She always felt the sadness. Like a wave washing on the shore, if you let it tickle your feet in the sand it can be pleasant. If you step into the water and let it get too close, it will consume you. Pulling you into its relentless ebb and flow. If you’re lucky you can fight back to shore. A safe haven. If you’re not so lucky, you get sucked into the cold, dark depths. No time to catch your breath. You finally relent. The shroud of sadness covers you like a heavy constricting blanket.

Amy thought she had it all. Great career. Great husband. Great life. But below the outward layer of happiness was a simmering feeling of dread. Like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Whatever that meant. Amy was the envy of those who knew her (or so they thought) and she radiated a persona that made others gravitate. Amy knew that her happiness was always threatened by the pull of the tide. She tried to walk on the shoreline and tease the lapping waves. Fighting the urge to plunge in and feel the reality she knew was always there.

Amy liked to have a good time and knew how to liven up a room. Almost like it was expected of her. Life of the party. And people lapped up the good feelings and party spirit. When it’s time to go home, Amy has mixed emotions. Why can’t the good times carry on? Going home meant facing the demons. Replaying every moment of the party from a devil’s advocate angle: did she laugh too loud, drink too much, insult someone. The vignettes play in her mind like two boys wrestling in the grass. And, depending on the position of the tide, happy or sad would prevail.

The same thing plagued Amy at work. Constantly trying to be the person that people expected. Like sitting in church and listening to a minister drone on and on and secretly wondering what would happen if you stood up in the pew and shouted “you’re boring”. Instead you look around and peek at who’s nodding off. Satisfied that your inner voice was right, but you held your composure. At work Amy was expected to rally the troops; encourage good morale to stimulate sales. Her inside voice tempted to be unleashed, remained incarcerated. Amy dodged those bullets all day. Everyday. There were times that her facial expressions betrayed the inner voice and immediately she was exposed. Carry on like it never happened. Knowing that later at home she would replay the day’s events and the struggle would ensue.

Sometimes Any shared her thoughts and feelings with her husband. Allowing tiny hints at her internal struggle. But not too often because he wasn’t in the same place; he had his own demons and guilt. Mostly self imposed. Aren’t they all? So Amy cluttered her mind and managed the waves in her own way with a routine.

Amy’s daily routine was, by all appearances, boring and repetitive. This possible OCD behaviour was her only antidote to walking on the shore and keeping the tide at bay. Get up, freshen up, make the bed, tidy the bathroom, go to the kitchen, feed the cat, make lunches, make coffees to go, check the laundry, tidy the family room, take vitamins, go to work, come home, tidy again (the messy elves have been busy), rotate the laundry, start dinner, eat, feed the cat, clean up the kitchen, start the dishwasher, turn on the tv, turn off the tv, go to bed. yawn.

Like many people Amy wondered what her purpose in life was. Could she be happy with things just the way they are? Or would she explore some of the ways others coped with the mundaneness? When sadness crept in it was easy to see how vices might be enacted: excessive drinking, gambling, drug use, on line shopping, affair of the heart. Looking around, Amy pondered other people she knew and how they fell into their trap. Until now, Amy had struggled with her inner demons entirely in her own head.

No one was prepared for the tipping point that made Amy finally snap and what the fallout would be.

How do you start the ending of a story? Where does it begin. Really. Can you compute the Adam and Eve concept? Is that where it all began? or is it more of a Möbius strip: a never ending one sided journey. To be or not to be. Clearly I’m not the first to ponder life’s mysteries.

Rudy refers to the (near) ending of something (usually a book or tv series) as “the final threshold”. It’s cute because he’s quoting lyrics from a piece in The Phantom of the Opera (The Point of No Return). Something is about to end.

That’s the curious thing for me. Death is final. It’s very weird to think that someone (or something like a pet) will never be on the planet again. No longer there to touch or feel. But although their physical being is gone, the spirit (like a Möbius strip) is never ending. Rudy’s parents have been gone for several years (2015 and 2017) yet we speak of them almost daily. A funny anecdote or saying will have their spirit in the room in an instant. Today I stepped on a dog kibble. Molly has been gone for a few months and today she showed me she was there. Rudy has resumed his daily morning walks; I’m sure she walks beside him. On a TV at the nail salon there was a piece about a wolf sanctuary. https://www.seacrestwolfpreserve.org/ One of the wolves was the spitting image of our first dog Spike. It brought a tear to my eye.

We’ve lost a few loved ones over the past year. It’s never easy. Some harder than others. But in every case, we seem to enjoy their presence in our conversations. Something about something or somewhere gives us a reminder. They are still with us. Just in a different way.

I suppose if you enter the final threshold or you’re caught by surprise you may have left things unsaid. Unfinished business? Apologies? Expressions of love? How do you close the gap if things are troubling you. Or do you let grief take it’s course and look for the eventual light. It’s personal. That’s for sure.

To me, writing is cathartic. Maybe it’s a poem or a letter or a blog post. There’s always a medium one can find comfort in when they express their feelings. I believe that internalizing emotions can be very unhealthy and sometimes they find an outlet that isn’t pleasant. I get cold sores. Stress can eat you alive.

For some the legacy is on public display. Our friends father was a renowned judge. His name lives on as it is displayed on the courthouse in Hamilton. Others are displayed in halls of fame. Stars in Hollywood. Fodder for books. Some are remembered for their good deeds or heroism. The point is, everyone everywhere makes an impression or has an impact on someone. Princess Diana had throngs of mourners. Fellows on death row might have a handful. Someone always feels the impact of a loss.

Rudy and I talk about our work life from time to time and realize we were a bit self important. Everything was a big deal. The more hours we worked the better it could be. We laugh about it now. We were so wrong. What was important was our ability to provide incomes for our employees and their families. We made a difference. Now that we look back on the staff we had and the rents we paid and the students we trained, we can see what was truly important.

Here’s the other part of the final threshold, then, that can get a bit messy. When it’s our time to go (Rudy’s dad used to say “when your numbers up…”) what will we ponder? Regret? Hope? The answer will appear. Do we let ourselves off the hook for things we said and did? I think those with Faith might have a different perspective or opinion. Throughout time, those of Faith found comfort and solace in their spiritual community. (Rudy thinks that the confessional was used for nefarious purposes throughout the ages. Like blackmail and extortion. I digress). I think that nowadays we may have moved away from the traditional sense of community. We have on line places and friends. But the old fashioned personal connections has become less. People need to belong. Just ask Maslow. https://www.simplypsychology.org/maslow.html. If people don’t belong or feel secure, they can’t reach their peak. That’s a whole other level of rabbit hole.

We need our families. We need our friends. We need community.

Today I visited our neighbour in the hospital. Her and her husbands birthdays are this week (80 and 82). He hasn’t left her side. He’s even sleeping there. They have two little (old) dogs that cry when he’s gone; he comes back to tend to them a couple of times a day. He told me today that he misses the community; he’s feeling alone. I didn’t know what to say.

