Lindsay celebrating her freedom! 
Her day at the groomer is over.
Her long hair is gone, her teeth are cleaner, her nails are clipped and her bum is sanitized.
But more important than all that: she is home, in her own backyard, with her family.
Until later in the summer when they decided its time to do this all over again.
It is not an observation that is unique to me.
Perhaps this is a weight you carry too?
It is hard work being beautiful. 
Especially if you've let yourself go over winter.
For the sake of warmth and comfort.
But tomorrow it's back to the Beauty Parlour to be groomed and fussed over.
Beauty is such a demanding goddess!
It was Saturday morning and my brother and I had stopped for breakfast at a small restaurant on the edge of an industrial estate. It was a clean and efficient place, open only for breakfast and lunch. The waitress was good humoured and the food was fresh and well prepared.
"Did I tell you what happened to those friends of ours from the west end, the day of mom's funeral?" Keith asked me, as the waitress poured our coffee.
We had just cleaned out the last of the furniture in mom's apartment and with her belongings sitting in the U Haul in the parking lot outside the restaurant, she was fresh on our minds.
"His mother lives here in the east end of the City. They usually visit her every two weeks and decided to drop in since they were already out here for our mom's funeral. But the door was locked when they got to his mom's place. They waited for a bit and then drove over to the nearby plaza where she shops. But there was no sign of her. They asked some of the neighbours but no one had seen her for a couple of days.
"By this time they were getting worried. So he drove back home and picked up a spare set of keys to his mom's place. It must have taken two hours to get to the west end and back. They had thought of calling the police but there were a hundred other places she could be and they weren't that worried cause his mom was in pretty good health.
"Anyway, they get inside and there's no sign of her down stairs. But when they go up to the bedroom, there she is. She's had a stroke and is barely responsive."
"But she was alive?" I asked.
"Oh yeh, she was alive. They called 911, got her to the hospital and she's doing okay physically. They're not sure how much damage may have been done cognitively.
"But the thing is, if our mom hadn't died, they wouldn't have been out here in the east end and they wouldn't have gone to visit his mother that day and she would have died. So, even though our mom was dead, she saved a woman's life."
I took a bite of the cantaloupe on my plate.
And thought about what a truly strange world this is.
Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather William's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on John Fraser (front row second from left) and this week we focus on the back bone of the family, Mary Ann (to his right).
".....yes, but".
First of all, I need to thank everyone for your support and advice. It was a great help in my coming to this decision. I read and thought about each of your comments and then I went back and thought more deeply about my future and where it is I now want to go with my life.
As Nolly Posh said, in her Australian way, "It's time to stop being a great patient and start being a great all round bloke." And, as so many of you pointed out, if I need a cane, or a chair, or a wheel chair to do it, well, so what? Use whatever you need to get back to living again.
A lot of my time recently has been taken up with getting my affairs in order, after some advice I got from my surgeon back in September. Last night Linda and I finalized our Wills and Powers of Attorney and had them signed at the lawyers.
So that is out of the way. I signed up for the second round of Tai Chi, but that will only take a couple of hours of my time each week. The garden will soon need some effort, but we always used to do that and work full time.
However, I do still have a few things to get sorted out and can do with a little more time to recover (to the extent that I ever will) from the side effects of Taxol, so I wrote back about the work offer, explaining my situation and letting them know I would be happy to accept their offer to do some occasional workshops in a month's time.
And if I need a cane, my father's old cane is still in the basement and if I need a wheelchair, my mother-in-law's is also packed away downstairs.
And, outside the front door, there's a life waiting for me.
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Photo of Gregory House courtesy of Photobucket.
I've had an offer of some work and I'm not certain what to do about it, since I can't predict the future.
My doctors have looked into the future but their forecasts have been decidedly vague and unhelpful, although they have placed some upper limits on my survival. But the issue isn't whether I'll be around in five years time, it's will I be available in two weeks or a month.
The work involves joining a speakers bureau and being available to lead occasional workshops, something I did routinely when I worked for a living. Leading a workshop, however, means not loosing ones balance and falling down in front of groups of people. It means having the strength to stand for hours at a time. It means not having CT Scans suddenly getting booked at the last minute at a time that conflicts with the workshop and leaving groups of people with no one to lead them.
Darn.
I would really enjoy presenting the occasional workshop. I'm good at it. I enjoy talking with people. I have a knowledge base that would be a shame not to pass on. It would give me something to do.
It would mean some extra money.
But given my uncertainties, would it be fair to accept this offer?
I think I need a crystal ball.
