Rose's Cantina

A few days ago, my daughter Marissa set out a challenge for her white family and friends after the senseless lynching of George Floyd. WHITE PEOPLE, white friends, white family, I'm going to ta lk to you for a second. Your silence on the issues that people of colour face, your passiveness ("I'm not racist, I don't see colour, etc) also further systematic racism. If you don't look for information on the LIVED EXPERIENCES of people of colour, if you don't educate yourselves, if you don't push for change, ask how you can help - these things will never get better.  Funny, we never talked about it. Not even when Jeff came for dinner, moved in, and never left. He was just Jeff who lived in our basement, a quiet man with dreads, and glasses who didn't say very much.  He wasn't the only young man who lived under our roof. My boys had friends who came and stayed, mostly after getting kicked out of their parents' houses. But Jeff was the only ...

The old woman sat in her wheelchair looking out the window at the perfectly manicured garden. It had a fountain, where she loved watching the birds frolicking on hot summer days like this one. She held her useless left wrist with her right hand for a moment, then gently laid it by her side. The woman did this by habit; she didn't want people seeing what the stroke had done to the hand that used to knead the shortbread that she once made for her grandchildren. "Hi Elsie," I said softly, and sat down in the chair beside here. "Do you want to come out for the sing-a-long?" She looked up at me with rheumy blue eyes, and shook her head. "Not today, dear," she said in her soft Scottish accent. "I'm not feeling up to it." "Come on, now," I said. "It will do you good. Singing always makes you feel better." She shrugged and gave me a wave her hand, as if showing the white flag. She knew there was no...

I am a white woman. I have a black son-in-law, a black granddaughter, and a black niece. My daughter Marissa has many black friends, and relatives. I am no longer surprised when I see a video of a black person being killed by police, or vilified by a white person just for being "on the scene". It worries me that my granddaughter will have to navigate the world using a different lens than her white cousin. And I'm concerned that something bad will happen to her dad just for "driving while black". So I am sharing this post that Marissa put on Facebook today, because she asked her family to stop being silent on the issue of race. There is a lot we can do if we only open our eyes, call out racism when we see it, and get involved. Marissa's right. White people were shocked to see other people standing by while a police officer killed George Floyd in cold blood, and reacted by just asking him to "stop".  And they were shocked that a black bi...

In May 1978, I got my first and last full time newspaper job working for the Ottawa Journal. It wasn't my first foray into print journalism. As a 16-year-old, I had a weekly newspaper column with the St. Catharines Standard as a student at West Park Secondary School. The gig paid 25 cents an inch and I learned quickly the art of padding my column with the names of everybody on the football and rowing teams. The Standard later hired me as a summer student. The editors quickly sized me up, and decided I should become the "first woman" writer. So I wrote inches and inches of copy about the first woman rowing coach, the first woman dump truck driver, and the first woman police officer. In exchange for selling my soul, I was given some plum assignments, like covering Marvin Gaye at a champagne reception where he was given the key to the city of Buffalo. (Later that day, he returned the favour by bailing on his concert because he was being chased by private dicks who...

Embed from Getty Images On the day the planes hit the World Trade Center in New York, my entire view of the world changed. I had been going through some really rough stuff, trying to raise a small group of hellions who were out of control; desperately searching for work when there was none; and hanging on to a house I hated, one which I had bought irrationally post-divorce. It often felt like I had stepped in quick sand and it was all I could do to cling for dear life onto what was left of the solid ground. Every night, I would sit in the living room and stare at a tree in the middle of the green space behind my house, and imagine building a fort, and just going there to live. I wanted to be in a place where nobody could find me, not the collection agencies, or the ex, not even my beloved children. Instead, I just sat there with a bottle of wine in one hand, and a self-help book in the other. Then the planes hit and the entire world was turned upside down. My kids came r...

Like most old codgers, I'm a bit reluctant to embrace change of any kind. Call me what you like: individual, contrarian, stupid. But this is a trend I had to follow because I know, like it or not, if I don't, it could kill me or somebody else. I do it for the same reason I put on a seat belt, or don't get in the car after a night of drinking. Because I am part of a society that values the taking on of personal responsibility. I am a Canadian who pays taxes to make sure no one goes bankrupt because of illness. I believe in the public good, in the social safety net, and giving a hand others. I am a mother, a grandmother, a wife, and a friend. Just an ordinary Canadian. I don't carry a gun, but I'm happy to carry a mask. In 2009, I got really sick with a coronavirus called SARS when I was working at an Ottawa hospital. I've never been that sick in my life. I didn't wear a mask, or gloves, or even use hand sanitizer. And I got terribly sick. The ...