Our friends shared a photo of Giovanni (a beloved Italian chef who we adored) just before he died suddenly last fall. It was completely unexpected. He would have been 74 today. I always joked with him that his voice was perfect for a 1-900 number. We could have made a fortune. He touched many lives within his communities: Italian chefs association, restaurant ownership, instructor, pilot). He loved life and lived well.

On March 18 we lost a son. He was 46. He lived a colourful life: hockey, football, military. Travelled far and wide. He settled in Thailand and dug his roots. He found love and community a zillion miles away. He passed peacefully in his sleep.

My friend Angela succumbed to her cancer on March 23. She was diagnosed in February and gone in March. The final threshold was quick for her. I hope she found the peace and comfort she so desperately needed from her family. I feel she longed for their love and acceptance. To fill the gaps she shopped. And shopped. And shopped.

Just as I’m writing (finger pecking actually) our other neighbour popped over. She found out I was at the hospital today. So I’m taking her tomorrow. In the conversation she let us know that within a few months last year she lost three sisters and a nephew. Ugh. Reminds us gently that we are not unique in our losses and sorrow. It’s all part of the never ending cycle. The circle of life.

An old friend was told by his mother, when he asked her if he looked ok going to a school dance, “you’re not as important as you think you are; no one really cares what you’re wearing”. Sorry Helen, I think you’re wrong. We are as important as we think we are.

Go hug your loved ones and tell them how you feel. If the Fockers can have a circle of trust, I think we can have a circle of LOVE 💗

It occurs to me, through a recent series of events, that life is, essentially, a one way u haul. As we make decisions and then live with the results, it’s clear that these segments of our life are indeed one way. The baggage we schlep is the haul.

Baggage takes in many forms. It can be material or emotional. Either way, the more baggage we have, the more complicated our journeys can be. The one way u haul can become bogged down and cumbersome. Or you can choose just a carry on. Or, even more simplistic, one personal item.

My sister has been living and working in NY for many years. We often wondered how she managed her schedule; something out of an Amazon delivery playbook. But now her office is relocating and they offered her the option to work from (mostly) home in Canada. She accepted that offer hence the one way uhaul. I thought of her packing up her nest as we did a few years ago upon retirement. The thing that sticks out is: where/when did I acquire all the “stuff” and what stuff is going to make the cut? What will I decide to schlep?

In this evaluation process you make hard decisions. The first photo album I chucked left a lump in my throat. But after the tenth or eleventh album (which had years old dust layers) it was unusually liberating. All of those memories live within us and others really don’t care or see the significance. It’s like showing someone who wasn’t on your epic adventure trip the pictures. Only you really get it since you lived it. Others only politely nod as they glaze over. I would exclude my parents old photos from this analogy as I like the historical significance and the chance for them to stroll down memory lane. Once they are gone, so will the memories slip away.

I think every decision we make takes us on a one way u haul trip. There’s no turning back. Sometimes you have to take a modified route but in the end you’re still going one way. I’m turning 60 in a few weeks. It’s hard to believe actually. I’ve unloaded and reloaded many a u haul. Lots to reflect on that’s for sure. The only thing I’m sure of is that I picked the best possible co-pilot. Although, I’m not sure I “picked “ and that decision in itself was a u haul. Serendipity is a strange beast. I’m forever thankful.

Christmas is one of my favourite times of year. Over the years we’ve had so many different forms of Christmas. I don’t mean the actual day or the gift exchanges or the decorations; it’s a season. In November the radio starts playing Christmas songs (I listen to satellite radio and they dedicate entire channels to festive music!), decorations start (especially the lights which makes getting dark at 4 pm palatable), stores start to stock seasonal treats (hello rum and egg nog!) and people in general are feeling more giving and generous. There’s get togethers and parties and games and festive celebrations. And there is never enough time to check off the whole list.

This year, however, we had to make one of life’s most excruciating decisions. We said farewell (for now) to our best girl, Molly. If this were written on paper, it would be hopelessly smudged from a sea of tears. My girl got old and her body was done. Her loving spirit lives forever in our hearts 💕. We couldn’t have asked for a more sweet, gentle, stubborn, loud, vivacious, precocious and beautiful companion. Our house is empty without her. The u haul of our life is now filled with fond memories. I know when our journey ends we will meet again. That’s comforting to know about any loved ones we’ve said good bye to. It’s temporary.

Now we are sorting out “life after Molly”. Without stating the obvious, our life revolves around our girl. Scheduling was on her time rather than ours. Her needs came above ours and so did priority seating in the sofa or bed. Us humans understood our role. So where will the u haul take us now?

So many ideas and wishes were parked over the last 12.5 years. It’s now time to unpack the parking lot. Freedom is bittersweet ….

When my sister first mentioned the one way u haul it struck me as the perfect title for a soulful country song:

Life is a one way uhaul

You get up each time you fall

There’s no one there. No one to call. Pack your emotions and your life.

Hit the road in the one way uhaul.

Stay tuned for us on the LAM (life after Molly) ❤️‍🩹

It’s funny how retirement changes your perspective and thinking. No. I’m not a nouveau Liberal; let’s be real. But there’s time now to think about things which never hit the radar before. When you’re mired in one work crisis/drama/episode after another, it’s all you can do sometimes to make it to the weekend and self medicate (read: drink your face off) and shake off the angst. Retirement is a heady experience, and after 5 years (still can’t believe it) I’m really starting to feel the effects of liberation. It’s interesting and brings along new “challenges” when your brain is no longer consumed with reactionary staccato and is now quieter. More mindful.

My husband, Rudy, subscribes to the Epoch Times and they often present thought provoking articles. One recently resonated with me. It was about longevity. What factors can contribute to a longer life (not that anyone really knows, but the ideas are fun to read):

1. Getting a good nights sleep.

2. Hydration (water).

3. Socialization.

I love sleeping. I very rarely get that FOMO (fear of missing out) vibe; my bed is a happy place. And even more joyful when I’m sharing it with Rudy and Molly (our lovely aging Bouvier). In order to maximize my sleep experience, I will consume an edible and a warm beverage (tea or Calm) before bedtime. My heating pad is turned onto a soothing warmth for my lower back and my sparkling water is on the nightstand. I read a few pages and drift off. On average I’m good for 7 to 8 hours. My Fitbit is set to 8 hours as ideal. Bedtime is around 10 pm. Wake up 7:30 or 8 am. No sleeping issues. I’ve got that covered.

Hydration is easy as long as we stay active. Biking, walking, yoga, pickleball, golf (for Rudy) etc. all call for water. It’s not forced or tedious; it’s a must do. We easily cover our water intake most days.

So here’s the one that’s a little more tricky: socialization. We are both, by nature, very outgoing and friendly. It’s easy for us to make friends and acquaintances quickly since we are involved in a variety of interests. I think one of the harshest injustices was the isolation during COVID. We hurried to Florida where (thankfully) common sense ruled and life continued as normal during this period and coming to Ontario was painful when we realized just how insidious the government mandates were. I’m sure many people are still struggling with the after effects especially the elderly and school children. Isolation, in my view, is agony.

