of a wavelength determines the distance between successive waves, some of which are compressed, others expanded, resulting in higher and lower pitches.

But according to the podcast, none of these make any noise at all until they reach our ears. And even then, they are silent until they’ve passed through the ear’s component parts—the tympanic membrane, the ossicles, and the cochlea. It is only when the vibrations picked up by the ears are transmitted to the brain via the cochlear nerve that we actually hear them.

Mind you, soundwaves travel quickly—343 metres/second through the air—but soundlessly until picked up by the brain. To my young self, though, lying cozy in my bed with Dad beside me, that concept was never imagined. The sound of the music seemed instantaneously audible from our tinny radio speaker.

How, you might ask, could I have believed that? Well, if that long-ago, frustrated physics teacher ever presented this information in my high school class, it totally eluded me. I always thought the lovely, musical sounds I appreciate originated with the instrument or voice producing them, or with the device that recorded and transmitted them.

I can scarcely imagine that the magnificent, baritone voice of the late Dmitri Hvorostovsky, for instance, standing on stage as he sings the comedic largo al factotum from Rossini’s The Barber of Seville, is utterly devoid of sound for whatever interval of time it takes to reach my ears in the back row of the uppermost balcony.

I wonder if Simon and Garfunkel ever contemplated that notion when singing The Sounds of Silence. Probably not.

On the other hand, the elderly Beethoven, almost totally deaf, would have heard his magnificent ninth Symphony only in his brain.

Anyway, music is but one example of how the laws of physics govern everything in the known universe. And the amazing thing is that those laws change over time, as new discoveries are made. No single law is immutable, but collectively they are supreme.

Now, someone with a fuller grasp of physics than I might well cry Poppycock! at my naïve understanding, might well scoff at my puerile grasp. And, truth be told, if presented with proof my newly-formed perception is incorrect, I would happily recant. The very idea that sound makes no noise anywhere in the universe except in the brain still confounds me.

Despite the podcast, the infantile part of my brain clings to the idea that the sounds of music spring gloriously forth everywhere at the very moment they are formed at source.

To have this belief restored, I confess, would be music to my ears!

The Dandelions

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During the grand opening ceremonies of a worldwide sporting event the other day, six military jets in tight formation roared over the stadium, low in the sky, trailing coloured vapour plumes to match the host country’s flag. Their presence lasted but an instant; they weren’t there, then they were, then they weren’t.

It occurred to me that, prior to their arrival, no one in the crowd was likely thinking about them. In the brief moment they were overhead, everyone was. But mere seconds after they were gone, most had likely forgotten all about them again, attention shifted to what was happening next.

I considered the scene analogous to the ever-shrinking attention span of our human species. We tend to focus on what is right in front of us, but only while it’s in front of us. Once it isn’t, we switch attention to whatever is next in front of us. Like scrolling.

Thinking, rather than being a critical, contemplative brain activity, is being reduced to bits and bites lasting only seconds. Reacting, in fact, not true thinking at all. Stimulus/response in place of thoughtful consideration and planning.

We would be doomed, I think, if we were required to focus our whole being on something for an extended period of time, as our distant ancestors had to while stalking game for food on distant savannahs. Had they allowed themselves to be distracted as easily as we do, they’d have starved to death, and none of us would be here today.

Life is much like the appearance of those jets in a way. As individuals, first we weren’t here, now we are, and eventually we won’t be. Collectively, going back perhaps 300,000 years, modern humans, homo sapiens, weren’t here; now we are; eventually, if the fate of other species is any indicator, we may not be.

Science tells us that more than ninety-nine percent of all species of life that have ever inhabited Earth are now extinct. When one considers the enormous number of life-forms still extant and sharing the planet with us today, the overall number of living creatures that once were here and now are not is staggering.

Individually, we are similar to dandelions, if you think of it. We might look out the window one day and spy a dandelion despoiling the pristine, green expanse of our lawn. If we leave it to its own devices, the dastardly weed will grow apace (doubtless in company with scores of comrades); then it will spread its seeds, miniature, white parachutists blown on the wind; and then finally, it will wither and die.

Or, we could choose to interrupt its life-cycle by stomping it under our heel, exposing it to toxic chemicals, uprooting it, or even turning it into wine. Either way—whether we leave it or interfere with it—it wasn’t there, then it was, then it wasn’t.

We are the same. Many of us live out our proverbial threescore-and-ten—some less, some more—spreading our seed as we go, and then die a natural death. Others of us, beaten down ‘neath the harsh heel of neglect and apathy, die prematurely. Still others, afflicted with a wasting disease, perhaps exposed to toxic chemicals intended to stem its progress, slowly wither and die. And still more are violently uprooted from their homes by violence or starvation or natural disaster, and are left to die alone.

Mortality is a subject I think about more often now than when I was younger. I contemplate my own, of course, though I do not fear it. Fearing death is like fearing the sunrise; it’s going to happen whether it’s feared or not, so why waste time dwelling on it? As I wrote in one of my poetic offerings—

I haven’t the time to dwell on life’s finish,
‘Though I know it lurks, that’s certain.
When all has been said, I still look ahead
To life’s next opening curtain.

I confess, however, that the demise of our human species is something I do think about. Not because it will affect me directly; I’ll be long-embarked on whatever journey is next for me by then.

But increasingly, it seems to me, humankind is separating itself into two broad factions: the many drones who think rarely for themselves and react self-servingly to whatever stimuli they encounter, content with the base pleasures they eke out; and the despoilers, fewer in number, who think deeply and conspire self-servingly to enrich themselves at the expense of the rest.

