Whenever I touch the lobe of my right ear, I think of Eugene Whelan. I was talking to him just minutes before I lost it. We were at the Ottawa Car Show, invited there by the man from Chrysler, Othmar Stein, who was hosting a VIP reception at the Westin Hotel. We drank white wine for an hour, then took a spin around the show, and were back at the bar in no time. Gene was regaling us with stories about his adventures. I don’t remember what he was talking about, but it was sure funny. My feet were hurting, standing in three inch heels, so I sat on the corner of a love seat, slipped and clipped my ear on the glass coffee table. A few minutes later somebody noticed blood streaming down my neck. Seems I’d taken an entire chunk of the lobe. I didn’t notice, mesmerized as I was by the guy who seemed like he was agriculture minister forever. Gene, Gene, the Farmin’ Machine used to give six speeches a week at various places, didn’t matter where: a grocery store, a far...
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