Category Archives: Celebrations

Good News…and a Preview

As many of you know, I recently published my ninth collection of stories and poems, something I’m very pleased about.

Titled Write On! Tales of a Serial Scribbler, it holds a trove of more than forty pieces I’ve written for the Pelican Pens, a group of enthusiastic writers here in southwest Florida. Each week, we meet to read our work to each other, to offer friendly encouragement, and to devise prompts to guide our creative juices for the following week.

After sending out my announcement the other day, it occurred to me that readers of this blog might like to read one of the short tales included in the book.  Titled And Off We Go, it’s founded on the prompt—embarking on a fateful journey.

I’ve entered this tale in the Gulf Coast Writers Association 2024 writing contest, a competition where I was fortunate enough to take home first-place a year ago with a piece titled But He Didn’t!

I hope you’ll enjoy this preview of what lies in store for you in Write On! Tales of a Serial Scribbler. You can see more of the book, and my other published books, at this safe link—https://lulu.com/spotlight/precept

And Off We Go

“Shall we go?”  The sepulchral voice is solemn, portentous, and it reverberates ominously in my ears.

Not yet…not yet!  I’m not ready…

I hear other voices, too, softer voices…my daughters, named for our favourite flowers so many years ago.  They’re talking quietly over me as I lie in a bed I cannot feel in a hospital room I cannot see, unable to speak or move.

“He can’t open his eyes,” Veronica says, “but I can see them moving behind his eyelids.”

“Yeah, I see that,” Jasmine agrees.  “I think he can hear us.”

“Can you, Dad?” Veronica asks softly.  “Can you hear us?”

Yes, yes, yes!  I’m right here…

“He can’t answer you, Vee,” Jasmine says sorrowfully.

She’s right, I can’t.  Everything was fine until…until…whatever day it was, I can’t remember…and that red wave washed over me, collapsing me on the floor for I don’t know how long.  And now here I am, wherever this is.

“Shall we go?” the voice resounds in my ears again, a honeyed basso-profundo, not at all impatient, yet determined nonetheless.

No, not yet!  It’s too soon…

“Keep stroking his hair, Jazz,” Veronica says.  “He always liked that.”

I did always like it, but I can’t feel a thing now.  I can only imagine how it feels, and the thought warms my heart.  I laugh inwardly, knowing my hair must be all askew.

“I love you, Daddy,” Jasmine whispers.  “I hope you know that.”

“He knows we love him, he knows,” Veronica says, and I imagine she is holding my arthritic hands in hers, gently massaging them, terribly weakened now when once they were so strong.  But I can feel nothing.

I lifted you high in these hands, Vee, high up over my head.  And Jazz, too!  And now…and now…

“Shall we go?”  The voice asks again, persistent though not offensive.

Not yet!  No!

“You don’t have to worry about us, Dad,” Veronica whispers.  “We’ll be fine.”

“She’s right, Daddy,” Jasmine adds.  “You and Mummy were the best, and we’ll be just fine.”

I know, I know…but I don’t want to go…

They’re right, of course, they will be fine, both with their own wee families now.  The little ones were here earlier with their daddies…at least I think they were…maybe not…but I’m sure I heard those four tiny voices telling me they love me.  I wanted to say it back to them, to wrap my arms around them, but…

“And don’t forget, Dad,” Veronica continues, “Mum said she’d be waiting for you to find her, remember?  She’ll be watching for you.”

Ah, their mother, my wife, my lifelong love…how I’ve missed her.  Despite a valiant struggle against the disease that wasted her, she left us a few years ago.  And yet, she never truly left us, you know?  I wonder if Vee is right, if she really will be waiting there, wherever there is…my darling Clementine…

“Shall we go?”  The voice is insistent, though not unkind.

No, please!  Not yet…

“I’m sure Mummy’s been missing you, Daddy,” Jasmine murmurs, and I can hear the sob catching in her throat.  “You were meant to be together for all time.”