I'm lying naked on the kitchen table covered by a thin sheet while the large man walks slowly around me shaking his head.
The vividness of the memory is jolting, even after all these years.
Last Thursday I was having lunch with a couple of friends from work, who were not able to make my recent retirement celebration when I was given the large bell in remembrance of my 30 years at Family Service EAP. The conversation, as most of my recent conversations tend to do, had turned to medical matters and the image of me on the kitchen table had come reaching up out of the long forgotten past with considerable power.
"When I was four," I told my friends, "I had my tonsils out, at home, on the kitchen table."
"You're kidding," said Robin.
The waitress at the Marriott was busy efficiently refilling my coffee cup and checking to see if the two women are in need of anything else.
"Where was this?" Linda asked, "Did you live out in the country?" Linda is my work colleague, not yo be confused with Linda my wife. I have a lot of Lindas in my life.
"No, we lived right here in the city. In East York." I said. "I guess, for low risk surgeries, it was cheaper than doing it in the hospital."
"Good Lord," said Robin.
"I can clearly remember him checking me over before the operation, turning to my mother and saying, 'Why this boy hasn't been circumcised! That just isn't clean. He'll have terrible problems as he grows up. We'll have to do that as well.'"
"So you were circumcised and had your tonsils out on the same day, on the kitchen table?" asked Linda in astonishment.
"Well it was a near thing. There was no medical insurance in those days and my parents had to pay cash. They weren't wealthy and I think the surgery was costing them a fair bit. Come to think of it, maybe it was because of the cost that it was being done on the kitchen table instead of in the hospital. In any event, I remember quite the negotiation going on about the price."
"While you're laying there on the kitchen table?" asked Robin.
The image is alive now in my mind. I've been sick for weeks, my throat in terrible pain. I'm four years old with little understanding of everything that is taking place. Finally the doctor and my parents reach an agreement and the doctor returns to me.
"Okay, little feller," he says. "We'll soon have you fixed up. Have you ever been to the dentist?"
I shake my head.
"Well we're just going to put you out the way the dentist does when he pulls teeth. Don't worry you won't feel a thing."
And I don't.
Linda and Robin shook their heads. All around us the diners at the Marriott were chatting quietly and laughing with delight at the various amusing stories that were being told.
"Thank God for modern medicine," said Robin.
"You got that right," said Linda.
Our conversation turned to other things and sixty-three year old memories returned to the vault where they belong.
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The photograph of me at the top is courtesy of Cameron MacMaster, another colleague at work as well as a professional photographer, published author and former professional dancer. Here is a LINK to some of his amazing photographs.
Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather William's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on the man himself (front row far left) and this week we move to the little boy (to his right), who would prove to be the true superstar of the family, John Fraser.
He was one of only two members of this family that I actually got to meet in person. But he wasn't an easy man to like.
John Andrew Fraser was born in Toronto in 1887 where he attended St.Michael's college. At 19 he left to study for the priesthood in Genoa Italy and was ordained on July 14,1901, the third member of his family to enter a religious vocation. Fr. Fraser worked in several Toronto parishes before sailing to Shanghai in 1902 as the first English speaking priest from North America in China as a missionary. In 1910 he left on a world tour promoting the cause of China missions through the U.S.A., Rome, Italy, Ireland, England and across Canada.
In 1918 Fr. Fraser founded English Canada's only society of Roman Catholic priests exclusively engaged in foreign mission work. It came to have 133 priests working in seven countries.
Linda: (sitting in her chair in the livingroom) What was that noise?
Barry: (in the kitchen) Nothing.
Linda: (alarmed) Did you fall?
Barry: (embarrassed and annoyed) It was my toes.
Linda: (coming into the kitchen) You did fall!
Barry: Yes, but I'm alright. I lost my balance.
Linda: Your balance?
Barry: I saw a spoon on the floor and was reaching for it and lost my balance.
Linda: Because of your toes?
Barry: Because I don't have a lot of feeling left in my toes.
Linda: I thought you said your toes were getting better now you're not on chemo?
Barry: Sometimes I think they are.
Linda: But they're not.
Barry: I think it's too early to tell.
Linda: But you're not hurt?
Barry: No, I'm fine.
Linda: This time. But what about next time.
Barry: I'll just have to be more careful.
Linda: You know I worry about you?
Barry: I know. I'll be more careful. I promise.
Linda: (after a moment's pause) Did you manage to get the spoon?
Barry: (laughs) Yes I got the spoon.
I heard the honking first and saw Lindsay come to a halt, tail up, ears cocked, legs rooted to the ground.
