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Coprolites in Amber (etc.)
Introduction: I am not a hoarder. Yet like many geriatrics, I have accumulated more than my share of junk. Also, like many of this age, I have been beset by nightmares of my children sorting through that junk in my permanent absence. Upon retirement in early 2015, I began to clean up. Much of my…
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23. A Closer Look at MAiD
A few months ago, I was reprimanded by an old friend for an offhand comment about medical assistance in dying. In our chat at a Vancouver café, he had mentioned he was helping another friend with an application for that legal process known in Canada by its acronym–– MAiD. His friend was slipping into dementia.…
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22. Lamenting a Battered Defiance
1 It can be revealing to recall the evolution of one’s political persuasions. For example, my early notions about Cuba were formed in utter ignorance of facts: The country came first to attention through the historic address of President JFK watched live on TV in October 1962. Kennedy announced that the Russians had sneaked nuclear…
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21. Of an Approaching Expiry Date
When I turned seventy-fourth a few months ago, I received a video of three of my little grandkids singing “happy birthday.” Even though they stood a little stiffly and were urged on by their mom whispering in the background, I was touched. After the chorus, my daughter pointed her iPhone cam at each in turn…
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20. Celebrating Mixed Marriage
Within a week of marrying in late December 1984, my Zimbabwean wife, T., and I arrived at Heathrow Airport enroute to Canada. The female immigration officer who checked our passports had reddish grey hair and a severe expression. She resembled Maggie Thatcher. “And what is your relationship?” She glanced stonily between faces and photos. “Husband…
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19. Shock in the Mirror
In a recent rereading of Orwell’s ‘1984’, I found the most chilling passage to be the same one that had left me shivering at the age of sixteen. That is the description of Winston Smith’s first look at himself after prolonged torture. O’Brien, his confessor/torturer, orders him to remove his filthy clothes and step forward…
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18. Poems from a Self-imposed Captivity
I may well have a tin ear for poetry. Yet over the years, I have sporadically tried my hand at writing it. My first attempt was a booklet of poems made at the age of fifteen. The self-illustrated cover depicted a hand clutching towards a thorny rose. The only piece I remember from that effort…
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Coprolites in Amber (etc.) 