But social activities can also be too much. That’s where we find ourselves today. Finding the right balance between being social and overextending. It’s too easy to say yes. Even if regret results. As retirees we don’t have to live for the weekend. We can rock and roll all night and party everyday if we choose to. There’s a cruel irony to that thought: recovery time is prolonged and way more painful. If you party too much you pay the price. Adrenaline isn’t flowing like the old days.

When we moved into the 55+ community in Florida, Rudy was the first to make the rule: don’t make eye contact. We live in close proximity to neighbours and everyone rolls around the community in their golf carts or electric scooters (I’ve dubbed it “the roller derby”). The roller derby starts after dinner and continues to sundown. Anyone sitting on their front porch is subject to a wave or hello. Not making eye contact causes them to roll on by. We spend a lot of time on our porch and so we’ve made a few aesthetic adjustments (strategically placed palm trees and decor) and seating positions to mitigate our visibility. It seems to be working. The other factor is no visitors: we have only 1 bedroom. Unlike Collingwood where there’s plenty of extra room (and we have ongoing guests all summer and fall), Florida is guest-free. If we want to host a shindig we do so in the public common areas. That has worked out really well. We have all of the social interaction without the invasion of privacy.

Here’s the thing. I like the action of having guests. Most guests. There are a few obligatory guests that it’s easy to say: “thanks for coming … see you next time”. But big gatherings around the table is awesome. It helps that our place is resort-like. People want to come to visit. There’s certain guests that are excellent. Rudy’s friend Ron, for example. He’s such a pleasure to have around. He loves watching the sunrise and he’s soundless as he helps himself to breakfast and coffee. He is very familiar with our space and he manoeuvres through it seamlessly. He’s also handy and if he sees a deficiency he jumps right in. We’ve also had visitors from Germany (my cousin and her daughter) who were refreshingly independent and took our bikes everywhere.

We have a wonderful circle of friends here (locals) who we like to do things with. There’s never a shortage of activities and entertainment. The bottom line for me is I like to make eye contact. Sometimes to my detriment. But mostly it’s all good.

Today I rode my bike to the Y while Rudy golfed. I can report that there are many who are in the “don’t make eye contact” column. And, thankfully, many who are inclined otherwise. The world is a better place when folks are friendly, in my humble opinion. There’s no harm in a friendly hello. It doesn’t mean you’re inviting them for Sunday dinner. They key point, however, is not that people make eye contact, it’s that they are out and about with the opportunity to make eye contact.

Without the opportunity to engage in a hello or something more there’s isolation and loneliness. I think that’s the real issue. Without social interaction we wither. We need human interactions to survive and thrive.

That’s the piece I notice about my folks. Since my moms vision has deteriorated she no longer wants to go out. Her inability to visually assess her surroundings makes leaving her comfort zone of the apartment uncomfortable. She has to be coerced, and some days that’s easier than others. My dad has limited opportunities but they are vital to his psyche. Shopping for groceries for example is one of dads opportunities and he makes almost daily trips to the store. But since most (actually all) of his friends are gone (at 91 that’s not unusual), he has no social network. Is it my place to try and set up “play dates”?

We have a lot of friends gained through our extracurricular activities. Mostly pickleball because it’s such a social sport. Everyone is so thrilled to be active and around others. A few years ago we were on a trans Atlantic cruise. A quick observation showed (in the mostly “silver” crowd) that there were two groups: those with mobility and those without. The mobility group were friendlier and more engaged; they had more opportunities for interaction. They used the walking track, they went to the gym and they simply participated more.

The retired brain wanders to deep recesses. And although we don’t have the work “friends” anymore we find new ones. We learn to enjoy more mental space to ponder. I think it’s why seniors like to travel down memory lane. There’s more racetrack in the rear view than up ahead. How you finish the “race” is as important as the rest of it. The circle of life is inevitable.

Retirement opens a lot of secret doors. I know my mom had all kinds of plans for her retirement including volunteering (at senior homes), learning to paint and continuing with her yoga practice. Somewhere and somehow her plans were derailed. And now, she’s let her dreams slip away and it’s taken her cognitive abilities along. I wish there was a simple fix.

I always think to myself that being regretful (worse than forgetful!) is a dark emotion. Live for today. Share kindness and a hello. Be your best. Put the damn device down and be present (guilty!!). Listen more than you speak; we still have things to learn. Love with abandon.

Make eye contact.

Our dear friend Paul Berti passed away yesterday. He was 68. Rudy has known Paul since highschool in 1969. I met Paul in 1987. It’s weird to think we will never see him again.

Over the years we had many encounters. But it really all started in 1990. That was the year Paul convinced us to join a group of other couples in renting a summer seasonal cottage on Lake Muskoka. Paul contacted Rudy and explained the deal, but when Rudy didn’t jump on the plan immediately, Paul sent in his closer, Derrick. When we agreed to the rental (which wasn’t cheap by 1990 standards; $2000 for the season May to Sept), we had no idea what an adventure it would be.

The Coles cottage (named for the family who owned it) was on Browning Island, a fair sized island in Lake Muskoka near Gravenhurst. One of our concerns was the island location; how would we get to and from?? Paul assured us that this was no problem since there was a convenient water taxi service out of the nearby marina and also Derrick had a boat. We were dubious with good cause: the water taxi was nonexistent (Bob the marina owner prioritized his water shuttle services at the bottom of his long to do list) and Derrick barely used his boat. So after two weekends of frustration we bought a boat. A repo Bayliner bow rider was the beginning of our continuing love for boating.

On the first weekend we owned the boat Rudy was not able to be there. Paul and Derrick were more than happy to take me and our new boat out for an orientation. Even getting stopped by the cops (safety check that we failed miserably) was an adventure as Paul explained that we just bought the boat and didn’t have all (read any!) of our gear yet. Not to mention the ownership and registration which were in limbo due to the repo! We enjoyed every minute on that boat and looked forward to weekends when we could venture on the water.

But it was the cottage shenanigans that made the summer unforgettable. There were five couples. Only two of the couples were married. The others were dating. The cottage had a bunkie with four bedrooms and the fifth bedroom (ours) was adjacent to the dining room and only bathroom. As it turned out, the least desirable room was the plum. Ask anyone who has to bear the bugs and elements to pee!

The weekend parties were epic. As everyone rolled in on Friday (or late Thursday night) they would come laden with stuff. At the time Paul worked in sales for McCormicks (a food company) and he would bring cases of candy, cookies and other snacks. The Bear Paws were of particular desire but I could never understand why. I thought they were gross. The girlfriends had an unwritten competition for gourmet dinners. At some point, while trying to outdo each other, a kitchen feud started. Cliques formed and the rivalries began. Derrick’s girlfriend, Julie, was in my view the worst offender with her bacon wrapped scallops and other delicacies. One of the other guys, Lindsay (whose girlfriend was hardly there due to her job at the Jockey Club) would routinely start a scene when he couldn’t get to the appliances to make his standard hot dog dinner. It was truly comical.