The honking sound came again.
Then a massive white bird, its long neck stretched before it, came swooping overhead. The pure sunlight of early morning played tenderly among its feathers as its great wings beat with an audible woosh. Three beats of its wings and it had crossed the small expanse of open sky above the tree tops. And was gone.
Before Lindsay even had a chance to bark.
She looked back at me as if to say, "Did you see that? Have you ever seen anything like that before?"
"Not in flight, Lins," I would have told her. "Swimming in ponds or on the lake, but never in flight like that."
It was like the soul of a Canada Goose in flight, or its ghost.
Then I thought, and where is my camera? My beautiful new camera?
Answer, safely back at home. (Don't tell Patty.)
It seemed a very appropriate day to see a swan in flight. Along with the shamrock, the leprechaun and the harp, the swan is a symbol of Ireland. In the legend The Wooing of Etain, the king of the Sidhe (subterranean-dwelling, supernatural beings) transforms himself and the most beautiful woman in Ireland, Etain, into swans to escape from the king of Ireland and Ireland's armies. The swan has recently been depicted on an Irish commemorative coin.
On behalf of my Paternal Grandmother, Katie O'Connor, let me wish you all a Happy St. Patrick's Day.
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Photo courtesy of Photobucket.
Your vision will become clear only when you look into your heart. Who looks outside, dreams. Who looks inside, awakens--Carl Jung
I seldom remember my dreams; but awoke from a strange dream (are there any other kinds?)this morning. In it I was reading a newspaper story about the Titanic and in the story the Titanic had drawings of various tall ships surrounding it, barques, schooners, brigs etc.
Apparently I was reading the story in a class of some kind and the instructor announced there was some controversy in the article regarding me and would I bring a copy of the paper to the front of the class.
And that, of course, is when I awoke.
I don't know about you, but I don't think stories that connect me to the sinking of the Titanic are, necessarily, good omens. Then again, what were all those tall ships about?
And where is Freud when you need him?
Judge of your natural character by what you do in your dreams--Ralph Waldo Emerson
Each week we are following the lives of members of my Great Grandfather's family as they appear in this 1890 family portrait. Last time we focused on Johanna (back row far right) and this week we start on the front row (far left) with my great grandfather William.
A far cry from his appearance in the family portrait, this was William in 1920
There are no photos of my great-grandparents together, so I commissioned this portrait. It hangs in my office.
I am deeply saddened to learn of the passing of fellow blogger Renee of the Circling My Head Blog, after a long and heroic battle with cancer. She was indeed a very special lady who touched the lives of hundreds of us. And made us better people.
My thoughts are with her wonderful family who have suffered so much recently. It was an honor to know Renee and, through her, to have come to such a deep admiration for her family as well.
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Linda and I are continuing to combine our efforts and jointly host a single page for our Home Town Friday Shoot Outs (FSO). And that's where you'll have to go to find our post featuring a Wrought Iron.
So come on over to see our contribution (and to find links to the all the FSO contributors from around the world)just by CLICKING HERE
See you there! And after your visit maybe you'll be tempted to join us?
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Photo courtesy of Photobuscket
The Suzuki Spring Concert at the River Run Centre in Guelph ends the Winter season for us as surely as the sighting of the first robin is the harbinger of spring.
My nine year old granddaughter is studying Violin at the Suzuki school, and Linda and I attend her concert every year. But thoughts of the concert always remind me of the flying bartender back in 2009.
I treat my daughter and her family to dinner the evening before the concert, and that year we went to the 50 West Restaurant in our hotel.
Unfortunately, a party of 40 had turned up just before us and the maitre d' had warned us that service would be a little slower than usual.
We hadn't counted on dinner taking 3 hours, mind you, or that the harried staff would put on such an amazing show of slap stick.
First our waiter, a good humoured man who took the time to tease our two grandchildren, couldn't get the cork out of the wine bottle. He huffed and he puffed and he grimaced and he groaned and he darn near caused himself a hernia, but still the cork wouldn't budge.
So he apologized and hurried off saying he needed the help of someone bigger and stronger.
From my vantage point I could see that that "someone" turned out to be the 20 year old bartender who couldn't have weighed more than 100 lbs if she'd been soaking wet. But she got the cork out in 2 seconds flat.
The waiter returned to our table with a face saving story of having had the cork removed by Bruno a 300 lb weight lifter they kept on staff for just such emergencies.
Meanwhile behind him, two other waiters rushing to serve the large party, collided, with drinks and food and waiters flying everywhere.