Embed from Getty Images I was talking to my friend Doug Backus, a farmer in Lincoln, Ontario, about some kind of joint venture to take us and our families through our dotage. Right now, Doug grows peaches, pears and grapes on his farm which has been in the family for two centuries. His farm is pretty big by Niagara standards but it's getting harder and harder to make a living to support his extended family which includes his parents Dorothy and Bill, his wife Theresa, assorted kids who live on the spread in various lodgings, and a slew of granddaughters whom he's raising. Last summer, I was trying to convince Doug to start an artist colony where poor folks like me could live and do our arts and crafts, while trying to eek out a living on an Old Age Pension which amounts to a car payment for some of my rich friends. My thinking was we could put ourselves up in trailers, help out on the farm if we are able, and sell our wares to an unsuspecting public. Doug is up for a l...

Her name was Alice, just Alice. I never knew her last name. She lived with her son Charlie, or should I say Charlie lived with her. He is himself elderly, just a guy who never grew up. I see him every day riding his bike around the neighbourhood. The other day, I saw he put a For Sale sign on his bike. Fifty bucks to the lucky new owner. I knew something had gone terribly wrong. Alice wasn't sitting on her porch waving to the neighbours. The usual flowers weren't being hung up but I figured she was waiting for the 24th of May weekend, that time all old folks will tell you is the perfect time for perennials after the frost had eventually left town. I knew for sure that something wasn't right when I saw a For Sale sign on Alice's house earlier in the week. My worst fears were confirmed. Alice doesn't live here anymore. The tiny house where she raised six children sold within 24 hours. Charlie had put out a few belongings in the trash, but otherwise there wa...

A heart is not judged by how much you love; but by how much you are loved by others."  -- L. Frank Baum It's not easy standing out in a family like the Van Dusens. They are like tribbles; they are everywhere. In politics. In the media. In the fine arts. Even on stage at local fairs raising money for good causes. But Jack Van Dusen is no ordinary Van Dusen. He's a trailblazer. He was the voice of Ottawa anchoring the local news in the early days, with the sidekicks you see in the photo above. He was on Parliament Hill rubbing shoulders with the likes of John George Diefenbaker and making mischief with the relatively small cabal of ink stain wretches who were the first generation to talk to Canadians over the air waves. After a successful time in the media, Jack had a second career as a public relations guy. That's when I met him sitting at the lunch table at the National Press Club with his brother Tom, the columnist Charles Lynch, Sergeant-at-Arms Gus Clou...

Ashley's search party  When Cindy McGean Simpson received the call that her daughter Ashley was missing in Salmon Arm, she immediately contacted the RCMP. It was days after Ashley had disappeared after an ill-fated drinking party at Margaret Falls involving Ashley, her boyfriend Derek, and a friend. The party, by many accounts, had turned into an alcohol-fuelled fight between Ashley and Derek. Ashley had already made the decision to leave Derek and travel back to her home in Niagara-on-the-Lake. She didn't know how she was going to make it back. She was still waiting on a cheque from unemployment, she had no money, and had only texting ability on her Smartphone. But she knew she had to leave. It was clear that the situation had gone south since the pair relocated to Salmon Arm from Pink Mountain in a truck that Derek had borrowed without telling his employer. So this was a last hurrah. After the fight, Derek told police, the pair went back to their trailer where he ...

One of the things I've always loved about Ottawa is its small town feel. Tourists may know this place because it is the Nation's Capital, a place of political theatre and the gargoyles that grace the Parliament Buildings. They come for the festivals, and the souvenirs, for rides along the waterways in amphibious boats. Sophisticates marvel at the charity balls, high priced boutiques and restaurants that serve tiny food.  But townies adore the other side of Ottawa -- the square pizza at the Prescott, quarts at the Chateau Lafayette, and the markets that pop up every May, like clockwork. Townies, even transplanted ones like me, know all the great spots in town, all the delis serving smoked meat sandwiches piled high, the best places to hear blues on a cold and rainy Sunday afternoon, and the little cafes in Little Italy where we can buy the best damned cappuccino and biscotti this side of Tuscany. We also love, love, love our local television which for years has reflecte...

This week, I'm coming up to an anniversary of sorts. Last year at this time, my colleagues baked cupcakes for me, and threw me a little party. Then they wished me well, as I headed out the door hoping for new adventures. I haven't worked since. So the milestone I will be pondering on May 8th will be the last day I worked in one whole year -- a first for me in a relatively successful 40 year career. And what a career it was. I got to rub shoulders with rock stars, and famous authors, dine with prime ministers and even a king, publish seven magazines, make two feature-length documentaries, write hundreds of stories and columns for major newspapers, and even help build a monument to fallen firefighters. I can't say I loved all of it. As a single mom, I did a lot of contract work and languished in the not-for-profit publishing ghetto where much of the work was given by people who couldn't stand doing it themselves.  At the upper range, I made six figures for a wh...