Paul’s girlfriend, Mimi, was a fiery Italian who didn’t back away from anything or anyone. She and Paul didn’t last the summer (neither did any of the other couples) but while she was there it was never a dull moment. Over the years we reflected on that summer when Paul would come to visit and we laughed for hours. It was such a fun time.

After that summer we connected regularly. The epic parties continued and our friendship endured. Paul was a fixture at any events. He was a tall, athletic, handsome dude that attracted the ladies attention. His sense of humour and easy going attitude was contagious. I didn’t keep our old photo albums when we downsized several years ago, but I know there were tons of Polaroids (yes … take the toll of film to the Kodak store!) of our partying ways.

One year Paul introduced us to Sussi. We knew it was serious when the moved in together. Next thing we knew there was a baby on board. Alaiya Napa (named for the place of her conception) changed Paul’s ways for good. He became a family man complete with house and dogs. It looked good on him and we continued our friendship on new terms that included kids and pets. Paul and Sussi made a beautiful home north of Hamilton and I always marvelled at their sense of style. Paul enjoyed the nesting aspect and they showcased their good taste in their home. In particular I recall the dining room light fixture which was so trendy.

Paul and Sussi also acquired a cottage in the Muskokas. It was a cute A frame on the mainland near Walkers Point. Nestled in the woods above the lake there was also a bunker (our digs when we visited) and a lakeside dock that was the gathering place. The cottage was surrounded by trees and greenery and the large deck off the main room served as the outdoor eating and gathering place. Again, the flair for design was evident. The large teak table and chairs laden with lanterns was encompassed by a wooden railing; each rail post had a metal sap bucket overflowing with white baccopa fastened to it. There were strings of lights illuminating the cozy space. It was magical.

Alaiya became their style muse also. She was always so well dressed and cute as a button. They took a photo of her sitting in one of our leather chairs. She was dwarfed by the chair but it was her adorable bright striped tights and dress and her huge eyes that jumped out of the picture. We had it framed.

Paul got cancer and things were rough. Soon after his recovery, he and Sussi split. The stylish house sold and Paul kept his beloved cottage. Sussi and Alaiya and the dogs moved to Dundas. Paul retreated a bit after that. He kept to himself and stuck to a regular routine. Work, sleep, cottage (in the summer) repeat. When his father became ill, Paul added visits to St Peters to his routine. We saw him only a few times a year.

Our last get together was in Blue Mountains. Paul drove up to see us for a couple of days. For a change of pace I organized a wine tasting at The Roost Winery. Paul marvelled at the charcuterie board and told us this was a first for him. It was a great visit. Who knew it would be our last.

Paul’s birthday in January was always a point of connection. As well as holidays. I sent him a happy Easter text. Didn’t hear back. Sent him another text trying to arrange a visit when we got back from Florida; didn’t hear back. I told Rudy something was wrong. And on our drive home from Florida my phone rang. It was Paul. I answered in horrible Italian as was our tradition. Except it wasn’t Paul. It was Alaiya on his phone. Paul had fallen in his apartment and suffered seizures and possible heart attacks. He was in hospital on life support.

I don’t remember much of the drive that day. I was in a trance of some kind. So many memories and thoughts flooded my mind. When we got to Ontario a few days later, we stopped in Hamilton at the hospital to say goodbye. Seeing our dear friend in such a fragile state was unbearable. I wished him a peaceful journey to the other side and asked him to say hello to our friends who are there to greet him (including all of the furry ones).

Godspeed, Paul. Until we meet again.

I’ve always loved school. Well, certain schools. Like up to high school really and a bit beyond. Then our “school”. We made a career out of school. I don’t miss working but I do miss school. Yesterday Rudy remedied that. Sort of.

We spent the day at gun school. Handguns that is. A perfectly American past time. Living on our farm we had several guns. Shotguns and rifles used to fend off wildlife predators. There was never a fear of using the weapons for self defence. And Rudy attended all of the required training and acquired all of the licenses. He was a legal gun owner. When we sold the farm his guns were passed on to other legal owners and hunters. Gun ownership in Canada is only for criminals now and those willing to jump through the hoops. Crooks don’t care about laws.

The US is very different. In most states anyway, such as Florida. There are many gun shops, shows, ranges and classes. Rudy enrolled us in a one day hand gun class. It would be a two part class including theory followed by the firing range. The booking was done on line. Once we were booked in we received an email detailing the rules and regulations. Don’t be late; we start promptly. Don’t buy a gun to bring to class; we will provide them. If you have a gun already you can bring it. Bring safety glasses and noise protection if you have them. Bring ID. Bring a drink. It was a very thorough list of dos and donts. Ingauge Firearms Academy has done firearms training for years.

We got up a bit earlier than usual (for me and Molly) as we headed out the door at 8 am to arrive before 9 am. We drive to the facility in nearby Winter Haven and are the first to walk into the classroom. We choose a seat up front to the right. There are two rows of three tables with two per table. Each table is neatly set up with a pad and pen, a folder of materials, a registration sheet and membership pamphlets. Rudy remarks that the set up is better than my former workshops. Ha ha. Not funny. Mine were stellar.

There’s an instructor, Robert, who’s part GI Joe, part cop, part drill sergeant part something (he had a weird small pony tail that didn’t fit his image otherwise). He was wearing a short sleeved shirt tucked into khaki pants with a tight belt and sturdy hiking boots. He had a trimmed pencil moustache and wired frame glasses. I would have taken a photo but there was a neon coloured warning on the desk prohibiting any media. He was gruff and surly. He ticked off every box on the Chuck Norris wanna be list.

He remarked on my baseball cap (a Grey Cup cap from my friend Shari) and snorted when we said we were Canadians. There was a time and place when being a Canadian was an enviable trait; not in Polk County in Central Florida. They think we are a laughable hot mess. We agree. Thanks Trudeau.

The class full and sarge starts barking orders. He starts by announcing that he’s an equal opportunity offender and is not politically correct. If you can’t handle it leave now. Everyone sat still. Intimidated. Turn your phones off. The restrooms are located … fill in the forms. Get your ID out. Then he looked at us with disdain … do you even have ID?? Funny guy. Then he talks about the course and the organization and the NRA and the community work they engage in. The room is filled with plaques and articles and awards. And a sign that says: if someone wants to take your gun, give them the ammo first.

Then he asks who brought a gun. A few hands go up and he says pull them out and lay them on the desk in front of you. The couple beside us pull their guns out. Hers has a pink grip. I comment quietly that it’s cute. Sarge spins around and yells: it’s not cute!! Cute will get you killed!!! Yikes.

After we complete the paperwork we are instructed to open the folders. The first part of the class is demonstrating why a concealed weapon is a potential life saver. We are presented with several news articles about self defence cases and also cases where improper gun safety resulted in casualties. It is impressed upon us that guns are tools and must always be handled properly and safely. There are three rules that were drilled into us: always point the gun in a safe direction (the safe direction depends on where you are); never put your finger on the trigger unless you are prepared to fire (your finger should always be alongside the frame of the gun) and never have your gun loaded unless you are ready to fire.

