Category Archives: Musings

No Longer There

The weekly prompt from my Florida writers’ group was: tell a story from the point of view of an inanimate object.  This is my offering—

I first espied your home millennia ago, long before your primitive, bi-pedal predecessors first walked upon your insignificant rock and thought to look up at me.  And you, the survivors of eons of mingling and melding with each other, can see me still, as I wend my way to you across billions of years from a source no longer there.

That source, my home—originally anonymous, a mere speck in the vast cosmic dust of the universe—would have been invisible to you, had it not finally flamed out and vanished into a massive black hole of anti-matter, succumbing to the irresistible, terrible pull of gravity.

But I, the sole survivor of that massive, thermonuclear firestorm, endured to bear witness to its existence.  A blast of energy and light radiating out from its core, I traverse the interstellar darkness at the speed of light, my destination unknown ad infinitum.

At some distant point in time-past, one of your forebears was the first to spot my leading edge.  From that creature’s vantage-point, I was but one of uncounted pinpoints of light in the night-time panoply overhead, each of which, like me, had begun its journey after a cataclysmic conflagration—very much like the one your own star will eventually experience.

Along the way, I was assigned a name by one of your ancestors—although I remain undistinguished in the infinite reaches of the cosmos, which is indifferent to the affairs and conceits of your species.  I am but one of billions upon billions of similar bursts of energy, light-sources too numerous even to catalogue, let alone adorn with a patronym.

I have seen you for some time with my leading edge, and if you look into the darkened sky, you will spot me there—a seemingly-static but ultimately-endless burst of light.  You and your entire species will be lost to the annals of time, of course, long before my trailing edge arrives in your vicinity—at which point I, too, will vanish from the view of living things, if any, that might be left on your rock to notice.

But, unlike your species, I will not perish.  My light, from leading to trailing edge, will speed on forever, relentlessly pursuing the far reaches of the ever-expanding universe, which knows no bounds.

Much like the person who named me to honour one of the fanciful gods your species has pretended to worship in order to satisfy the unanswerable questions you persist in asking, you fancy yourself at the centre of existence, the very master of all you perceive.  But you were nothing before my infinite journey even began, and you will be nothing again in the blink of a cosmic eye.

If my leading edge could speak to my trailing edge when it eventually reaches what is left of your earthly abode, it might ask, “What do you see?  Is anyone there?”

“Nothing!  I see nothing,” my trailing edge will answer.

To which my leading edge might reply, “I saw them when I first passed by—a self-absorbed species busily erecting their ant-hills and lauding their advances, even as they warred upon one another and suffocated their planet.”

“Well, there is no one now,” the trailing edge will observe uncaringly.  “If once life existed on this barren rock, it is no longer there.”

Pity, that.

Ready For The Fall

The prompt from my Florida writers’ group this week was to write a piece about fall. Here is what I came up with, and I hope it will conjure memories for you, too—

A middle-aged woman I didn’t know smiled as she entered the elevator with me one day last week.  “Are you ready for the fall?”

I cringed, steeling myself for an unwanted mini-sermon from a dogged do-gooder, a holy-roller.  “I…I guess so,” I stammered.  “I mean, I pray, I try to do good…”

A look of bewilderment creased the woman’s face, followed quickly by one of amused pity.  “No, no,” she corrected me patronizingly, “you misunderstand me.  I meant the autumn, not the apocalypse!”

“Ah…of course,” I sighed, embarrassed by my mistake.  “Sorry…”

As the elevator doors opened on the eighteenth floor, the woman stepped out, still amused by my obtuseness.  “No need to apologize,” she said.  “At your age, I imagine it’s best to be ready for both!” The doors slid closed behind her before I could think of a suitably nasty retort.

Back in my apartment on the twentieth floor, I reflected on our conversation as I unpacked the groceries I’d been carrying.  It seemed to me an honest mistake to make, an understandable one, and the woman’s parting shot was likely good advice.  But why did she have to be so rude?

Later, relaxing with my wife over a cup of tea, I talked about what had happened, and about getting ready for the fall.  “Remember when we were kids, it seemed summers would never end?” I said.  “From the day school let out until the first fall-fair arrived, our days were blissful, carefree, limitless.  Eat breakfast and head outside to play; dash inside for lunch, then back outside; trudge home for supper, then out again ‘til the streetlights came on.”