“Exactly!” Veronica says, trying to lighten the mood.  “Like apple pie and cheese!  Like mustard and relish!”  She laughs softly as she gropes for more examples.

Jasmine joins in her sister’s laughter, and my heart dances to the sounds of their lilting voices.  “Yeah, or like Abbott and Costello!” she says.  “Like Jack and Jill!”

“Lady and the Tramp!” Veronica offers, and the laughter grows louder.  “Romeo and Juliet!”

“Omigod!” Jasmine gasps, their laughter rolling freely now.  “Tweedledum and Tweedledee!  Lancelot and Guinevere!  Sweet and sour!”

“Yin and yang,” Veronica says, and they stop on that one, as if it’s the perfect one to describe me and Clemmie.

“Shall we go?” a voice asks again…but it’s a different voice this time.  Frozen inside my immobile body, I cannot move, but I feel as if I’m turning around and there is Clemmie…as young and as fair as the first rose of summer.  She’s standing in the midway at the State Fair, pointing at the Tunnel of Love attraction, the one where we had our first, tentative kiss, where the sense we’d found something special first dawned on us.

“Shall we go?” she asks again, and her eyes are sparkling, her smile warm and welcoming.

“It’s okay, Dad,” Veronica whispers, “it’s okay to go.”

“Goodbye, Daddy,” Jasmine breathes.  “We love you.”

Goodbye, goodbye…I love you both…

And I reach for Clemmie’s hand, and off we go.

The Cannabis Murders

I’m excited to announce that The Cannabis Murders, my eleventh novel in the Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime series, will be released early in February!

The riveting story unfolding in this book is set against a backdrop of rising public concern over the extent of covert Chinese interference in political and corporate affairs in Canada, and across North America.

The story itself is tied to the legal production and distribution of cannabis products, as a global producer with Chinese connections attempts to establish a manufacturing facility near the resort town of Port Huntington on Georgian Bay.  In so doing, the company encounters community opposition, and runs up against Indigenous land-claims to the property in question, both of which throw up major stumbling-blocks to its plans.

To everyone’s dismay, repeated vandalism, threatened extortion, violence, and eventually murder soon follow.  Maggie and Derek become caught up in events through her support of a young, Indigenous woman trapped in the turmoil that follows, and through his involvement as a negotiator for the First Nation land-claims.  And both are drawn further into the mayhem because of their connection to the government’s pending inquiry into the secretive operations of Chinese interests in the area.

Resolute as always to protect their community, and themselves, Maggie and Derek work closely with police to bring the evil perpetrators to justice.

I know you will enjoy this story, and I’ll post notice here when the book becomes available.  In the meantime, the ten earlier novels in this series, together with my eight anthologies of tales, can be found for a free preview or purchase at this safe link—https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept

Thanks to all of you who read my blog-posts. If you enjoy them, you are sure to love my books!

My Whiffenpoof

The weekly prompt from my Florida writers’ group was to write a piece incorporating a song lyric, even a misunderstood one. I chose to use a complete song, but with its meaning and setting skewed from its real attribution for purposes of fiction.

The young lad’s voice was pleasant enough, if a tad off-key here and there, and he held his beer-drinking audience rapt as he began singing the song.

To the tables down at Mory’s, to the place where Louie dwells,
To the dear old Temple Bar we love so well,
Sing the Whiffenpoofs assembled with our glasses raised on high,
And the magic of our singing casts a spell…

“What’s a Whiffenpoof?” old Hardy McKinnon yelled out rudely, slamming his empty glass down on the table in front of him, half-cut already, though the evening was young.  “Sounds like a fart!  One o’ them SBD ones!”

The lad stopped singing, joined in the laughter that followed, then said, “SBD?  What’s SBD?”

“Silent but deadly!” McKinnon’s wife cried, pointing at her husband, beckoning to me for another round as the laughter erupted again.

“Quiet, ye lot!” I shouted from behind the bar where I’d been drawing another tray of drafts.  “Let the boy sing his song!”

