Rose's Cantina

While the birds were flying south and folks were getting their last tans yesterday, I was taking a drive in the country with Jennette to one of her favorite spots - the funeral home and cemetery -- to visit her dad, mum and Roger. Capital Gardens actually could be mistaken for a golf course, with its rolling greens; it's not until you get up close that you see all the benches and memorials topped by real and imitation shrubbery depending on which plan each resident picked for their final resting place. It's a nice spot for a picnic, not at all creepy like the cemeteries of yore. It's like a park that you're planted in. We took this ride to finalize Jennette's funeral, which she actually started paying for after Roger died more than three years ago. She wanted to check her balance, and add on a few smaller details so that when her time eventually comes, she's off to the races. I was with her way back when, meeting with Randy, the cemetery sales g...

A few weeks back, Jennette sat in the exam chair at the Ottawa Hospital, surrounded by the usual suspects, a group of hunky doctors with sad eyes. They were there to deliver the bad news -- her mouth cancer had returned with a vengeance. The tumor, they told her, was now the size of a baby's foot and rested in the exact location where doctor's had cut out a chunk of her lower mouth two years ago. It was news we had both been expecting, ever since she told me that the shape of her jaw was actually changing, and that she had developed a painful sore on the bottom of her chin. Still, it felt like the docs were serving her a warmed-over shit sandwich without even a pickle. I took her out for coffee, and we talked around the subject. She was both shaken and stirred. "Okay, so what's on your bucket list?" I asked her as I sipped an over-priced chai tea. She shot me a look, the same one she used to give Roger when he'd eaten all the peanut butter cookies. ...

I was looking at this little face yesterday, the face that always makes me smile and laugh, and I felt that the world has let her down. Her great-grandfather and his brothers volunteered, more than 60 years ago, to go to war to protect the world from a hateful movement that sprang up an ocean away. I wonder today if my kids would follow their grandfather's lead if needed? Or would they say: why should we get involved? It's not our battle. As I watched CNN this morning, while she played quietly in the corner, and the horrifying images from Charlottesville kept repeating on a loop, I couldn't help but think that we haven't been paying attention.  President 45 -- I will not write his name -- said it best. "What you think our country is so innocent?" My dad went to war to keep hate from spreading. But that effort was just a bandaid on a tumor that has just grown larger and larger under our watch. The cancer of hate has spread. And...

It's been a devastating week for John Simpson's family. He's still coping with the loss of his beloved daughter Ashley who has been missing for 16 months, and is presumed dead. The family is trying to hold it together. John's wife, Cindy, is working on the boats in the Welland Canal. They continue to hold fundraisers to pay search efforts, and a few months back, John returned to Salmon Arm, where Ashley was last seen, to try to find her. Despite all efforts by John, the amazing community, and a handful of drones, the search came up empty. It's as if Ashley vanished into thin air. No one has been charged, and police say there are no suspects. In July, John returned to the Longhouse, in Huntsville, Ontario, where he works as a cook each summer. It's been a devastating time, financially, and John desperately needed "the scratch".  So John has counted on the Longhouse for a bit of stability. What happened last week was right out of a Stephen Kin...

This week, the world lost a magnificent human being, in the form of Dave Milliken, a man I used to know just as "Millie." He was my first city editor when I was a student reporter at the Ottawa Journal and he taught me a lot about the visual nature of journalism. Millie could always make a dog story about a fishing derby pop off the page. He had an eye for layout that was unbelievable; he was a photographer's dream editor, and a reporter's best friend. He was also incredibly hot back in the day with a head of curly hair, accented by ass-enhancing jeans, and torso hugging t-shirts. He could never really leave behind his previous life as an honest to God rock legend. We little kids had no idea about his rock star past. After the night shift, about 3 a.m., Millie refused to touch a guitar or keyboard even when tempted by the sultry tones of Meg Leonard doing a spot-on imitation of Joni Mitchell. You see, the thing about Millie was he closed doors. The To...

Some 25 years ago, I found myself rudderless, having sold my rather large pile of a house in Orleans after my husband left me with three little kids. At the time, Dan had offered to take the kids for the summer, and I agreed. I needed to spend the summer healing. I bought myself a townhouse and sold most of my belongings to pay for the move. With the little cash I had left, I invested in some cheap Ikea furniture. Trouble was, I had no idea how to wield an Allan key. Let's just say, I had left all the heavy lifting and practical stuff to my husband, who was now in the wind. One day, after dropping the kids off at our mid-point, where Dan's girlfriend picked them up, I decided to stroll over to the National Press Club. It was tough. I was still reeling, still grieving the death of my marriage, and hurting about passing off my three little kids to the woman who helped break up my marriage. It was summer, with the Parliamentary recess on, and there was absolutely nobo...

In the town of Enderby, British Columbia, the community got together to create a moving mural entitled No More Stolen Sisters. The mural was painted over a skateboard installation to commemorate the three women who went murdered and missing from this community last year. Deanna Wertz, Caitlin Potts, and my cousin Ashley Simpson all went missing from here, and from nearby Salmon Arm, within months of each other. These were not random disappearances, nor were they atypical in a province that is becoming known as much for its murdered women as it is for its breathtaking mountain scapes. The epidemic of lost women, mostly indigenous women and girls, has left a black mark on this nation known more for hockey and poutine than for violence. It has also raised serious concerns about the endemic racism that exists in many communities where First Nations people and other Canadians live side-by-side, or co-exist within sprawling rural/urban communities.  The alarm be...