“I remember,” my wife said.  “But things sure changed when we grew up, in spite of our best intentions.  We got married, started working, became parents.  Those summers suddenly became  a lot more finite.”

I nodded agreement.  The calendar tells us summer ends with the autumnal equinox in late September, but the end always came much sooner for us.  It was marked, not by an arbitrary calendar, but by the requirement to go back to school.  Both of us were teachers in those long-ago days, and felt we had to get back ahead of our students if we had any hope of being ready for their return after Labour Day.

For many folks, I guess—like the woman on the elevator—the coming of fall is a time of new beginnings, of anticipation.  They think in terms of flaming fall-colours, brisk autumn days, evenings spent curled up with a book in front of a cozy hearth.  They look forward to the change of seasons.

Not I, though!  I’ve always thought of it as a gloomy time—the conclusion of summer, and the close of so many pleasurable things that vanish with the coming of September.

For example, with the end of warm, sunny weather, there came an end to my carefree habits of dress.  No more swimsuits or running shorts; no more open sandals or ancient running shoes; no more tank-tops or faded team sweaters.  Instead, it meant a return to the straitjacketing drill of collars and ties, pressed slacks, knee-high socks, and polished dress shoes.

The end of summer put a stop to the treasured luxury of shaving every two or three days, depending upon what activities were planned.  And it called a halt to the wearing of old ball caps as an alternative to brushing my hair.

The inevitable onset of fall wrote fini to three or four leisurely cups of coffee with the morning paper, and an end to mid-morning breakfasts on the back porch.  It heralded, in their stead, the beginning of hurried showers and breakfasts-on-the-run.  It marked the re-entry into the exciting world of daily traffic reports, as I attempted to find the shortest, quickest route into and out of the city.

In short, summer’s end brought to a close the lazy, drifting vagaries of summer living I tried so vainly to hang on to.  Coming back to the real world always provided a jolt to my entire system.  It was like going from childhood to adulthood all over again!  Once was enough!

“You know, I never wanted to be the type of person who wishes his life away,” I commented to my wife, “always wishing for something to be different than it is.  But, in a sense, I guess I used to do just that.”

“Me, too,” my wife said wistfully.  “For me, the year was divided into two seasons, summer and not-summer. And not-summer was not good!”

“Remember we’d take the girls on one last camping trip up north?” I said.  “My cutoffs and hat would be in my bag, my shaving-kit left behind.  It was always one final fling in the glorious realm of summer.”

“I loved it,” my wife said, staring into the past.  “Hiking, swimming, paddling, exploring, picking berries, roasting marshmallows, singing our hearts out by the campfire, sleeping the sleep of the innocent in those old sleeping-bags—it was like being children all over again.”

“Even now,” I said, “when every day is like a Saturday, I still pretend summer will never end, that I’ll never have to grow up and give it up.  It still seems there’s always so much left to do.”

“At least we have Florida now,” my wife smiled.  “Year-round summer! Before the fall ever arrives, I’m already planning what I’ll pack.”

During the course of our happy reminiscing, I managed to forget my annoyance with the supercilious woman in the elevator.  But by chance, we happened to ride the elevator again yesterday, going down this time.  As she stepped aboard, I could tell she recognized me as the confused old fart from a week ago—but this time, it was I who spoke first.

“Before you ask, I’m ready for Ar’geddon!” I smiled.

“Our what?” she said, head cocked.

“Ar’geddon!” I repeated.  “I’m ready to go!”

The same pitying look as last time spread across her face, the same condescending smile.  “Sir, you mean Arma-geddon.  You’re mispronouncing the word.” She shook her head disdainfully, appalled by my lack of acuity. 

Waiting a beat to spring the trap I’d plotted, I said very quietly, “Whatever!  It’s not the end of the world!”

We rode the rest of the way in icy stillness, a long, silent fall from the eighteenth floor to the parking garage.

A Crowd of Stars

The youngest of my brothers-in-law died recently, following a long period of worsening, physical incapacity and illness.  He was the second of my generation to go, my younger brother having passed three years ago, and I suspect his death brought the spectre of the end-times somewhat closer to us all.

In addition to my sister, he left behind four children, three of whom are married, giving him three grandsons and two wee granddaughters.  At his private interment, his daughter and three sons spoke of him as a loving and beloved father, and there is no greater tribute I can imagine.  Eighteen of us exchanged reflections and prayers that day, spoken to each other and to him, designed to bring a sense of closure and peace to us all.  We were saddened, of course, by his passing, but relieved that his suffering was ended.