Indeed, he did look more a boy than a man, sitting there in his khaki uniform, the cuff of one sleeve pinned to his left shoulder where his arm should have been—the only one to return of five village lads who had marched proudly to the train station two long years ago, off to fight the foe for King and country. 

The polished medal at the end of the ribbon round his neck testified to his gallantry and sacrifice—the Victoria Cross, awarded for valour in the face of the enemy, the highest military award the nation could offer.  It had been presented by none other than King George himself, and I’d been there to witness it.

“Let him sing!” I cried once more into the clamour, and it subsided quickly as Jimmy took up his song again.

Yes, the magic of our singing of the songs we love so well---
‘Shall I Wasting’ and ‘Mavourneen’ and the rest---
We will serenade our Louie while life and voice do last,
Then we’ll pass and be forgotten with the rest…

The eyes of almost everyone were fixed steadily on the lad as he sang, the words and melody casting a solemn pall over the room.  Those who weren’t looking at him were staring emptily into space with that thousand-yard stare I used to see in my Robert’s eyes after he came home from fighting the Boers.  He never spoke of the horrors, nor of the comrades he’d lost, but I knew they’d been with him ‘til the day he died.

I’d held on to the business after he passed, McSorley’s Old Ale House being the only home I had, and the only pub for miles around—a gathering-place as sacred to its patrons in its own way as the Church of England ever could be.

“Aye, Jimmy, sing some more!” Angus MacPherson said softly into the silence.  “Sing the chorus for us, lad!” 

Jimmy drank deeply from the new pint I’d set in front of him, wiped the foam from his mouth with his one hand, and when he started in again, many of the assembled joined in, the words as familiar to them as the faces in their mirrors—

We’re poor little lambs who have lost our way,
Baa, baa, baa!
We’re little black sheep who have gone astray,
Baa, baa, baa!
Gentlemen songsters out on a spree, doomed from here to eternity,
Lord, have mercy on such as we,
Baa, baa, baa!

My tears glistened on the polished, wooden surface of the bar, and I scrubbed them away furiously with my rag.  Most of the old warriors who’d been singing along were weeping, too—silent tears tracking down their grizzled, ruddy cheeks, only to be swallowed up and lost in their scraggly beards, just as their innocent youth had been torn from them by the long-ago battles they had fought for the fading Empire.

In the silence that blanketed the normally-boisterous room, Jimmy stood up, finished his pint, then walked wearily over to the bar, waving shyly to the crowd.  “I’ll be headin’ up now,” he whispered with a sad smile.  “Shout me up when yer closin’, an’ I’ll be back down to help.”

“Shure, an’ I’ll be doin’ that very thing,” I said, knowing full well I would not.  The boy was bone-tired, I could tell, and needing his sleep—if sleep would come.  I watched as he mounted the narrow staircase, his steps heavy, his one hand on the banister, his chin sunk low on his chest.  I couldn’t see his medal, but I know it weighed heavy on him.  He’d have given it back in an instant if it meant the return of his fallen friends.

“He’s a good lad, young Jimmy!” Liam Dewar shouted, his half-empty pint raised high.  “A noble warrior, an’ a damn fine singer!”

“Three cheers for Jimmy!” Molly Malone cried, a bit unsteady on her feet, trying not to show it.   She was sweet on Jimmy, I knew, but trying not to show that, either.  The crowd joined in, as did I—Huzzah!  Huzzah!  Huzzah!

And then another song broke out, this time led by the lovely tenor voice of the vicar, the Reverend Alastair Holmes, and everyone took up the tune—

It’s a long way to Tipperary, it’s a long way to go,
It’s a long way to Tipperary, to the sweetest girl I know…

And I thought about the long way home young Jimmy had taken—the journey from carefree boyhood to the blood-soaked trenches of Europe, and back again—mutilated and scarred, perhaps forever.  And for what?  For three cheers and a piece of tin around his neck?

My tears began anew, but tears of gratitude this time—gratitude that, unlike so many other mothers’ sons, he was home again.

My Whiffenpoof.

My boy.

Another New Book!

