Entomophobia is the fear of insects. I am not afraid of insects; I just hate certain types. And I have no problem killing them if they get my way. For that reason, I am not a Buddhist. I enjoy eastern philosophy, but I don't think I'd be welcomed to the club, for an obvious reasons: Killing someone's reincarnated cousin. Being reincarnated as a fish fly is kind of a rip off. Their average life span is twenty-four to forty-eight hours. The have only one purpose; to go to the light before they go to the light. They're no threat at all. They don't eat and they don't bite. They just want to mate.  Dying afterwards, well, let’s just say, they didn't get the memo. I have seen fish flies hanging out at the gas station in August. Fish flies are generally a June and July bug. Maybe they figured out that if they played hard to get, they could hang around a little bit longer.                             ...

The fall is quickly approaching. My mind drifts back to my grade school. Soon kids will be carrying back packs and cell phones, dressed in pajamas and slippers. We didn't have backpacks. We had Pencil cases. Our books -Jack, Jane and spot- were cradled in our arms and our lunch came in a brown paper bag. However, some kids had designer cartoon or superhero lunchboxes. I seem to recall I had one. Mine was red and back checkered. My attire most likely would have been a plaid shirt, tan corduroy pants and sneakers. But there's something else I am remembering today. Grasshoppers. Saint Jules is closed now and will probably be torn down. And the addition my grandfather built will be rubble. But I'm thinking about the path and the high grass that grew beside it. It went from Westminster to Norman Road and it was a breading ground for grasshoppers. Hop to it It takes skill to catch a grasshopper: Some hopped and some flew. You couldn't call yourself a grass...

                  Thoughts for today      Some people say you should not dweal on the past. I go there only to pick the fruit of a mature tree. To sit for while talking to the boy that once was me. I can see again with young eyes. And the stories come back. That one lane road comes back and the backyards of my youth, where boys dared to dream. I will wake from this moment and I will be todays' version of myself. But I am thankful I can still remember because I have seen people who so easily forget. That's the creulity of age. I must remember to stay young. To visit the roads of my life in my mind. Not to view them with regret but with joy. I have lived a great joyful life. And today I'm travelling down the road called joy. I hope to see you along the way.                               ~~~~ My pics. Full moon shadows.

Wishing never makes things go our way.  Action is the only way. Small steps on the upward climb is never a waste of our time. It might seem impossible on the grand scheme but if our focus is too wide, life seems too extreme.  Small little chunks is a that we need.  Do today's work until the rubble is free. One day the light will come in when that last pebble falls.  It is then that we realize the journey was worth it all. So don't look too forward or too far behind. Dig todays treasures, whatever we find. And when we feel our life is out of our hands. Remember two words  I can. **** My pics. Pinery Provincial Park sunset.

I finished writing a book recently called, Potholes and Picket Fences. It's a story of my life, from infancy to early adulthood. I realized a few important stories didn't make in. Here is just one.  Waiting for whispers I learned to grow physically with a little help from science. I spoke on that at length in the book.  I learned to grow spiritually with the influence of two women: my mother and grandmother. They had convinced me that God was calling. Being one in seven kids in a French-Canadian Catholic family, they thought I was best suited for the job; I was the only one who didn’t complain about going to church every Sunday. They say the call is often a whisper, if so, I think I should've had my hearing checked. I would often sit on the steps of my grade school and look across the street at our church. I listened and heard crickets. Come and see My spiritual advisor Father Janise, who looked like bob hope -without the nose- helped me alon...

My grandmother on my father side, stayed at our house for a weekend. Her job was to take care of my other grand mother. We were busy teenagers and we were angels. Okay maybe not. But staying home is something we didn't do much, especially, with the added supervision. Had we been home, we would have seen what happened at the scene of the crime. My mother had chest freezer filled with a side of beef. There was a bunch of mouths to feed and apparently my grandmother thought that included her. They were only going away for a couple days. What could happen? They would soon find out. What's in the bag? They came home after the weekend away and it was time for my father to drive McGregor meme' home. He wondered why her suitcase felt heavier than the other day but thought nothing of it. My mom hated deciding what to make for supper but felt confident because she knew she had many options waiting in the chest freezer. There was only one problem. The freezer was cleared out.  ...