Then we learn about types of handguns. Sarge is clever when he addresses the graph in his pages showing models and makes of guns rated best to worst. It’s clear that the people who brought guns were sold substandard guns (according to sarge) and the lives of them and their loved ones was not fully protected. He recommended a simple revolver for home safety as there was less chance for error and malfunction. All of the guns brought to class were semi automatics.

We learned about bullets. I had no idea how many types there was! He brought them out and placed boxes on each desk. There are different bullets for each model of gun. The bottom line is, according to sarge, when you buy bullets make sure to buy the one exactly for your gun, open the box in store and make sure it’s the right one, hollow points will do the most damage and that’s what you want when your life is at risk. Sarge explained that a hollow point bullet will make the biggest hole and stop the assailant. He also showed us the Stop the Bleed Kit as most gun shot wounds are fatal due to loss of blood before emergency teams arrive. He tells real life stories at each lesson to emphasize the point.

Sarge has talked nonstop since 9 am sharp. At 1:15 pm he asks who needs lunch. A few hands go up. Perfect! He says; the rest of you will drive directly to the range and those having lunch will be there no later than 3 pm. Those going to the range must go directly as we start shooting at 2 pm sharp. Yes sir!

We get in the car and Rudy is grateful for the sandwich we packed in the morning. The drive to the range is about 15 min and it’s in the middle of nowhere (as suspected). I thought maybe it was an indoor range but this was nothing that would have imagined. It’s a dumpy white small shack with a tent over a bank of tables in the side yard. The tables face a lineup of targets placed in the grass and beyond the targets is a sand heap. Very rustic. When we pull in (again we are first … eager Canadians) we park beside the only other vehicle: a red mini van with “Trump Train” stickers on the side showing a face of Trump as a passenger. An elderly lady (if I had to guess I would say 80’s) comes towards us. She’s got short white hair and grey army pants belted over her NRA instructor shirt. She tells us we can’t park there we must park outside of the fence. Another sergeant.

I need to pee and she directs me inside the shack. Oh no. My phobia kicks in. She says: it’s not pretty but it’s clean and gets the job done. I find my way to a tiny toilet but it’s clean. Really clean. Whew.

Back outside the others start to arrive and we chat. One lady lives alone in 33 acres and her license had expired. The other couple had guns and they were here on behalf of their church (I had to ask … why would a church need guns? Apparently crazies target churches since they’re sitting ducks and they have security to take out any threats). But they were most curious about us. Canadians. We are something of a novelty. And laughing stock.

Sarge shows up with a large case and we walk over to the tent awning covering the tables. He opens the case and pulls out several revolvers. We each choose the one that best fits our grip. Sarge informs us that the next steps would be like Simon says. Don’t move or breathe unless instructed to do so. One by one (there’s 6 of us) we are called to step up to our chosen gun and pick up the gun. They are all still unloaded. With our unloaded guns we take the stance: toes and feet pointed forward arms up at eye level, knees slightly bent and body leaning forward. An aggressive stance that protects vital organs and is ready to shoot. Relax. Guns down. Step back.

He demonstrates how to load. Four revolvers use the cylinder and the two semis have a magazine. Step up in twos and load under careful supervision. Relax. Step back.

We are ready to aim and fire. Put on your glasses. Put on ear protection. First shooter step up. Each of us take a turn. We fire two shots. Relax. Step back. This is repeated two more times. Six shots fired at close range (10 feet) to a 9” paper plate target (someone’s chest) stapled to a board. The bullets pass through the plate and bury into the sand hill behind.

We learn to unload and reload. Fire again. Then the targets are moved further away for three of us. The others remain up close. We fire on command. Relax. Unload. Reload. Targets move again for three of us. Step up. Fire at will. Unload. Make safe. After each round we collect our paper plates. Got the first round I shook like a leaf. But I managed to hit the target. Then I got into the flow. I surprised myself (and Rudy) with my ability to hit the target. However we were marvelling at church dude who’s potential perpetrators have zero chance. This guy was good!!

The lunch group is gathering off to the side as we wrap up. When we say good bye and leave the lunch group is looking for any feedback. They are nervous, ready, scared, eager ….

We jump in the car on adrenaline highs. What a day. Back to school was never so exciting. Can’t wait to get my “report card”.

For years I’ve had a pain in the ass. Literally. A dull, throbbing pain that started as an “angry hip” pain as defined by a personal trainer who struck a nerve while trying to stretch my left hip/leg about 10 years ago. Since then it has morphed and expanded to cause me to limp and have people ask if I was ok. Clearly I was not ok, but my efforts to mitigate the pain were not working. It’s not like I didn’t try everything: massage therapy, yoga, pilates, supplements, naturopathic treatments, FST stretching, osteopathy, chiropractic, laser treatment …. you name it I’ve tried it. All in an effort to overcome what the radiologist described as advanced arthritis nearing bone on bone in my left hip. I was staring a hip replacement in the face and was doing everything to avoid surgery. In my mind I was resigned to living with the pain.

I watched my dad undergo two knee and two hip replacements over several years. The procedure and recovery both painful and prolonged. He waited months, if not years, for the green light to get the operations and then the his recovery was horrible to watch. My dad has the highest pain tolerance of anyone I know and he was in excruciating pain. I recall taking him to an appointment with the orthopedic surgeon and saying the pain was a 10 out of 10. The poor guy, I thought. On one of our holiday trips his pain was so severe he chose to forego the excursions. I can’t imagine the pain. Actually, I can.

So here we are. Arthritis the culprit has invaded my body and I’m desperate to rid myself of inflammation. Once I started reading every shred of information (within my non medical brain scope; I draw the line at research journals and such!) I realize that inflammation can not be eradicated without ridding the source. Once your body is inflamed you have to start with removing the source of the inflammation. Inflammation is caused by many different things such as food and gut health. I’m convinced that my inflammation is centred in my left hip. No amount of fish oil, krill, glucosamine, CBD, or otherwise is going to be effective as possible due to the nature of my arthritic hip.

Once you throw in the towel and admit defeat, dealing with the pain becomes more tolerable in some ways. You just decide to deal with it. On the other hand, I’m entirely convinced that there’s a solution for me other than radical surgery. Every night when we go to bed, I take an NSAID and some cannibis. This allows me to have a comfortable sleep (which I can’t do without) but it takes a while (40 min or so) to kick in. During that time I putter on my phone and my “go to” websites are ortho related or real estate. A few weeks ago I stumbled on a website http://www.aromotion.com while doing a random search. I couldn’t stop reading. This was my potential solution!