I’m really excited to announce the publication of my eighth anthology of tales—My Relentless Muse: Tales of a Vagabond Storyteller—a collection of more than fifty essays I’ve written as a member of the Pelican Pens writers’ group in southwest Florida.

I have long regarded myself as a storyteller, and the collection here is selected from more than one-hundred-and-fifty pieces I’ve shared with this group of talented writers.  Once a week, Pelican Pens members get together to read our stories aloud, and to offer helpful suggestions to one another.  At the end of each gathering, we go away with a prompt or two to guide us for the following week’s articles.   At the beginning of each story in this collection, just beneath the title, you’ll see the prompt that suggested the tale you’ll be reading. 

The relentless muse referenced in the title remains a mystery to me, even after a lifetime of writing.  I still find myself wandering like a vagabond, hither and yon, seeking after the story-ideas she holds out to me.  Yet most of the time, I never leave the chair in front of my computer because my elusive muse is so firmly embedded in my imagination.  

This newest book may be previewed and purchased at the publisher’s safe site— https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept   I hope you will take a few minutes to visit the site, where you will see all my books…..including my most recent crime novel, published just one month ago, Delayed Penalty.

The site is well worth visiting, even if I do say so myself!

Happy reading!

An Easter Haiku

The weekly prompt from my Florida writers’ group was to write a story or poem on the theme, “I’m not here!”. This is my response to that prompt—a haiku of three-line stanzas, the lines comprised of 5 – 7 – 5 syllables.

It is adapted from an earlier poem I wrote, titled ‘Love in the Morning’, which won a prize in the SouthWest Florida Writers’ Group contest a year ago, and which is #10 in the list of previous posts in this blog.

“I’m not here,” I say
to those who stand above me,
on top of the grass.

“I’m not here, below
where you gather to mourn me,”
I cry joyously.

“I am in breezes
that blow gently in the night,
rustling your curtains.”

“I am the soft rain
that wakes you in the morning,
whispering your name.”

“I’m not here,” I say
to those who weep at my grave,
lamenting my soul.

“I’m not here, below
this hallowed ground you stand on,”
I shout happily.

“I am dawn’s first beams---
diamonds dancing on water,
bright angels of light.”

“I am shade on trees,
shape-shifting ‘cross leaves turned up
to welcome the sun.”

“I’m not here,” I say
to dear ones who believe I’m
in the cold, cold ground.

“I’m not here as if
I’ve died and left forever,”
I call blissfully.

“I am the music
we listened to together
that stirs in your souls.”

“I am the laughter
you hear from children playing,
just as we once played.”

“I’m not here,” I say
to you---especially you, 
who miss me so.

“I’m not here, apart 
from you, loving hearts sundered,”
I declare raptly.

“I am every thought,
every prayer, every promise
you have ever made.”

“I am part of each 
breath you draw, each step you take.
I’m with you always.”

“I’m not here,” I say
to all at my sepulchre. 
hoping they will heed.

“I’m not here!” I cry---
a joyous, rapturous shout;
“I dwell in you now.”

A Party? No Thanks!

Another birthday, the eightieth since my actual day of birth, is looming.

If I have my way, there will be no party celebrations to mark the occasion—no gathering of friends, no gifts, and most mercifully, no public rendition of that ubiquitous birthday song by a bored, yet dutiful, cadre of restaurant servers.  Rather, the occasion will be marked by a fond embrace from the one who has been alongside for all but the first twenty of those eighty anniversaries.

For me, the party tradition has gone on too long.  It’s not only over now, it’s overrated.

The last big celebration I remember was on my twenty-first birthday, when my parents planned a party to honour the passage of their firstborn from boyhood to manhood—as if it had happened all at once on that given day. 

In 1802, Wordsworth memorably observed, The child is father of the man…, and so it has always seemed to me.  But truth be told, in all the years spent being a man since then, I don’t believe I ever left the boy behind.  He lurks behind the adult mask, only rarely emerging, as though fearing he’s no longer welcome.  But I still search him out sometimes, if only to reassure him.