He was married to my sister for forty-five years, a loving union that brought credit upon them both.  I still remember dancing at their wedding, when none of us—so young and brash and full of piss-and-vinegar—could have imagined this day coming.  But it has now for him, as it must someday for all of us.

Deliberate and intentional in word and deed, especially as he grew older, my brother-in-law was rarely intemperate or harsh in his dealings with others.  A man of deep faith, he was loving and giving, and forgiving of others’ shortcomings.  Throughout his tribulations, he was confident that, as he approached the final crossing, he would meet his saviour on the other side.  I hope he has.

In her remarks, my sister said something I thought perfectly summed up his life and faith—from Matthew 25:23, “Well done, good and faithful servant; thou hast been faithful over a few things…enter thou into the joy of thy Lord.”

My wife shared many of those same understandings about what is to come with him, and I remember them engaged in deep conversation over the years, communicating their ideas and beliefs, their hopes for the hereafter.  By contrast, given my differing views, the exchanges I had with him tended to be temporal more than spiritual, though always sincere and affectionate.  He had a way of thinking before he spoke, and I constantly found myself leaning in to be sure not to miss what he might have to say.

The day after he passed, I wrote the following note to my sister—

When we get old, as some of us have, we think differently about death than when we were younger.  I won’t say we ever look forward to it, but we perhaps stop fearing it.

We think of death as a companion on our journey through life—way back in the throng at the beginning, but gaining on us as we begin slowing down.

We think of death, not as a spectre that will end things, but as an usher who will open the next door and allow us in.

Just as life ushered us in at the beginning of our journey through the here and now, death ushers us into the beginning of our next journey.  None of us knows what that journey will look like, but faith sustains us.

When I think of him now, and where he is, I think of these lines, adapted from the poem High Flight, by John Gillespie Magee, Jr.—

Oh!  he has slipped the surly bonds of earth
And dances the skies on laughter-silvered wings…
He has topped the wind-swept heights with easy grace…
Put out his hand and touched the face of God.

With that note, I also included one of my favourite poems, When You Are Old, by William Butler Yeats, the greatest of the Irish poets.  I imagine it as the song my brother-in-law might be singing now to my sister from wherever in this vast universe he finds himself, and I hope it comforts them both—

When you are old and grey and full of sleep,
And nodding by the fire, take down this book,
And slowly read, and dream of the soft look
Your eyes had once, and of their shadows deep;
How many loved your moments of glad grace,
And loved your beauty with love false or true,
But one man loved the pilgrim soul in you,
And loved the sorrows of your changing face;
And bending down beside the glowing bars,
Murmur, a little sadly, how Love fled
And paced upon the mountains overhead
And hid his face amid a crowd of stars.

I Dreamed…

A recent prompt from my Florida writers’ group was to use the phrase, “I dreamed last night…”. This was my submission—

A reminder to those who receive my complete posts in your email, rather than just a link—if you click on the title, you’ll be able to read the post in its proper format on my actual website, rather than in the body of your email.

I dreamed last night of a universe vast,
Extending the future from some unknown past,
Throbbing, emitting, exploding in heat,
Its energy vibrant, its fate incomplete
As onward it rushed, this dream in my head
Rendering me rapturous, there in my bed.

I dreamed last night.  And I wondered if I
Might perhaps be a part of that darkened sky,
From genesis unto eternity,
Unceasing, undying, the infinite me---
My spirit indwelled with life, and a mind
Pushing e’er forward from a past left behind,
Seeking out answers as questions unfold,
Traversing the nothingness, fearless and bold.
I dreamed last night I was mounted astride
A life-force impelling its own suicide.
For how could I, a mere mortal, defend
A beginning without eventual end?
How could we persons, predestined to die
Believe in a universe beyond the sky?

I dreamed last night.  When I wakened again
To face the day’s dawning, the truth appeared plain.
There’s no need for proof of life after death,
For we do not die after our final breath.
We’re integral to that miasmic cloud,
That cosmos of energy, bursting and loud.
We’ll live evermore, just not in this state--- 
We need but to trust, let our faith not abate.