I shared the information with Rudy who urged me to set up a consult. I did. We were booked to see the Doctor on February 1 2023. There are several offices, but Tampa was close for us; about an hour away. I completed the on line consult request form and the following day a representative from their office called. He answered several of our questions and sent us videos to watch then he scheduled us for a consult. Our appointment was scheduled for 3 p.m. and we arrived shortly before; the office is in a large building with very clean and modern facilities (so first impressions box was checked). Then I filled in the forms in addition to the on line forms we were supplied with. I provided the X-ray report from Canada that I had on hand (thanks to Medeo) and that gave the Doctor the basis for my personal information. He brings us into his examination room which is lined with joint posters and models. The three of us sit together and he picks up a hip joint model and starts to explain the radiology report I’ve given and showing how the enamel covering the joint has “cavities” and that’s exposing the nerve causing the pain. He explains that the enamel can be repaired by the body, but it’s harder for the body to do so as we age. We naturally produce less of the healing cells we need to make the repairs.

He offers a procedure (FDA approved) whereby the painful nerve is isolated and ablated; this kills the pain. Then stem cells derived from placenta and umbilical cords is injected into the joint to stimulate regeneration. In a few years the nerve grows back but the “cavity” is no longer there. Non surgical hip “replacement”. Based on my radiology report, my hip is nearly bone on bone so there’s a bit of space to work with the “cavities” are not entirely tooth decay. The Doctor explains that when a joint has deteriorated beyond the cavity stage and resembles cauliflower, there’s no alternative than replacement. I’m a good candidate for the procedure they offer. Rudy and I look at each other and are a bit stunned. Why didn’t we know about this sooner? Why isn’t this front page news? We leave the office in awe wondering if this is the magic bullet that has eluded us for years. On our drive home we debate the matter fully. In the end, we decide to contact my brother; the most reliable medical source I know. Plus, my brother doesn’t bullshit; just the facts.

I send my brother the website and explain that we had a consultation. His questions and comments were simple: sounds reasonable, how do they landmark the probes to isolate the nerve and where do the stem cells come from. Good questions. The nerves are found using X-ray assisted probes; they locate the pulse in your groin (where the main hip nerve is) and using X-ray and computer assistance they insert the probe. The patient is fully awake and is able to say when the nerve is touched. The cells come from a lab which procures them from hospitals where they are harvested from newborns. There is almost zero chance of rejection. Sounds good, he says, actually it sounds “pretty cool”. So based on his input and my desperation, we book the procedure. February 14 at 11 a.m. $4850 USD.

In between the consult and the procedure, I travel home to Canada to celebrate my dad’s 91st birthday. His actual birthday is Valentines Day, but after the fiasco at Christmas, I vowed to never try travelling at holidays. As an aside, I decided to fly from and to small regional airports; I don’t think I will ever use huge international airports again unless absolutely necessary. The Doctor advised against using any NSAIDs or other blood thinner type medications 3 days prior to the procedure. So since I was travelling and without any supplements, I decided to eliminate all for the 6 days prior. It was harder than I thought. I had no idea that the whack of supplements I was taking did anything, but after abstaining I realize that they have a definite place in my regiment. My parents keep their apartment at a solid 75F at all times and even with the fan on high and the bedroom window cracked open, sleep is elusive. I’m a total grouch when I don’t get my sleep and it’s really hard to deal with my mother’s endless repeat of questions and comments. You didn’t eat breakfast …. why are you leaving …. there’s a cold draft in here …. sometimes the broken record plays in English and other times it’s German. My dad has a new equally annoying fixation: You Tube. He believes absolutely everything he sees and hears on You Tube as though it’s the gospel. It’s easy to understand how the mass media is so devastating to elders who have relied on its veracity for their information. Everything is getting on my nerve and that’s painful. Short on patience and long on pain, I can’t wait to have alone time and quiet. So I follow my mom’s lead and hit the hay at 8 pm. In the old days, my dad would pester me for another game of cards, but these days I think mom’s non-stop, relentless rants and ravings leave him craving the nightly solitude with the TV. Too bad it’s You Tube.

When I return to Florida there’s continuous activity to keep my mind off pain and procedure jitters. But finally the 14th rolls around and we are travelling to Tampa. To say I’m nervous is a bit of an understatement; internally I’m terrified. I hate needles and just thinking about them makes me panic and want to run the other way. Or limp the other way as it were. I’m driving so I’m grateful for the road and the many crazy drivers to keep me on my toes and my mind in focus on the road. When we arrive at the clinic we are 30 min early (the Rudy effect) and wait in the lobby. Now my mind is really racing and I cover all of the negative what if scenarios. A young (very fit and lean) woman walks through the lobby and distracts us momentarily … I wonder if she’s a patient although I quickly strike that idea since she was walking totally normally. My reverie is broken when the administrator gives me a folder containing all of the do’s and don’ts following the procedure. Rudy is snapped to attention when they gently request payment. As we are engaged in the paperwork, a previous patient comes out (he’s with the fit young lady) he’s also very buff and it’s clear he’s the patient since he’s got the gait of someone who’s had pain. He’s just had the procedure and he is remarking how he was able to put his jeans on without pain. I’m feeling hopeful. And then we are asked to move to the waiting room area.

This is a really modern clean area with a high glossy white kitchen area including breakfast bar and it’s fully stocked with coffee/tea/water/snacks. Adjacent to that in the large open concept space is a seating area with a huge flat screen tv. There’s a lot of green (albeit fake) plants scattered throughout. The space is all brightly illuminated by the many windows allowing natural light to flow in. It’s a peaceful place. While Rudy grabs a coffee, another couple (mom and son) engage us in conversation; the dad is having his knee done. Before they finish their drinks, the dad comes out the procedure room and they leave. My mind is starting to grasp that this is not a walk to the gauntlet. Within minutes of him walking out, they call my name. It’s happening.

I’m escorted into a large treatment room. On one side there is a bed with a large white contraption on rollers beside it. There’s a bank of wall units neatly stocked with supplies. I’m taken to the desk with a computer on top where the Doctor shows me what they are going to do. He takes about 45 seconds to do this and then he asks me to lay as flat as possible on the bed and pull my pants down to my knees. His assistant covers me with a cloth. The big white contraption is the X-ray unit; this is rolled beside the bed until the round globe part (about the size of a pilates exercise ball) is hovering over my groin. At the end of the bed is the screen showing my hip. He shows me the space between the ball and bone in the joint and explains that he will insert two probes into the area where the nerve is. Once they find the nerve they will ablate the nerve ending and stop the pain. Then they will inject the stem cells into the joint. Sounds pretty simple.

With my eyes firmly shut and my hands clasped in front of my chest, I’m bracing for whatever happens. First there’s a local topical freezing and cleanser applied. The Doctor looks for my pulse around the groin area; once he finds it he marks the spots with something (I’m not looking). Then the first “bee sting” probe number one is inserted. Then another sting as the second probe goes in. The Doctor tells me I will feel some pressure as they try to isolate the nerve. All the while, the Doctor is asking what I feel, where is the sensation. If I say my leg he wants to know where and is particularly concerned that it’s not below the knee. After what seems like hours of them probing (in reality it’s minutes) they find the nerve. At this point I’m ready to jump out of my skin. The jolt of sudden pain is excruciating. The Doctor is pleased and he lets me know we are ready to go. Next is a freezing (a bit of pressure) and then he gets the heating probe in place. He dials up the heat and keeps asking how I’m feeling. At one point I feel like the cloth covering should be smoking and smouldering; the Doctor sort of chuckles and says the heat is strictly internal. He reduces the temperature to what I can tolerate for 90 seconds. The machine beeps and whirrs. Then he says that’s it. Heat probe comes out and stem cells go in. Some wiping and 2 bandaids. Done. 20 minutes or so.