I don’t really remember that twenty-first birthday party, of course, it having occurred almost sixty years ago.  But I do have photographs to remind me of the momentous occasion—washed-out Kodachromes of people who meant the most to me back then—some gone now to their spiritual reward, others, like me, to lingering adulthood.

My mother and dad grace several of the photos, beaming with parental pride (I’ve always chosen to assume), both of them decades younger than I am now.  How can that be, I wonder, and where did those years go? 

My siblings—a brother and three sisters—all stand with me in other pictures, our arms around each other, full of that relentless, youthful optimism that has not yet encountered the eroding onslaught of time.  It did assail us eventually, of course, but so far, all but my brother have survived.

A couple of close friends were present at that party, too, both mere weeks older than I, and eminently wiser (or so I imagined, given their earlier entry into manhood).  Both remain  fast and true friends to this day—and they, too, like me now, have reached the end of their eighth decade.  Imagine!

Most dear of all in those faded photos is my high school sweetheart, smiling happily, if a tad uncertainly, still getting to know the large, somewhat strange family whose son she was keeping company with. 

On that day, we were still two years removed from the moment when she would accept my offer of marriage, and she, I’m sure, had no idea right then that such a fate awaited her. Even I, it must be said, had only begun to suspect she might be the one. That longed-for wisdom prevailed, I suppose.

Anyway, that’s the last big celebration I recall.  There have been many so-called milestone birthdays along the way—the thirtieth (Never trust anyone over thirty!), the fortieth (Forty is the new thirty!), the fiftieth and sixtieth (the golden years, so dubbed by those who couldn’t avoid them), and even the seventieth (entry point to the last of the three stages of life: youth, adulthood, and You’re Lookin’ Good!). 

But the milestone birthdays never impacted momentously on me.  Each was just one more marker in a so-far-endless progression of years, gratefully attained, yet no more important than any of the others.

Among the most special greetings I receive on every birthday are those from my two daughters, both of whom endearingly insist that I’m not old, I look terrific, and I’m every bit as good as I once was.

“Hmm,” I tell them, “maybe I’m as good once as I ever was!”

For the past twenty-one years, I’ve been further blessed to hear from a younger set, my grandchildren, five in number now, who cannot for the life of them understand why there won’t be a big party on my special day, with balloons, and cake, and lots of presents.  Not to mention the goodie-bags they used to get at their friends’ birthday parties when they were younger.

“Don’t you like parties, Gramps?” one of my granddaughters once asked.

“Don’t you have any friends, Grandpa?” my grandson chimed in.

But I always told them I’ve had more birthdays than I have friends and family combined, and that on my birthday, I’m more than content just to have my grandchildren loving me.

“Oh, we love you, Gramps,” they affirm.  “But grown-up goodie-bags might still be a good idea, y’know.”

I do know.  My goodie-bag has been overflowing for eighty years.

The Reasons For the Season

It’s hard to believe, but this soon-to-be-upon-us Christmas will be the eightieth time I’ve celebrated the festive season with family.  I have no memory of the first five or six such occasions, and most of those that came after are a hodge-podge of recollections jumbled together across the years.

Although my extended family was a blend of Anglican, Roman Catholic, and Presbyterian church-goers, Christ was never the centre of our celebrations back then; family was always at the centre.  As a youngster, I was taught all about the virgin birth—the trek to Bethlehem, the sojourn in the stable, the babe in the manger, the shepherds and wise men who visited the creche—but the visitor I most looked forward to every year was Santa Claus.

It may amuse you to know that I still believe in the spirit of Santa, that jolly, old elf who freely gives us presents while taking nothing in return (save, perhaps, for cookies and milk).  I still hang up my stocking every Christmas Eve.

It may surprise you to learn that I still believe in the teachings of the Christ-child, too, despite the fact my knowledge of them springs from English translations of the writings of men (no women, alas), who told their tales in Hebrew and Greek long after the storied crucifixion.