Yes, I dreamed last night of a universe vast,
Informing our future through present and past,
Accepting us gladly, just as we are,
Propelling us forward from near and afar.
Mortality ends, but life still goes on,
And we shall be part of it, unto anon.

Cogito, Ergo Sum

Cogito, ergo sum—I think, therefore I am. 

So opined René Descartes in 1637, in his famous work, Discourse on Method, demonstrating what he regarded as the first step in the acquisition of knowledge.

Of course, we don’t know that he was right, but because enough of us have come to believe his posit, it is almost universally accepted.  Left unanswered is the question as to whether other living organisms are sentient, whether they also can think.

Some people believe they can—that creatures such as elephants, whales, and dogs are capable of thought—and they cite observed actions by these animals as proof of their belief.  But what of other animals, or fish, and what of plants and rocks?  To my knowledge, no one has as yet been able to prove (or disprove) the thesis that any lifeform other than human is capable of thought.

Regardless, it does seem likely that no form of life on our planet has attained the same level of high-order thinking that the human species has.  And if any have, they have hidden it from us remarkably well.  With physical brains somewhere between the largest and smallest in size among all living creatures, we humans appear to have outstripped them all in our capacity to think rationally.

The capacity to think is what allows many of us to read widely, listen to diverse sources of information, and weigh the relative merits of differing schools of thought before deciding on a course of action—critical thinking.  Alas, it is also what allows us to read narrowly (if at all), listen carelessly, and reject schools of thought that do not reflect our own preconceived notions.

Either way, thinking broadly or narrowly allows us to form opinions.  And those opinions, whether supported by evidence or not, often morph into staunch beliefs if we don’t continue to think about them, to test them against emerging information.  And inference plays a big role in that.

For example, if I waken one morning to the sound of thunder, and if I see flashes of lightning illuminating the drawn curtains of my bedroom, I might well infer that it’s raining outside.  But I have no proof of that until I actually see (or feel, or smell, or taste) the tangible rain.  I might throw open the curtains to discover there is no rain falling, despite the harbingers of storm; merely hearing and seeing those from inside my room would have drawn me into a false conclusion, yet one I believed until faced with proof of the opposite.

It points out the danger of choosing to believe everything we think, at least before we have evidence to support (or deny) our premises.  As sentient beings, we are compelled to seek answers to the baffling phenomena we observe around us, to find reasons why situations unfold as they do, to explain the arcane mysteries that bedevil us—like where we came from and where we’re going.

Our world is replete with examples of how we have gone about this—in religion, science, engineering, medicine, music, literature, and so many other fields.  The list of human accomplishments over the millennia is long and laudable.  Errors have been made along the way, and corrections applied, but the steady march of knowledge-acquisition has been relentless.

Many of our ancestors, for instance, once believed (and some still do) that the earth was flat, that any who got too close to the edge would topple off the edge, fall into the void, and be lost forever.  We know now, of course, that belief was untrue.  As an amusing aside, the Flat Earth Society still boasts today in its brochures of having chapters of believers around the globe!

Still other folks believed once upon a time that our planet was at the centre of the known universe, that the moon and sun revolved around us; those people’s skills of observation, primitive by today’s standards, and their earnest thinking about those observations, led them to that conclusion. Yet, it was also not true.

Nevertheless, despite our many errors and missteps along the way, our capacity to think rationally—and to forever question our thinking—has allowed us to advance our collective knowledge.  A key factor in continuing that progress is to avoid investing complete faith in any one thesis, regardless of its appeal at any given time; we must retain an appropriate level of skepticism in order to keep from falling into the acceptance of rigid dogma and blind ideology. 

As George Carlin is reputed to have said, “Question everything!”

Another key is to continue testing theses to reinforce their viability, to find evidence of their truth (or falsity).  But at the same time, we must remember that an absence of evidence of truth in the moment does not mean the same thing as evidence of an absence of truth.  In other words, just because we don’t have the facts to prove the legitimacy of a thesis right now does not mean that thesis is untrue; it may mean simply that we haven’t as yet discovered the facts to validate it.

The advance of knowledge is, to paraphrase Hemingway, a movable feast.

An exception to prove the truth of any thesis can always be found, of course—something that demonstrates the general truth of a thing by seeming to contradict it.  For instance: most of the teachers in that elementary school are female, and the one male teacher on staff is the exception that proves the rule.  The thesis is factual.