The assistant brings me an ice pack and ice water. I sit up and slide off the table. My legs feel slightly wobbly, but I walk back out to the waiting room where Rudy is surprised to see me, it was quick. And we leave.

Back in the car with Rudy driving we head home. I try to articulate the procedure, but I’m still in a bit of shock. Physically I’m fine, but my brain seems fried. Rudy’s driving is excellent, he’s always cautious and careful, but he doesn’t keep an even pressure on the gas. The on and off motion is usually tolerable, but today I feel like I might be sick. They did tell me that nausea is a common possible side effect. I’m not sure, but the combination of the car motion, the empty stomach, the nerves. Who knows. We get home and we are both hungry and wiped out.

The next day I wake up ready for the usual morning dread of going pee and putting weight on my left leg. However, when I stand up I realize there is no pain. I walk tentatively to the washroom thinking it feels weird to not have pain be my first greeting in the morning. I go back to bed and lay there thinking it’s a fluke. But when I get up for real it’s apparent that the pain is gone. I have to lay low for a week. I think I can last 5 or 6 days. I’m icing the probe entry points as they are a little bruised. The nurse calls to follow up on how I’m feeling and tells me to remove the bandaids anytime but not to bathe or swim. My muscles are used to favouring my left side and they are reeling from the new situation. There’s a series of exercises that I will be doing (they resemble a yoga class) and I’m hopeful to get a normal gait back asap. Rudy is overly protective (which I love) and asks me repeatedly if I’m ok. I guess we are both a bit awed that something so huge was really a nothing.

I will post an update on the progress, but for now it’s Hip Hip Hooray!!

My sister and I play Wordle everyday and share our results via text. Some days the words cause us to continue the game in our silly made up way by creating similar words. For example “grill” would be the starter and I will respond with “thrill” and she will reply “frill”. We do this for several minutes or until one of us is called back to the real world. It never fails to make me chuckle.

Today I was awakened at an ungodly hour by my dog who decided to re-nest in our bed. She spooned me to the very edge and promptly started to snore. I have one leg swinging over the side and am lying on a precarious angle trying to keep a strip of real estate. It’s a losing battle. But as I grapple with covers and pillows on my tiny island, my arm movements are causing my faux Fitbit to light up. Each time I move, the ungodly hour of 5:05 am is flashing in my face. And there it is. The word “flash” … and I can’t get it out of my head. I lay quietly while my bedmates snore and think of all the ways “flash” impacts my life. Cuckoo.

I simply loved school. Everything about it. Chalk dust (there were no white boards). The smell of markers (used on flip charts which were like white boards). Felt boards. Globes. Recess. And Flash Cards! Mostly for simple math drills, these cards (not like playing cards, but bigger like the size of an iPad) had a math formula on one side and the answer on the back. One person (the teacher usually) held the card up to the audience of students and answers were shouted out. 3 + 6 = …. It was so much fun I created a homemade set for my siblings. Flash cards. What a flashback.

Today’s modern technology provides some useful gadgets. Our mobile phones for example are handheld treasure troves. I’m sure that (like my brain) I’m using a mere fraction of the potential of the device (I only need to be around my nephew and his girlfriend for 3 seconds to know the fraction is actually embarrassingly minute) but of what I do know there are two features that I marvel at. For starters, the flashlight. Having lived rurally for many years, we had flashlights (the actual battery operated version) of all shapes and sizes all over the house. You never knew when the power would go out randomly. Rudy kept a huge, heavy model near his bedside; his flashlight provided light and protection. He also had mini ones that he could set to the strobe light feature and ward off nocturnal rodents. Simply set the strobe light on the outside deck and voila: no raccoons 🦝

The other phone feature is the photo flash. You can turn it on or off. Or simply set it to auto. They call them smart phones for good reason. The phone knows when you need the flash on if you can’t decide yourself. My mom and dad had a camera when we were little. In those days you needed to buy flash cubes which you plugged into the top of the camera. Flash cubes allowed you to take photos in a dark space and light up your subject with one big flash. The thing actually made a weird popping noise as it sparked a huge flash. Then, rather than passing the phone around for a peak at the result or using airdrop, you had to take the film out of the camera and have it developed at a photo centre. Only to pick up the developed photos a week later (Kodak one hour development was a pricey luxury!!) and find out that the flash made us blink or have devilish glowing red ember eyes. Like demons. The flash cubes were a one hit wonder. Poof. Garbage.

We spend our winters in Florida. It’s nice. But we get there after the stormy season. This year it was a double whammy. First Ian then Nicole wreaked havoc on the coasts and to a lesser degree inland. Our place is inland by choice. Storms is one of the many reasons. Florida has storm reservoirs to capture the overflow of excess water. But the deadly surges causing flash floods are devastating. The clean up from the flash floods is ongoing today. New roofs are being installed in our community today. But Florida is not alone. There are Canadians from the east coast of Canada in our community and their flash floods this fall were brutal, too. With all of the media attention on Florida we neglected to remember that our coasts were battered leaving many without power for weeks. Good time for flashlights.

Every now and then you get a movie flashback. Recently, with the untimely death of Irene Cara, I thought of Flashdance. That movie had it all I think. A bit fairytale. A chick welder. Who rode her bike to the job site. Badass. Dated the boss. Who drove a Porsche 911. She lived in an uber chic warehouse where she practised her dance moves with her pit bull, Grunt. and Irene Cara blasted out What a Feeling. 1983. Year of the leg warmers thanks to Flashdance.

Around the same time frame (early 1980’s) we experienced another phenomenon. Michael Jackson and his superlative creative genius gave us the quintessential music video Thriller. It also was the first (as far as I know) flash mob dancing routine. The writhing and twitching mummies led by MJ on the video have been the much copied flash mobs of even today. So many videos circulate of copy cats of the Thriller dance but others as well. They are fun to watch! German Flash Mob

A number of years ago we took a boat cruise up the Thames River in London England. On the cruise (which was actually a part of the transit system!) the captain gave an informative (and hilarious) narrative to points of interest along the way. There are so many historical sayings that have travelled the years and are still in use today. “Box office” for example. As we cruised past an authentic theatre in the round a la Shakespeare, we were told that theatre goers placed their entry fee into wooden boxes at the end of the seat aisles. The boxes were collected by the attendants and brought to the managers office for counting. The office was referred to as “the box office “. Flash in the pan is similar, but there are a couple of versions. One relates to gold miners during the infamous gold rush. As they panned for precious metal they would sometimes be eluded by a “flash in the pan” or a glint of something mistaken as gold. It didn’t “pan out”. The other version refers to the musket where gun powder placed in a pan on the firing pin lit the charge causing the gun to fire a bullet. If the gunpowder ignited but failed to launch the bullet it was called a flash in the pan. Or, in other words, a fruitless effort.