It seems to me those teachings can be crystallized in two succinct statements attributed to Jesus: Love one another.  Treat everyone else as you would like to be treated.  There are world-religions other than Christianity that preach similar sentiments, of course, but I fear I know less about them than I’d like.  Nevertheless, I dream sometimes of what our world might be like today if all of us, regardless of creed, could adhere to those two maxims, person-to-person, nation-to-nation.

Despite my belief in his teachings, I confess I cannot be sure Christ was the divine son of the god to whom we attribute our creation—that beneficent father-figure who reigns over us from on high, portrayed so majestically in magnificent works of art over the centuries.  I simply don’t know if Christ really turned water into wine, raised Lazarus back to life, rose again from the dead, or will return someday in rapture and glory.  I was taught these things, never with any proof offered, though—because true faith requires no absolute proof.  Faith and proof are each other’s antithesis. But no matter; whether one believes Christ was divine or not, the truth of his teachings shines through for me. 

It pains me when I hear so-called Christians take those teachings, impart their own twist to them, and then insist that everyone else adhere to their interpretation.  I’ve read the entire Bible, some sections repeatedly, and I’ve yet to find the condemnation purported to come from Christ’s lips that is used by judgmental Christian proselytizers to justify the stances they spew forth on such issues as marriage equality, abortion, feminism, and science education, to name a few.  The Christ I know loves everyone.

Nevertheless, despite my difference of opinion with such folk, I respect their right to believe as they do—so long as they do not seek to interfere with my right to do the same.  Christ, it seems to me, invited people to accept his teachings; he did not force them.  It is wise, I think, to be wary of those who use Christ’s teachings to further their own ends, to rend us asunder.

Lest I appear to be doing that here, let me clarify that I am not; I am simply riffing on my understanding of the meanings of Christmas.  Both my continuing belief in a Santa Claus, and my endorsement of Christ’s two great maxims, are important aspects of the celebration for me.  But I readily acknowledge that others may feel differently.  I begrudge no one their right to hold and profess their own beliefs, even to disregard mine, and I do not seek to impose mine on anyone.  

In addition to the influences of Santa and Jesus on my understanding of Christmas, there are others whose interpretations reflect my own.  For example, in his famous story, A Christmas Carol, Charles Dickens described the occasion thusly—a good time: a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time: the only time I know of in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of other people below them as if they really were fellow-passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on other journeys.

Kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant, open hearts—these words echo the intent of Christ’s teachings, do they not?  It’s a pity such sentiments surface so infrequently in our interactions these days, except for a brief time at Christmas.

Another artist, Elvis Presley, released a song in 1966, written by his friend Red West, whose lyrics included this plaintive call—

Oh, why can’t every day be like Christmas?
Why can’t that feeling go on endlessly?
For if everyday could be just like Christmas,
What a wonderful world this would be.

Anyway, buoyed in the spirit of Christmas, I’m looking forward to my eightieth celebration with renewed hope that the true reasons for the season will once again manifest themselves—and, I fervently wish, pervade the new year to come. Surely then, we would find the way, know the truth, and approach the life to which we aspire.

A wonderful world it would be, indeed!

A Canadian’s American Thanksgiving

“You’re Canadian, right?  From Canada.”

“Right,” I replied.  “And right again.”

My neighbour from across the street continued, “So you celebrate two Thanksgivings, right?  One at home and one here in Florida.”

“Right again,” I smiled.  “On both counts.”

“Well then, I sure hope you got enough to be thankful for,” he said as he sauntered away.

I found myself thinking about that as I lay barely awake in bed this morning, long before dawn, wishing I were still asleep.  In Canada, we celebrate Thanksgiving on the second Monday of every October, and this year we had gathered, as usual, with our two daughters’ extended families—numbering twenty-two with our granddaughters’ boyfriends added to the mix.

