Rose's Cantina

On the eve of 2017, Jennette was looking forward to a new life, unencumbered by caregiving, armed with a new set of choppers the doctors said she would never have. Sure, she missed her dad terribly, as she did her husband who had been her wingman and drinking buddy for over 30 years. But now, she was set. Dad had left her a tidy sum in his will, and she had inherited all of his sunny Florida-themed white furniture. She had bought a new car, and had set herself up in a tidy little apartment on Kilborn Avenue, her little dream palace. Jennette had survived her own personal war. In her late middle age, she worked two jobs because Roger was too sick to work anymore (largely due to a rum and Camels habit that would have put Hemingway to shame). Soon after she retired from her job as an executive assistant for Canada's electronic spy agency, she found herself out of both jobs -- her other job in a clothing store had been stolen away when retail went bust -- and so she became...

Last week, Jennette and I had the big talk. You know the one, the talk where you set everything straight, and confess to past transgressions, lies and half-truths. If you're a caregiver for a cancer patient, you know what I'm talking about. Even the most solid gold hearted caregiver sometimes has to lie to the patient, if for no other reason than to keep heart and soul together. My big lie concerned Jennette's apartment which I had to empty out over the course of about six days when she undergoing radiation at the Ottawa Hospital. Her doctor told us that Jay needed to go into assisted living, and would no longer be able to live the swinging single life at her pad on Kilborn Avenue. The oral cancer was now Stage Four, and it was inhabiting the side of her face like a burrowed squirrel. "Unless you have someone to care for her 24/7, she might choke to death one night," he explained in that concerned oncologist voice. "You don't want to come to ...

Embed from Getty Images Remember the good old days, back when there was snail mail, and your mailbox was filled with Christmas newsletters from friends near and far? I believe it was the 80s when those Christmas essays were all the rage, mailed to the masses, included in cards filled with photos of expensively dressed rich families in their matching sweaters -- including the dog. I always hoped at least one dog bit the photographer. I haven't gotten any in recent years. And that's because we're all entering our dotage. Those massively successful kids? The ones who went to good schools? Unemployed, divorced and living in the basement. But some of the families are still out there. They're the ones who inherited cottages from their parents. Anyway, I miss those cards and letters. So I thought I'd write one this year. You'll have to read it here -- like most Canadians, I cannot afford stamps. Hello! Bonjour! Friends: How are you!!! We are fine...

Embed from Getty Images Sometimes you have to make lemonade with rotten lemons. That's what my cousin John Simpson has done. He has turned a terrible tragedy -- the presumed murder of his daughter Ashley Simpson -- into his own private mission to help rural and remote communities find their missing daughters and sisters. In the last year, John has not so quietly begun to raise money to buy drones which can hover over farms, waters and forested areas, places that are not safe for humans to tread. He got the idea when he returned to Salmon Arm, where Ashley went missing 19 months ago after a fight with her boyfriend. She is among a growing number of women who have disappeared in the area in the last two years. It's been difficult for John to keep going. He's a man who has always worked with his hands, as a cook in logging camps, on ships, and in resorts. He's a man of a certain age, still strong. But since Ashley disappeared he is slightly bent and broken. ...

Thirty-four years ago, this little nugget came into the world to spread joy, and her infectious smile, to everyone she encountered.  Her parents called her Ashley Marie. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds. Her mouth hinted at a smile that would melt a thousand hearts.  Nineteen months ago, someone stole this child from Cindy and John Simpson.  We want her back. Someone, somewhere, knows something. It's time to come clean, or make a mistake.  We are watching. We are Ashley's Army, and our reach is far and wide.  If you killed her, we will find you, and you will be brought to justice.  If you have her, we want her back.  We will never give up. The hills have eyes. The lakes have ears.  Her bones will rise. People will talk.  Lest you forget.  Ashley's Army is watching you. 

A message from John Simpson: The support and love we are getting from family, friends and strangers is very overwelming to say the least. We love that and will never forget the love. Our daughter Ashley has been missing for over 18 months; others have been missing much longer.  At first, there was concern over the missing, then it died down to a dribble. Now, after 18 months of anguish, we get dozens of calls from the media -- papers, radio, Internet -- all with more concern about how things are.  After numerous walks and interviews, searching and researching, barbecues and golf tournaments, over these 18 months, we haven't given up.  Why did the media give up? Why did the community leaders give up? Why did our government and our police force give up? Why didn't they see the missing as a national tragedy? Why did we, as a whole, leave our friends and neighbours out there, lost, to fend for themselves. Why did we give up looking, searching,...

Somewhere, in the killing field, the bones are coming alive. No amount of fire can destroy the DNA. Finally, our sisters will tell their tales, not using their voices, using their dry bones. There is no tree stump heavy enough, no hole deep enough, to keep them silent. Our sisters will finally tell their stories. Through their dry bones. Who will be listening?