I’m pretty sure there is a third group, much smaller, who think first of others, not themselves, and who fight the good fight against the drones and despoilers. But alas, they are running out of time to win that fight. All harbingers are pointing to cataclysmic changes in the earth’s traditional, heretofore dependable cycles, patterns we have known and depended on for our entire lives.

But the effects of those changes aren’t here yet, not in sufficient abundance to alarm the majority of us. It seems that, as a species, we won’t admit they exist—just as that crowd in the stadium didn’t know about the jets in advance.

We’ll know when the effects begin to announce themselves fully, though—earthquakes, floods, wildfires, drought, increasing temperatures, rising sea-levels, climate-forced migration, and, of course, mass death. We’ll pay attention then.

My fear is that, unlike the other examples I’ve mentioned, where things aren’t here, then are, and then aren’t again, the massive changes rushing pell-mell at us will not disappear. They will linger to become the new normal for millennia to come.

And thus, it is we of whom some far-in-the-future, interstellar observer might say, “Human beings? Yeah, they weren’t there, then for hundreds of thousands of years they were, and then they weren’t.”

I console myself that perhaps the dandelions will survive.

Waitin’ On Janice

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This is a piece I recently submitted to a writing contest, responding to the picture of the old man.

“Mornin’, Paulie!” Doris says, mug and coffee pot in hand. “The usual?”

“Yeah, like I got a friggin’ choice!” I grunt.

She pours the mug too full, and moments later, plunks a bowl of grayish oatmeal on the table.

If I had my friggin’ teeth, I wouldn’t be eatin’ slop like this!

“Where’s the raisins?” I complain.

“Underneath. Gotta dig for ‘em.”

I’m by the window of the cafe, my reg’lar booth lookin’ over the courtyard, waitin’ on my daughter. Ain’t seen her in years and I ain’t sure she’s comin’.

Never does. I only left that voicemail today on account of it’s my friggin’ birthday. But that won’t make no difference. Janice hates me. Got good reason, I guess.

The friggin’ bells over the door jangle and I turn to look, but it’s just a jug-eared kid with a stupid cowlick, looks to be maybe ten, and he plants his bony ass in the booth across from me. The bells jangle again, but this time it’s a fat guy, and when he waddles by, he bumps the cane I got leanin’ against my table, knockin’ it to the floor.

“Hey!” I bark, but it’s more a yip. No bite. Not no more. And the friggin’ slob just keeps goin’.

“I got it!” the kid says, slidin’ in opposite me, layin’ the cane on the table.

“Thanks, boyo, but I ain’t lookin’ for comp’ny. No offence.”

He ignores me. “Who you waitin’ for?”

“Why you think I’m waitin’ on anybody?”

“Every time them bells clatter, you turn to look. Who’s comin’?”

“Nobody!”

This little peckerhead’s sharp. Sorta reminds me of somebody.

“Happy birthday!” he says, tuckin’ into a bowl of cereal. His chin’s almost touchin’ the table when he spoons the crap into his mouth, and I feel like tellin’ him to get his elbows off the friggin’ table.

“How’d you know it’s my birthday?” I ask, scratchin’ my beard, wonderin’ where the cereal came from.

He shrugs. “You’re eighty-eight, right?”

“None of your friggin’ business!” But curiosity wins. “How d’you know how old I am?”

Before he can answer, the bells jangle again. When I twist around, it’s still not Janice. Just some greasy-lookin’ guy with a beat-up briefcase.

She ain’t comin’! Prob’ly didn’t even get my message.

“Want another bowl?” Doris asks at my elbow. She pays no never-mind to the kid still stuffin’ his face, almost like he ain’t there.

“No, I’m done. But gimme another cuppa.”

With a full mug in front of me, I turn back to the kid. “How come you ain’t in school?”

He looks at me like I’m dee-mented or somethin’. Which I surely ain’t!

“It’s Saturday.”

“So what’re you doin’ here? Why ain’t you out playin’ somewheres?”

“You oughta clean them glasses,” he says, ignorin’ me again. “They’re all smeared. Use a napkin.”

I grab one from the dispenser on the table, yank off my specs, blow stale coffee breath on the lenses. But wipin’ at ‘em only makes ‘em worse.

This kid is drivin’ me nuts! Who’s he remind me of?

And then I know. He looks like me when I was that age, a sorry lifetime ago. A lot like me! The memories flood in, and my friggin’ heart starts in to skippin’ crazy-like.

“What’s your name, boyo?”

“Paulie. Same as yours.”

There’s real pain in my chest now. “Okay, boyo, I gotta go,” I gasp.

This ain’t good!

“Yeah, it’s your time,” he says. “I came for you.”

It feels like I’m floatin’ to the front door. And just as we get close, the bells jangle, and Janice is there, lookin’ past me, searchin’ the café. She’s older’n I remember, way older, but beautiful like her mama was.

I open my arms, hardly believin’ she came, but it’s like she passes right through me. I reach after her, but she stops dead in her tracks, starin’ at the booth me and the kid just left.

My friggin’ cane is still there. And slumped over the table, one arm hangin’ limp, I see the old man I used to be only a minute ago.

With a strangled sob, Janice rushes toward him. I try to follow, but there’s an insistent tug on my sleeve.

“Time’s up, Paulie,” the kid says. “We gotta go!”

“No!” I cry too late. Way too late. “I’m waitin’ on Janice!”

But I already know the truth. The waitin’ is done.