There are no words to describe the worst kind of flash. The hot flash. Ugh. Hormonal surges that appear out of nowhere and make your mother ask: oh, did you get a perm?? Like a personal humid monsoon. It descends on you like a moist sauna and lingers just long enough to make your skin drip. A steamy moustache. Boob sweat. And at night, in the deepest, darkest sleep, aided by a super hot canine, you’re suddenly awake because you are struggling to get the covers off. Your bed is a virtual swamp.

Let’s hit the flash sale! It will be gone in a flash. Did that guy just flash me?? If I flash a smile he might not ticket me …. I’ll be there in a flash.

After a difficult day filled with sadness and loss, we rebound with something far more palatable: Calvados

A short drive away from our dock in Honfleur through rolling French countryside complete with farms, thatch-roofed houses, wrought iron gates and quaint gardens, we arrive at the Calvados experience. A cross between Disney and a how-to video, the experience includes a series of rooms cleverly disguised as scenery featured in the videos showing the process of distilling Calvados.

Essentially it is an apple brandy, but the delicate production from fruit to liquor is painstaking. The results are amazing. Following the experience we are able to sample. There is a generous piece of baguette and brie from the region served along with the spirits.

And then we finish the tour in the bottle shop.

My personal assessment of the visit is two thumbs up. It was so well done and informative.

Following the tasting we travel into the quaint village P’tit Beaumont We hop off the bus to take in sweeping views of the lush rolling landscape and also manage to visit a few shops.

From there we return to Honfleur and the boat. After a quick bite for lunch we venture out around the historic harbour town.

Back on board we get ready for a special dinner. it’s a seven course menu with complementary wines.

Today was a hard day for a few reasons. To start, our alarm was set for 6:30 am as we had to be on the tour by 8 am. The weather called for rain. Lots of rain. And our tour would take us to the battlefields and trenches of The Somme. When we set out and walked from the boat to the bus it was not raining but the paths were wet; it had rained quite a bit. Luckily we hit a dry patch and in the semi darkness made our way to the coach. It was not a full bus so we could spread out and relax.

It was a 90 minute drive to the first museum housed in a small village within a school donated and built by Australia. Victoria Hall is on the second floor and contains a neatly curated collection of artifacts from WW1 including letters, photographs, uniforms, artillery and kit items. Some of the items are so well preserved; it’s a miracle they survived at all. The display cases are neatly marked and labelled with care. Among the items are a few German pieces as we learned throughout this day that the losses and suffering were great on both sides. The European Allies in the war (also called the Great War or the war to end all wars) were grateful to receive military aid from other commonwealth countries and this particular museum pays tribute to the Australians who fought in the area and liberated (then defended) the village. It was clear that the weather today fit the somber mood. The images and feelings around the battle fields and trenches was emotional. But as you glanced out of museum windows into the courtyard below you could watch the children playing and laughing. Such a dichotomy yet fitting. One of the guides read a letter from a soldier who questioned if the sacrifice was worth it. Watching the children answers that question.

From here we continued on to the Sir John Monash Centre a short drive away. The skies are clearing and there’s no rain at all but the ground is wet. This is an amazing place built and maintained by Australia. It is an immersive experience into the trench warfare based on the Australia brigade under commanding officer John Monash. His personal story is also very interesting. The bus pulled up to the centre and parked. It was a hilltop and you could see the French and Australian flags flying by the cemetery prior to the entryway to the museum. It’s stark and austere with imposing stone edifices However, the museum entrance itself was designed to have visitors experience entering the trenches. It is a downward sloping maze with street name signs (they named the trenches) such as Wallaby Rd and the rattle of artillery fire is piped in on speakers cleverly hidden in the walls. At the doorway to the museum you are greeted by a foyer displaying large art installations such as a tapestry and a large wooden wall using different native Australian woods to signify each region of the country. Museum staff explain how to use the app as it tracks your location while in the museum and you can play the audio for each display by accessing it on the app. In the centre of the museum is a larger presentation room where you can become fully immersed in the trench battles. After spending an hour or so inside you are transported back to the years of war and your heart becomes heavy with emotion. Once you leave you can walk through the cemetery on site and the devastation and tragic loss is profound. I personally found it hard to breathe and certainly wiped many tears away. Canadian graves were marked with a Maple Leaf but many had no names as remains were not identified. Horrific. These young men were sons, brothers, husbands.

As you can see, we emerged from the museum into a perfectly sunny day. How ironic.

The bus takes us through rolling countryside farms and pastures. We stop for lunch but my appetite is nonexistent; today was day I should have had breakfast. I ate without tasting the food.

After lunch we continue through the picturesque farmland until we reach our next destination. It’s the Newfoundland memorial sponsored by Canada. It’s a piece of land owned and managed Veteran Affairs and is a series of trenches, monuments and graves. At the time of the war Newfoundland was not a Canadian province so the 2000 approx soldiers fought under the British army. Another stark display of the grim conditions during the war. There were trees planted after the war as the ravages of battles levelled the fields and left them barren and broken. There is one weird tree, known as the danger tree, that soldiers used as their landmark to know where they were in no man’s land (the area between the two opposing trenches). On July 1 of 1917 the allied troops suffered devastating losses as they tried to advance and push the Germans back. They were slaughtered. Aside from the trenches (now grassy moguls) there are huge grassy divots/craters from the bombs. The grass makes things soft and park like when in reality these were the killing fields where armies of young men brutalized each other following orders. There are no words. Standing on the grounds you can see the distance from trench to trench and it catapults you to the image of wasteland and death. The danger tree is a stark image.

The memorial is staffed by Canadian students who apply to take on the position. There are two criteria: you are a full time student who is bilingual. The two we met today were lovely. Bright pleasant shining examples of Canadian niceness. One from Cape Breton and the other from Victoria BC. To this day farmers and locals unearth remains of the battles and when they do forensic anthropologists are engaged to determine origins. A large caribou statue stands tall pointing to the Canadian held front line of battle. Among the grassy trenches is a herd of sheep happily grazing blissfully unaware of the history under their food supply.

The final stop on our tour is Lochnagar Crater it’s a very short ride from the Newfoundland memorial. It’s a privately owned site (bought by the owner to ensure it wasn’t plowed into farmland. The crater was made by a 60,000 ton bomb. It’s huge. The site itself is in disrepair due to lack of funding. But the impact is astounding. The crater site is surrounded on all sides by farm fields. Some of which are apparently potatoes.

It was a day for reflection and introspection. Having grown up listening to my dads war stories it impacted me in a personal and sad way. There are no winners of wars. Only innocent young men following orders bravely. Many paid the ultimate price. Lest we forget.