The conversation turns to life’s trials and tribulations, and how we ended up here in Braestone. Nancy tells us of her journey transitioning from the city to Barrie and now to our community. She describes how at each stop she reinvents herself and tries to jump in with both feet. “You bloom where you are planted,” Nancy says.

…The highlight of the day: I am speechless when Kent and Leslie (old high school mates) show up. They drive all the way from Kingston to cheer us on. Truth is, the cause has special meaning for Kent and Leslie. Their son, Dylan, fights the good fight – a recent cancer diagnosis.

A few years ago, while on a walk around the pond with my friend and owner of Braestone Farm, Jamie Massie, the idea for The Braestone Winter Classic 3-on-3 Charity Pond Hockey Tournament was born. My brother, Jeff, had recently passed from an aggressive form of cancer affecting his esophagus, stomach, and liver. Jamie and I talked of an event that could bring the community together and of a meaningful cause that we could support.

I suppose with an effortless ‘click’ people can share a Spotify playlist these days – but there was a time not so long ago when the effort that went into the creation of a mixed tape or burning of a custom CD made them rather thoughtful gifts.

Sue and I are preparing for a short Algonquin Park anniversary getaway. It’s been a busy period and we both feel the need for a break. Ruby is coming along – so there’s that.
Just prior to our departure, I witness Sue’s calls, text messaging, scribbled notes, and snakes & ladders spurts through the house. It’s something else.

I fold the Sports section from the previous day’s paper to dissect game summaries. That the Leafs lost an exhibition game to the Red Wings doesn’t help my mood, but it’s okay I suppose, game doesn’t count, and my hero, Davey Keon, wasn’t even dressed.

I look up at Mother and sigh.

“Am I going to know anyone at all in my class?”

No amount of regret changes the past, no amount of anxiety changes the future, any amount of gratitude changes the present. – Ann Voskamp

The Braestone Winter Classic 3-on-3 Charity Pond Hockey Tournament is back for a second year.
And I’m determined to achieve a better outcome.
Truth be told, our team didn’t fare so well the first time around. three games… three losses.

Following two pandemic cancellations, I find new meaning in our family’s annual fishing weekend
Since 1997, the male descendants of John Samuel and Alice Bush (originally of Salford, Lancashire, later Gill Street, Orillia) gather every summer for a weekend of fishing, fraternity, and festivities. The first couple of BMO’s took place on Stratton Lake outside Sudbury. It then moved to Uncle Richard’s Algonquin cottage – originally constructed by Walter Louie (also of Orillia).

Sue shakes her head. “It’s like they created an enormous public garden but no one to tend to it. Why don’t they take care of their site? Noxious weeds sprout everywhere. Their negligence has turned what could have been beautiful into something completely toxic.”

That’s because charades means putting it all out there – being completely vulnerable. You’re at risk of bombing – not only losing the game – but looking the fool as you do so… Our greatest strength is found when we choose to be vulnerable, to pay attention – to empty our minds of preconceptions and allow others to be truly discovered. Shared laughter cultivates this strength and can be the best medicine for our troubled times.

Our move to Oro – small town Canada – soon made it clear, however, that I faced the risk of ostracism if I continued to drive such a subversive vehicle. Jeff warned me: “You’re not going to make a great first impression driving that thing up Horseshoe Valley Road. You’re not even gonna’ make it up the hill.”

FIRST PUBLISHED - August, 2016

Jim is my father-in-law.

He marches to the beat of his own drummer, just turned 80 years old, and was recently diagnosed with cancer. He is also rapidly becoming one of my heroes…

“Jeff always made sure Santa had a special gift to him under the tree. It was usually wrapped in a towel and hockey tape. But the best part was how Santa took the time to inscribe on the card how Jeff was such an exceptional person.”

My brother, Jeff, died at the end of July.
And, ever since, I’ve been thinking about grief, humour – and trees.
Jeff’s soulmate, Sheri, together with the kids, planted a tree in the yard this week to remember him.
For me, the most tormenting part of grief is pondering what’s no longer possible: The shared family dinners, fishing weekends, beach vacations, old-timer hockey tournaments, and those little late-night moments of whisky-truth.
When I contemplate certain trees, I can be overcome with a similar feeling.

Five years ago, the youngest fledgling left the nest just as baby robins did likewise in our backyard

It’s that time of year when nervous parents ship their adolescent children off to college and university.
And this morning my (dreaded) FB feed reminds me that five years ago today, Louis’ move into residence was noisy and emotional.

Jeff is my brother.

It’s only been a matter of weeks…

While waiting for his diagnosis – ten days of hospitalized dread (sprinkled with teasers of hope) – he coaxes an elderly roommate to take her medication – he charms a panoply of orderlies. He disarms a bewildered Doogie Howser oncologist with his bawdy (read: WAY-over-the-line) sense of humour. He insists his soulmate, Sheri, bring an extra caramel latte for the nurse just befriended.

It’s Mother’s Day weekend, and while we languish in wave three of the perma-demic – I seek solace – inspiration – wisdom.

I attempt a Mother’s Day pandemic meditation.

It’s early and the sun is just over the horizon. I sit alone in my office – crossed-legged, in search of inner peace.

It’s raining.

I’m standing across from the RVH Cancer Centre waiting for Sue to pick me up. I’ve had the last of six rounds of chemotherapy – a regime that leaves me with mixed feelings: I am both full of hope and full of toxins.

It’s really cold this morning.

I’m up early in my office reading the news. The stars are out and the moon is bright. There’s hoar frost on the trees. The blanket of cloud cover that has kept temperatures near freezing has dissipated. The outdoor thermometer reads - 13 degrees Celsius.

But A Christmas Carol is stuck in my head. I’m a sucker for the story – in its many versions and adaptations in print, on screen, or on stage. Upon our walk each person becomes as gentle a soul as Bob Cratchit or adorable as Tiny Tim.