A con artist left me feeling grateful and betrayed
I have to give her credit, she told a great story. Before my son and I realized she scammed us, we felt pretty good about ourselves.
We were enjoying a nice father-son walk around the neighbourhood. Came across a woman near the end of our street. She was hard at work, chipping away ice on her driveway.
A bit rough around the edges, her face . . .
I called him back—find out what happened
The call came at 5:09 on a cold January morning, waking me from a sound sleep. It was a text-to-landline message.
"Goodbye Nicole, I love you," the robotic voice said. An obvious wrong number.
I thought about the message. Maybe it was a husband sending a sweet message to his wife. But I felt a finality to it; five words can mean a lot.
I . . .
A holiday story
Fuzzy Bunny was very excited to open his gifts on Christmas morning. Every day in December, he counted how many days were left until the BIG day. He wished very hard for an iPod, so he could play all his favourite games without having to share with his brother, Fuzzy Hoppy.
It was Christmas Eve. Fuzzy Dad worried about paying the credit card . . .
We smiled and nodded a lot, but we still connected in our own manner
Photo: Freeimages.com – Tom Low
I relish the quiet of a predawn run. Focus on the cadence of my footfalls, breathe the crisp morning air.
I pass the local technical college and notice an older gentleman, leaning on a pillar. He sports glasses; his frame, slight, thin; grey hair combed over scalp. Stares into the ether of a dewy sky.
. . .
A morning diversion turned into a philosophical discussion
Photo: Freeimages.com – Prashant Jambunathan
People knock on my door. They try to sell me things, ask for donations, or impart some sort of spiritual wisdom.
One morning, the doorbell rang as I tidied the kitchen. I opened the door. Two well-dressed people kindly presented themselves.
“Hi there,” a curly haired, soft-spoken . . .
I want to dream big, like when I was a kid
This post contains coarse language which may be offensive to some readers.
I used to dream big. Until I grew up. Adulthood is where my dreams died.
Lately, I've had inklings of creative momentum percolate through my brain. I can't deny this desire to be more than a rat in a race.
But it seems so hard to extricate myself from the . . .
A poem for my younger son, who turned 8
You came into this world—a blessing
you came into this world
wrapped in love, a cry
your journey began
taller i stand
when i'm holding
i put you to sleep
kiss on the cheek
i look at the clock
think of skipping rocks
time has warped by
minutiae of life
i see you, baby
no longer so young
. . .