Rose's Cantina

In the spring of the worldwide pandemic, Ashley Simpson is 36-years-old. She has settled down in her home town of St. Catharines working with her parents as a cook, server and bottle washer. Four years ago, she decided to give up her vagabond ways. She learned her lesson when she was living in Salmon Arm, British Columbia and left a combustible relationship. Ashley and Derek were like oil and water, and both brought out each other's worst impulses.  Sometimes, she says, she misses the life, but she's now content taking the odd trip to Jamaica or the Dominican Republic. Next year, if the pandemic lifts, she's hoping for a trip to a fishing camp with her family. She's been saving for that. When she's not working the ships that lumber through the Welland Canal, she spends a lot of time with her sisters, Tara, Amy and Amanda. She's not in a relationship right now; she's dating but hasn't found the right guy. She's hoping for that, but her mom Cin

Four years ago, Ashley Simpson and her boyfriend Derek Favell left their life in Pink Mountain, British Columbia and decided to make their home in Salmon Arm, the small community where Derek had grown up. Ashley had lived lots of places after growing up in St. Catharines, Ontario. Ashley loved the outdoors, fishing, hunting, and enjoyed following her dad, John, who divided his time as a cook in rugged Northern work camps, on ships that sailed through the Great Lakes, and at a posh resort in Huntsville, Ontario. Ashley was a happy child, who wasn't afraid of hard work. She loved children, and charmed everyone with her infectious laugh. It was in Pink Mountain where John last saw his beloved daughter. John had to get back to Ontario, but Ashley had met Derek and wanted to stay, so John reluctantly told her to stay safe and keep in touch. He kissed his daughter and wished her luck. Over the next few months, Ashley's mom and her sisters were in constant contact wi

I learned a long time ago that there was no point planning ahead. In my youth, I realized there was no point counting on people. My dad made me, with my mom, then he died. Then my grandparents died. Then my mom died. So I pretty much knew there would be nobody to put the Easter eggs in the basket. And then my husband left me with three little kids, so... He was the last person I counted on. I remarried 10 years later, and I love Scott, but I can't count on him. He's a great guy, a good provider, sincere, kind, loving, wonderful. But he's going to die. I know that. Or I'm going to die. That's a given. September 11 was the last nail in my trust coffin. It was in 2001 that I gave up completely on saving and planning. It was in that year that I gave my house back to the bank and walked away from my normal life. I have been a vagabond ever since. So when the pandemic came, I was ready for it, more or less. My career was in shambles and I had no prosp

On April 26, 2016, my cousin Ashley Marie Simpson disappeared from her home in Salmon Arm, B.C. after having a fight with her boyfriend, Derek Favell. It's hard to believe it has been four years. Her body has never been found, and no one has been arrested in connection with her disappearance save -- I cannot believe I'm writing this -- a number of people who have tried to use her I.D. to get credit cards. I spoke with her mom and dad today, and they still have no clue what happened to her. Cindy and John both believe she is dead, but they have no body to bury. The police have no suspects. "We still have plans for a memorial," says John, wiping away tears. "I'm hoping to go to work and have the funds." He's also planning an annual barbecue and golf tournament hoping the COVID-19 virus will dissipate and people can once again congregate to honour Ashley. In the meantime, John and Cindy continue to work on the ships in the Great Lakes tryin

I woke up with a mission. I wanted tulips, or any kind of flowers, for that matter. And I wanted to buy them from a girl sitting on a corner. I even imagined what she looked like. She would be pretty, but not too pretty, a little Bohemian, wearing a shawl or a floppy hat. I would make her day by buying a bunch of over-priced flowers for myself, and surprise her and buy another bouquet for her. She would smile at me, thank me, wish me a Happy Easter, and we would be on our way. "Mind the cold," I would say, as she drew her shawl a little closer to her face, and then she would return to fixing her stand and replace the two bouquets with ones from a pail she kept behind her chair. Embed from Getty Images I don't know that I expected flowers at every gas station, but I thought there would be girls out there, somewhere, trying to make a few bucks on a cold and blustery Easter weekend which, according to the weather report, is going to get even more blu

Embed from Getty Images The only good laugh I get every day is when I'm hanging with CNN anchor Chris Cuomo, and his bro'  Andrew, in Chris' basement. Thankfully, it's a nice basement, not a Stephen King basement, or even a Fifty Shades of Filth basement. It's not even a That 70s Show basement where the air is filled with the aroma of cheap Mary Jane. For a guy who makes a great living, it's not much of a basement with a couple of white chairs which play host to furry white coverings. Unlike other CNN correspondents, Chris doesn't showcase his law books, and his precious collectibles. He's unpretentious, just a big Italian kid with his curly hair and his Jersey Shore tight tees. We know this is not Chris' real basement. It's been staged. I know this because he has kids, and a dog. I'm sure once the whole pandemic thing is over, the place will revert to the same noisy, dirty, sticky place where most of us keep our kids. Chris is working

photos courtesy of Deb Doucette In 1995, Jed Rached had a dream. He wanted to put together a band, but not any band. He envisioned a big hall filled with horns, keys, flaming guitars, and ear-rattling percussion. Sitting quietly onstage with a couple of sidemen wailing the same old blues tunes over and over just wasn't his style. Jed Rached wasn't just a blues guy. He was a showman . He talked his idea over with a friend who worked at a local arts newspaper, The Xpress, who listened seriously. "All you have to do is arranged the gig," the friend said. "The musicians will follow." So Jed set a date and called up a couple of well known bands, The Hammerheads and the Black Boot Trio. They agreed to let Jed and his band, Rocket Rached and the Fat City Four, warm up for them. It was all arranged. Trouble was, the band in his head had never played in front of an audience before. So he called in a favour at Barrymore's , Ottawa's legendary