The little, but efficient, cork popping, bartender came hurrying over to help them, but hit a patch of slippery food and she went flying too.
No one was hurt, but it set the tone for the evening.
Eventually, the chief came out of the kitchen to apologize for the delay and sent a second bottle of wine to our table. He also sent over a peanut butter and jam sandwich to my, then, five year old grandson who was getting a little restless, two hours into the delay.
As the Chef was exiting stage right, the maitre d' entered to our left. He also apologized for the delay and he also sent over a bottle of wine. On the House.
Later, the waiter told us he had deducted our desserts from the bill to make up for the delay. I began day dreaming that if we were there any longer, the entire meal might end up free.
And maybe our room at the hotel as well.
But, alas, they were not that sorry.
However, it made for a memorable evening, rescued by the good humour of our waiter and our own delight in the absurd.
And the desserts and the two bottles of wine also helped.
Americans don't know it, but they are a country in need. Oh, of course they are the most powerful and affluent country in the world, but that doesn't mean they have everything, or enough of everything.
Sadly America is lacking.
Specifically, and unfortunately, they are in dire need of more coffee shops. Yes coffee shops. It is just not enough that they already have one on each corner (and some times two or more). How do you expect a country to survive when faced with such deprivation?
Besides, how many of those coffee shops are Canadian? Why hardly any!
But never fear, my American friends, Tim Hortons is coming to your rescue (no need to thank us).
Tim Hortons is preparing to test drive a new upscale restaurant format in the United States and broaden its North American product line as part of a three-year expansion plan that will include the opening of about 900 new stores.
Yes, we are about to share our Tims with you. Just mention the sacred name and Canadian eyes light up. How generous can a nation be?
I have to admit, we Canadians are not known for romance. If someone were to ask you to name the most romantic people on earth, Canadians would not immediately come to mind. Might not even make it onto your list as a postscript.
"Nice people" yes we would be near the top of your list. "Polite", "clean", "nice neighbours", okay you got us.
If you're ever in a fight, a couple of our hockey players would be handy to have around. But women seldom dream of toothless lovers.
If you need comedians for the Hollywood grist mill, Jim Carey, Martin Short or Mike Myers will do just fine. They'd be fun to have at a party, but they're not romantic. Oh Hollywood did its best to make us romantic, with those singing Mounty/beautiful Indian maiden movies back in the thirties. But the Canadian Mounted Police don't dress in those red surge jackets any more, they don't ride horses and they sure don't sing. If you get stopped for a ticket in Alberta, they'll look like any other cop in North America. And the same old, same old isn't romantic.
That's what makes it so strange that the entire population of Canada should have fallen in love, deeply passionately in love. We stand in the freezing cold just for a glimpse, a taste, of the ardour of our affection. This is more than love. This is romance on a grand scale.
With a chain of donut restaurants.
Cue Enya, dim the lights, we are about to name the object of our affection: Tim Hortons
Just listen to what Wikipeadia has to say:
"Tim Hortons Inc. is a coffee-and-doughnut fast food restaurant chain. Founded in Hamilton, Ontario, in 1964, the store rapidly expanded across Canada to become the country's largest quick-service food chain.
"Tim Hortons franchise stores are plentiful in Canadian cities and towns. As of July 1, 2007, there were 2,733 outlets in Canada, 345 outlets in the United States and one outlet just outside Kandahar, Afghanistan. Tim Hortons has supplanted McDonald's as Canada's largest food service operator; it has nearly twice as many Canadian outlets as McDonald's, and its system-wide sales surpassed those of McDonald's Canadian operations in 2002. The chain accounted for 22.6% of all fast food industry revenues in Canada in 2005. Tim Hortons commands 76% of the Canadian market for baked goods (based on the number of customers served) and holds 62% of the Canadian coffee market (compared to Starbucks, in the number two position, at 7%)."
Have sweeter words ever been spoken? Can you not feel our hearts beating. Our soldiers in Afghanistan could not exist without Tim Hortons and our troops wrote enough pleading letters to the restaurant chain that they opened a store on our military base in Kandahar province.
And Tim Horton, the man for whom the entire chain is named, was a hockey player.
If you want to find romance in Canada, just go to any Tims and look for the line-up that stretches from the counter out the door into the cold frigid morning.
We are not afraid to suffer for our love. And, it seems, we are also not afraid to share it with our friends. You've outgrown us Tim, and now we must share you with the world (sob).
Have pity on us, we're Canadians.
And enjoy your Tim Hortons coffee when a store opens next to you.
The question that remained was, can we confirm that it is safe to discontinue chemo at this point.