We also know the true merit of any pudding is put to the test in the eating.  But with one person’s taste being different from another’s, whose opinion is to be accepted as the truth?  Any decision there must be regarded as opinion, not fact.

It is interesting to note that Descartes did not write, Cogito, credo quod cogitare, ergo non est recta—I think, I believe what I think, therefore it is right.  Apparently, he understood that because we think something, even to the point of believing it, that does not necessarily make it true.

He also wrote, Non satis est habere bonum mentem; Pelagus res est ut bene—It is not enough to have a good mind; the main thing is to use it well.

Quaestio, semper quaestio—question, always question!

The Railwayman

Again this year, I know I’ll receive warm hugs and kisses from my daughters in recognition of yet another Father’s Day, the fifty-first such occasion.  It never grows old.

We fathers grow old, however, despite our best efforts.  And in so doing, we lose our own fathers as they board the last train to glory, to borrow from Arlo Guthrie.  My dad departed the station twenty years ago, but he remains with me almost daily in my reveries.  And never more so than on Father’s Day.

When I was a young boy, he would take me to local railroad crossings to watch the big steam locomotives and their endless caravans go storming by.  I treasured those occasions because I would have his undivided attention, a not-so-frequent circumstance in a family that eventually numbered five children. I’ve often wondered if, during those times with me, he might have been fondly remembering standing by the rails with his own father. 

He enjoyed the time with me, too, I’m sure; but he loved those trains even more than I did, a boyhood fascination he never lost.  If he could have been anything else in life but an insurance executive, I believe he’d have been an engineer on one of those behemoths. He was truly a railwayman, if only in his dreams.

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At the time of his passing, I wrote these lines to commemorate what he meant to me, to express my love for him, and they comfort me still—

The Railwayman

You’d take me down beside the rails to watch the trains go storming by,

And tell me all those wond’rous tales of engineers who sat on high,

In cabs of steel, and steam, and smoke; of firemen in their floppy hats,

The coal they’d move, the fires they’d stoke, as o’er the hills and ‘cross the flats

The locomotives huffed and steamed, their whistles blowing long and loud.

And one small boy, he stood and dreamed beside his daddy, tall and proud.

Terrifying monsters were they, bearing down upon us two, who

Felt their force on that steel highway, hearts a-racing---loving, true.

I’d almost flinch as on they came toward us, with their dragon-face

A-belching, spewing, throwing flame and steam and smoke o’er ev’ry place.

But you’d stand fast beside the track, and, oh! the spectacle was grand.

So, unafraid, I’d not step back, ‘cause you were there holding my hand.

Oh, Railwayman, oh, Railwayman, I’m glad you knew when you grew old,

How much I loved you---Dad, my friend---who shared with me your dreams untold.

Oh, Railwayman, oh, Railwayman, if I, beside you once again,

Could only stand safe in your hand, awaiting with you our next train.

All aboard, Dad…all aboard!

And Happy Father’s Day to all who, like me, are both fathers and sons.  We are blessed.

[Slightly different versions of this tale have been published here twice before.]

Simple?

There are most likely no simple answers to the myriad questions our world faces today, nor simple solutions to the plethora of problems confronting us.

Think of such issues as: sanctity of life, including abortion, cloning, and assisted-death; religious liberty; traditional vs. non-traditional gender roles, and how they affect such institutions as marriage and parenting; education, which determines what and how young people learn about their history; human rights, especially for the millions of displaced persons worldwide; or our right to free speech, and whether or not it includes hate-speech, pornography, and incitements to violence.

Being a somewhat simple person, I do wonder if there is a basic reason that might account for the rising discord and rancor all around us.  Would it be too simplistic of me to attribute the cause of such trials and tribulations to one fundamental factor—namely, the reluctance of so many of us to abandon the comfortable past we long for, to embrace the changes that imbue the inexorable forward march of history?

I was born in North America shortly before the end of WWII, too early to be considered a baby-boomer, too late to be thought a part of the greatest generation.  I was raised from boyhood to adolescence during a period from the late-40s to the early-60s, a time when all the so-called truths seemed self-evident.  Either that, or no one took the time to question them.

Such broadly-accepted truths have been encapsulated in Moral Foundations Theory1, which postulates five ethical categories, each with its own set of prized qualities and traits.  These are:

  • purity-based morality, anchored in sanctity and piety;
  • authority-based morality, valuing duty, deference, and social order;
  • fairness-based morality, the flip-side of authority-based, embracing equality, impartiality, and tolerance;
  • in-group-based morality, founded on loyalty to family, community, and nation; and
  • harm-based morality, embracing care, compassion, and safety.