I first dated my wife when she was a lissome lass of sixteen, and neither of us ever went with anyone else after that.  For sixty years, we have celebrated Thanksgivings together, and once upon a long time ago, hosted the family events.  But we are honoured elders now, along with the other grandparents, and at our age, find the celebrations a tad tiring, if still wonderfully joyous.  When someone asked what we are thankful for this year, we agreed on the big five—our family, our friends, our two homes, our financial security, and our continued good health.  And then we raised a glass to the hope they will continue for some time to come.

American Thanksgiving falls on the fourth Thursday of every November, some six weeks after ours, and so, being in Florida by then, we celebrate it, too.  More quietly, though, as if somewhat apologetic (as Canadians are wont to be) for our privilege and good fortune.

As I lay abed this morning, pondering these thoughts—half-awake, wanting to be asleep—I could sense more than see my wife beside me.  Both of us were lying on our backs, she snoring ever so gently—as I had likely been doing, too, before stirring.  And it slowly dawned on me that we were holding hands, our fingers loosely interlaced by our sides.

I smiled quietly into the darkness of the pre-dawn bedroom, acknowledging, not for the first time, that this is what I am most thankful for.  No matter where I am.

Happy Thanksgiving!

Hot Off the Press

The latest full-length novel in my Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime-fiction series is hot off the press and available for Christmas-giving!

Three decades ago, a predatory high school Principal in the Northern Highlands District School Board sexually assaulted a number of his female students, one of whom subsequently took her own life.  Despite the courage of one fifteen-year-old girl who reported the assaults to the Director of Education at the time, nothing was done to stop the Principal’s depredations.

Now, thirty years after the assaults were first reported, that former Principal is murdered in his home by an unknown assailant.  Within a week of his killing, two more men are murdered—the Director of Education who had done nothing about the original report, and the board’s lawyer at the time, who was complicit in the cover-up.  Police begin investigating the killings, and as usual, Maggie Keiller and Derek Sloan are drawn into the unfolding events.

This riveting story is set against the backdrop of a truckers’ blockade organized and funded by a coalition of western-separatist, white-supremacist groups, who seek to disrupt the flow of trade and commerce in Ontario and force the government to resign. 

In a heart-stopping finish to the story, Maggie and Derek are confronted by the vengeful killers at their home on Georgian Bay, and are themselves threatened with death as they try to protect the woman at the centre of everything.

*  *  *  *  *  *  *

This paperback book is intended for mature audiences, and is available for preview and purchase at this safe site— https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept 

Or, you can visit the publisher’s bookstore at https://www.lulu.com/search?page=1&q=J+Bradley+Burt&pageSize=10&adult_audience_rating=&sortBy=PUBLICATION_DATE_DESC  

All my published novels and anthologies of tales are displayed on these safe sites. Once you’ve added any of the books to your cart, tap the cart icon in the upper right of your screen and you will be taken to a safe payment page.

If you have read any of the previous books in this exciting series, or if you are a regular reader of my blog, I know you will enjoy this book.

Uneasy Lies the Head…

Uneasy lies the head that wears a crown.  So mused Henry IV in William Shakespeare’s eponymous play, after he had seized the throne from Richard II.  Being ruler of an Empire had proven more wearisome than he had reckoned.

I thought of his quandary upon hearing the news that Prince Charles has succeeded his deceased mother, Queen Elizabeth II, to the British throne, and will henceforth be known as His Majesty Charles the Third, by the Grace of God, of the United Kingdom of Great Britain and Northern Ireland and of His other Realms and Territories King, Head of the Commonwealth, Defender of the Faith.

That is a mouthful, and may prove to be more than he can chew.

For the first nine years of my life, I pledged allegiance to a King every morning in school—and to the flag, the Empire, and my country—but I had scant appreciation of what those actually were.  To me, the King was a framed portrait of a uniformed man hanging on the wall of my classroom; the flag was an attractive array of red, white, and blue crosses, draped below the portrait; the Empire was made up of the pink areas on a Mercator projection wall-map prominently displayed nearby; and my country, Canada, was for a long time defined by the few square city-blocks I could traverse on my tricycle before being corralled by a frantic mother.  But it was pink!