My previous two CT Scans suggested no further spread of the disease, would last week's scan show the same result?
Despite a "code red" at the hospital, I had made certain that that confirming scan had taken place.
And today I waited at the hospital for the results. And waited.
I arrived at the hospital at 9:00 for blood work and then was in the oncologists waiting room at 10:45 for my 11:00 appointment.
As usual she was extremely busy but today particularly so, and it wasn't until 1:15 in the afternoon that I finally got in to see her.
As usual the news she had for me was mixed.
So first the two pieces of good news. There has been no sign of any progression of the cancer in either my bones or esophagus. No sign anywhere of enlargement in my lymph glands, so it is finally confirmed, I will be having NO CHEMOTHERAPY FOR AT LEAST THE NEXT 3 MONTHS.
The second piece of good news, the general weariness and lack of strength I've been experiencing in my legs, is not due to either the cancer or the Taxol. It is a side effect of the steroids they have been pumping into me prior to administering the Taxol. Taking a break from chemo will dramatically help with this as well.
The bad news is that last week's scan detected something in my lungs. Most likely it is a radiation burn from the five continuous weeks of daily radiation I received last summer. If so, it is very small, not interfering with my breathing in any way and will not get worse. May even repair itself to some degree.
However, it could also be the first signs of a spread of the cancer to one of my organs. At this point it is impossible to tell which it is. All that can be done is to keep an eye on it and if it seems to be spreading, do a biopsy.
And if it seems to be receding, order a magnum of champagne!
But there is nothing that can be done or will be done for the next three months, except for me to take a complete break from all things medical and try to figure out what to do with a life that doesn't involve any hospital tests or hospital treatments or irritating rashes or crushing weariness or the loss of feeling in my fingers and feet. Maybe even see how much of that lost feeling I can regain.
Perhaps now I can get back to doing the things I used to enjoy.
So let me think, what was it I was doing a year ago before I was so rudely interrupted?
We came in stately procession but left as individuals, no longer united in our grief.
Over 100 people attended my mother's funeral but only immediate family accompanied her to the graveside on the still snow covered, and dangerously slippery, cemetery hill.
Here, final prayers were said as we clung to each other to maintain our footing.
We each left a rose with Rosanna and stood, for a moment, alone with our memories, before the Minister thanked us all for coming and announced the conclusion of the formal service. Then she and the funeral director gingerly descended the hill to the black limousine that had led us here.
While we were at the graveside, the limo driver, who waited for them, had removed the funeral signs from all of our cars. On the way back to the funeral home the director would stop and leave the huge family bouquets in the lobby of the Retirement Home where mom had lived for the past several years.
"Well," my oldest daughter said to me, approvingly, "She's with Poppa again."
Soon only one person is left beside the grave, alone with tears she had held back for so long, refusing to leave her Nana until the grave had been properly filled in.
For a while my brothers and I stand vigil with her, standing beside our cars at the bottom of the hill. We discuss many things, including meeting for coffee at a nearby restaurant.
And then, as the maintenance truck from the cemetery arrives to begin filling in the grave, I get behind the wheel of our car and pull away from the snow covered hill into the spring like weather and greening grassy plains of the vast cemetery.
Leaving behind the "one eyed, one kneed, left handed vegetarian", as my mother had recently taken to calling herself, together again with her husband Bill.
My father.
I'm taking a step back from my normal Sepia Saturday focus on the Fraser's this week to remember my mother whose funeral is today, Saturday March 6th. I can't think of a more fitting time for reflecting on her life. What follows is the second part of a very abbreviated version of an autobiography she wrote for me back in 1989. Please see The FSO post for part one.
Rosanna and Bill On Their Honeymoon
The Friday My Home Town Shoot Out theme this week is "In Remembrance", a topic chosen by ChefE. Saturday being my mother's funeral I can't think of a more fitting time for reflecting on her life. What follows is part one of a very abbreviated version of an autobiography she wrote for me back in 1989. Tomorrow Sepia Saturday will feature part 2
My name is Rosanna and I was born in Mitcham, England to Captain George Shepherd and Rosanna Staines. I have a sister, Eileen and a brother, Ted. We first lived in rooms over the Star Pub which was owned by my grandfather then later moved to London Road.
Back in those days there was no electricity and I loved to sit in the window in the front room and watch for the lamp lighter to come along to light the street lamp opposite, and beside the Pawn Shop, with it's three brass balls hanging beside the door. When my brother Ted was born and Eileen and I were a little older, my dad divided our bedroom into two rooms so that Ted had a little room of his own.