For the purpose of my search for a simple answer in this essay, let’s assume that these categories encompass the range of behavioural virtues we live by.  Scholarly examinations of the Google Books database have shown that morality in general was a much more frequently-discussed issue of concern at the dawn of the twentieth century than it was by 1980, although that trend has slowly reversed since.

The purity-based category followed almost the same trajectory during that interval, and there was a noticeable increase in individualism-based values that placed greater emphasis on me than on us, reducing the impact of collectivism-based values.

Authority-based morality declined during the first half of that same century, rebounded dramatically when the established order was threatened in the late 60s, then resumed its decline during the 70s before levelling off.

In-group-morality charted upward throughout the twentieth century as people tended to cluster in like-minded groups, a trend that continues to this day, and is exacerbated when people feel threatened or challenged by new ideologies and practices, or by outsiders.

Harm-based morality, sometimes labelled the ‘bleeding-heart’ syndrome, has risen steeply since the 80s as moderation and tolerance have become more pronounced in daily life and, in many areas, in political ideologies.

Alone among the five categories, fairness-based morality with its egalitarian emphasis, demonstrated no significant increase or decrease during the same time period.

In my simple terms, this would indicate that, despite a general shift of viewpoint from the collective to the individual (the me-firsters), society in general has moved from routinely accepting authority to challenging it, and by so doing, has come to view the notion of wrongness in terms of suffering, maltreatment, and deprivation. There is a greater acceptance of ‘others’ among the majority, a more rational, irreligious, and scientific approach to how we confront matters of right and wrong.

In short, an evolving approach to communal society and those who populate it is underway.

There is, however, a contrary narrative embracing what has been called re-moralisation, a wish to go back to what many think of as a golden age, the ‘good-old days’.  Elements of our communal society are becoming increasingly censorious and defensive, more outraged by the changes confronting them, which is evidenced by the growing polarisation of political debate that highlights their oft-excessive self-righteous approach.

In short, the liberalizing changes to society are jeopardizing the inherent values and beliefs such people hold dear.  Hearken to the call we hear from many of them—You shall not replace us!

Simply speaking, then, fear of change is the greatest impediment to finding solutions to our problems—solutions that will satisfy the moral foundations of all of us, at least to the greatest extent possible.

Alas, despite my reading and thinking on the subject, my simple brain has yet to come up with an idea that might work.  How do we convince and reassure change-resistant people that moving with the times does not require them to bend their moral codes.  After all, in a free society, we are all at liberty to choose what to believe.

We are not, of course, free to impose our choices on those who believe otherwise, but surely there is room for all of us to co-exist.

Simple?  No, but, let us hope, not impossible.

Tick-tock!

  1. Haslam, McGrath, & Wheeler, University of Melbourne, 2007

Delayed Penalty

I’m excited to let you know that my brand-new novel has just been released—Delayed Penalty. It joins nine previous novels, along with eight collections of tales, in my published portfolio.

The gripping story unfolding in Delayed Penalty, the tenth book in my acclaimed Maggie Keiller/Derek Sloan crime series, is set against the backdrop of allegations of sexual assault against players from junior hockey teams who have represented Canada in international competitions.

Since 1989, an unspecified number of players have been the subject of sexual assault investigations, and more than twenty such incidents have been brought to the attention of Hockey Canada.  In many cases, the organization settled matters by paying millions of dollars to the victims, in exchange for signed, non-disclosure agreements, the effect of which kept the public at large from hearing about the scandalous behaviours.  In 2022, the federal government announced an inquiry into the affairs of Hockey Canada, and froze its funding, pending the outcome of the investigation.

The fictional story in this book, intended for mature audiences, begins with the sexual assault of a female student by three members of the provincial champion Port Huntington High School TimberKings.  Today—four years after that assault—the victim, now a young woman intent on seeking justice, launches a civil suit against the perpetrators—and against a number of prominent people who aided and abetted them—which unleashes a firestorm of retribution and turmoil in the community.

Maggie and Derek become inextricably involved in the events that follow—she by supporting the young victim in a dangerous quest for justice, he by taking a hand in the provincial government’s inquiry into the secretive operations of OPHSHA, the Ontario Public High School Hockey Association.