Indeed, as we were taught, the sun never set on the British Empire.  We sang the national anthem every day with great gusto: God save our gracious King, Long live our noble King, God save the King… 

It took a while for us to master the switch to God save our gracious Queen… upon the death of George VI in 1952.   And eventually, we stopped singing the song at all, in favour of our own national anthem, O Canada, officially adopted in 1980—long after I had left my schoolboy days behind.

It never occurred to me back then that those glorious pink areas on the map were the result of rampant, colonial conquest of the original inhabitants of those lands.  And in fairness, how could I have known?  I was raised to believe in right vs. wrong, truth vs. falsity, morality vs. depravity, religiosity vs. atheism, generosity vs. selfishness, civility vs. rudeness, the rule of law applied to all equally vs. anarchy—all admirable virtues in and of themselves, but all defined, of course, by the privileged White authority represented by the Crown.  The triumphant.

…Send him victorious, Happy and glorious…

I was brought up in the bosom of the Anglican Church, a colonial version of the Church of England, and taught to believe that sin was inevitable, repentance essential, and forgiveness attainable.  And those, too, I came to understand, were defined from on high.  Sin was anything the clergy might from time to time, in their great, Christian wisdom, determine it to be; repentance was adjudged sincere or not by their strict standards; and forgiveness was beneficently granted by the Lord through them—or not, as they deemed appropriate—often requiring mandatory acts of atonement.

To be sure, I enjoyed a privileged childhood, for which I am grateful.  But my upbringing rendered me an absolutist well into my adult years, fully invested in the values and tenets I had been taught.  That I am today something of a relativist may, I suppose, be attributed to my advancing years and a questing mind, more than to any great, moral awakening.

It seems to me now that, although might should never make right, the definition of right vs. wrong is still determined by those who can enforce their interpretation.  Truth vs. falsity is defined and re-defined by those who are winning the culture-wars at any particular moment.  Ernest Hemingway wrote a memoir, published posthumously, the title of which—A Moveable Feast—describes perfectly the relativism of the definitions of virtues we still profess to believe.

What constitutes selfishness today, as opposed to self-interest?  And who gets to decide?  What is regarded as moral vs. depraved behaviour?  And by whom?  Where is the boundary between civility toward one another vs. rudeness and hate?  And who sets that boundary?

Is adherence to a set of liturgy-bound, religious beliefs more legitimate than a self-imposed regimen of acceptable, generous-of-spirit behaviour?  And who is to decide if the adherents of either viewpoint are upholding and demonstrating their professed beliefs, as opposed to merely paying lip-service.  Hypocrisy is never pretty.  

In the diverse, multicultural world in which we live, there are many who would answer those questions. And there are many more, alas, who will not listen to any but their own.

A major advantage of being an absolutist is that one need never question one’s own motives or actions.  For the acquiescent, it is enough to act within the boundaries of the commonly-accepted virtues proscribed from on high, or profess to be doing so.  For the scofflaws, it suffices to act in opposition to that, based upon their own set of contradictory values.  Each side sees itself as right, the other wrong.  And they are absolutely certain of their positions.

Relativists, on the other hand, are forever doomed to uncertainty, questioning the validity, the relevance, the wisdom of their beliefs and actions, no matter what they do.  Theirs is the age-old question—why?

King Charles III strikes me from afar as one who, though bound by centuries of absolutist tradition and ritual, will prove to be something of a relativist, a King who will question many of those very institutions and sacraments surrounding him, with a view to modifying them.  I want to believe he realizes that, even as the monarchy is steeped in pomp and circumstance, it cannot stand still.  There is no such thing as stasis.  Just as our world is ever evolving, so, too, must its institutions.

Charles now wears the crown I pledged allegiance to on the head of his grandfather during my long-ago school-days, and I pray it will not lie uneasy upon him.  I hope it will inspire him to critically examine his reign relative to the world around him, to lead his monarchy to a strengthening of ties with his subjects, and toward reconciliation with those whom the Empire has harmed.

…Long to reign over us, God save the King.