As you might expect, further turmoil and violence explode to the surface, while Maggie and Derek, drawn into a perilous sequence of events, remain determined to ensure the wrongdoers are finally held accountable—in hockey parlance, a delayed penalty.

The book is available for preview and purchase at this safe link— https://www.lulu.com/spotlight/precept

If you have enjoyed previous books in the series, or if you are a regular reader of my blog, you will surely relish this latest story.  As one beta-reader reported, “I couldn’t put it down, couldn’t wait to finish it…and then was sorry when it was over.  More like this, please!”

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.”

I Have Never

I am a straight, white, elderly, married man.  In all my years, I have never had a friend who is anti-Semitic.  I have never had a friend who is racist or homophobic.  Nor have I ever had a friend who is misogynistic or xenophobic.

In all my life, I have never had a friend who is regressive or punitive.  I have never had a friend who is a bully or cruel.  Nor have I ever had a friend who is narcissistic or egomaniacal.

From time to time, I’ve encountered people who exhibit some of these attributes, of course, but I’ve always and quickly exiled myself from their presence.  Except when I’ve had no recourse, I have steadfastly abjured their company.

Throughout my life, I have had friends who are religious—and from several faiths—or atheist, even agnostic.  I have had friends who espouse differing political sentiments than I, but never aggressively so.  I have had friends with points of view different from mine on such issues as pro-life/pro-choice, gender equity, capitalism/socialism, green energy, global warming, pandemic mitigations, famine, warfare/diplomacy, the likelihood of life eternal after death, and more besides.

I have even had friends who disagree with me about my lifelong support of the Toronto Maple Leafs hockey team, for goodness sake!

But never have such disagreements interfered with our friendship because those I consider friends have at no time lowered themselves to crude, ignorant, or abusive rhetoric and behaviour in our discussions and encounters.  Nor have they ever resorted to violence to advance their views.

Rather, they have relied on logic, facts, and persuasion to win the day—as I have always tried (sometimes unsuccessfully) to do.

That’s less easy today, though, because of a problem we face with our global society—the unprecedented proliferation of supposed facts presented across the wide range of media outlets available to us.  Some of these deliberately masquerade as the truth, which promotes confusion and conflict—forcing us to question what is information, what is misinformation, what is disinformation—and as a result, to begin to query our own values and principles.  Critical thinking skills have never been more crucial, it seems to me—and in many quarters, alas, more lacking.

Healthy skepticism has always been a positive thing, I think, a part of those very critical thinking skills.  But noxious skepticism, knowingly force-fed to a naïve public by pernicious purveyors of media in pursuit of their own, oft-malign agendas, has the effect of reducing the level of societal discourse to the lowest common denominator.  Loud, vituperative, violent acts against each other and our governing bodies are increasingly the result.

In any free society founded on the people’s faith that their government will act in the public interest, such discord cannot be good.  Because when the public loses faith in our civil institutions, those institutions will crumble from within.  And they will take down with them the very foundations upon which they have been built and thrived—citizens’ rights and responsibilities, the rule of law, equality of opportunity for all.

There is little doubt that, as a collective, we could do a better job of acknowledging our responsibilities (rather than just demanding our rights), and of ensuring equality of opportunity for the dispossessed and marginalized among us.  But lacklustre performance aside, the bedrock values are legitimate.

In recent times, unfortunately, I have seen people elected to public office— ostensibly to serve the citizenry—speak and behave in ways that are definitely anti-Semitic, racist, homophobic, misogynistic, xenophobic, regressive, punitive, cruel, and narcissistic.  I have witnessed their acolytes and followers, to no one’s surprise, then ape them.  And they are all doing so—increasingly, it seems—in more extreme language and deed. 

Disturbingly, I no longer believe I can respectfully disagree with those folks about their points of view, as should be the norm in any democracy; instead, I fear I would be shouted down, verbally abused, perhaps physically attacked.

Such people are not my friends.  Nor, in my opinion, should they be yours.  We should be electing and supporting the very best from among us, not the opportunists, grifters, and self-seekers.  But to do that, we must bestir ourselves and, at the very least, engage in the process and cast our votes on election days.

Plato wrote, The heaviest penalty for refusing to engage…is to be ruled by someone inferior to yourself.

I have never wanted that.