My thaumatic summer vacation

GANG OF THREE: Up and down the backroads of Vancouver
Island's Cowichan Valley roamed Ewa aboard
her pal's funky 690-cc KTM; me riding Ewa's dark green Kawasaki
650 Versys, and Helena or-- as I called her but only once
  "Ma Carter" -- bringing up the rear in Ewa's feisty red Scion IQ. 

 Three weeks ago, Iris Cat and I drove 90 minutes north from Toronto to Severn Bridge, Ont., population approximately 300, one of whom is my son Michel. 

Iris (if she could talk): "Imma  chill with Michel so Helena and Peter can visit their daughter Ewa who lives in the middle of frikkin nowhere on Vancouver Island." (Iris is a city cat. That's how she would talk.)

Ewa's situation is not to be confused with her identical twin sister Ria who lives in a house in the middle of the  woods too but on Manitoulin Island. 

How all my kids wound up in the boonies is beyond me. (The boonies. Beyond me. I didn't plan that.)

My late brother (and Ewa's, Michel's and Ria's) uncle Ed used to play a drinking game called "Why would anybody want to live anyplace other than Toronto?" 

Sorry. I got off track there. But still. Why'd my kids all run away? Was it something I said? 

IRIS GOES TO CAMP: She's got
an insatiable need to make cameo
appearances in my blog. Her name
could have been Hitchcock. 

Never mind. 

As Iris and I drove, we listened to a CBC radio interview with an English professor named Mary Beard who introduced us to the word "thauma," which means, more or less, "a sense of wonder," or "amazement," or "how the heck did all this happen?" 

Thauma also describes Helena's and my trip west.

The thing is, aside from hugging Ewa, we had no plan beyond showing up. 

Ewa had, however, borrowed a splendid motorcycle from her friend in case we wanted to tour. Her main ride is a tiny Toyota Scion IQ car, which, while wildly fun to drive, suits two rather than three adults. 

So we had lots of wheels. But no agenda. 

Until we heard about the Parksville, B.C., international sand sculpture competition. Parksville is about an hour's caravan ride from Ewa's place. With Ewa taking the lead, me in tow and Helena bringing up the rear with Ewa's IQ, we headed up the TransCanada highway.

I include the word "international" to underscore the fact that the artists who showed up to compete at this outta the way place arrived from around the planet. 

Around the world. What I would have given to have had one of those sculptors as a seatmate on the flight in.

GOOD OLE CANADIAN ANYHOW: The winner by
Canadian Abe Waterman: Its plaque read:
"Sometimes the barriers we create between
ourselves can be overcome by something as
simple as a bulldozer."

You want to talk labours of love? 

Exhibit A: These these thaumatic-inducing works of art would all be, a few days after we saw them, blown away by the wind and the rain.  

Look at the detail. Imagine the hours of training the artists required. The thankless practice. The precision and concentration. Check out all the little bricks in the one with the circles and me standing behind it. Those bricks didn't detail themselves. (It was the overall winner, by the way.)

And the huge Poseiden-y monster guy? I couldn't carve one of his hooves, much less a hand or whatever the heck you call the eyes where his nipples should be. 

I forget what the title of this memorable statue was but noted with pleasure that it was created by a pair of artists: Sue McGrew of the U.S.A. and Dimitry Klimenko, of--get this--Russia.

TRUE GRIT: Put you to sleep? 
Not this sandman. 

Just writing that sentence makes me believe in a brighter future. 

A pair of similarly aged (I'm guessing) equally determined, skillful, dedicated, artistic, fun loving whacky perfectionists somehow united on this faraway beach to produce this monster on a beach. Miraculous.

Oh there was money at stake. 

I believe the grand prize was a total of about a dozen hundred dollars. If the winners were more than one person they'd have to split that. It's hardly enough to pay a Toronto parking ticket.

It also reminded me of the time I went to hear a seasoned jazz pianist friend play a club near my house. While he was playing his meter  expired and the parking ticket cost him more than he got paid to play. 

But play he did. 

Not everybody's in it for the money. And there’s other places besides Toronto to live. 

Go figure. 

 

 

 

Movie review: Peter takes a ride on the Short bus

THE GRIMLEY REAPER: Who wouldn't want a date
 with this man? 

"I remember it well," my wife Helena said, before adding, "and I was so-o-o proud." 

That conversation took place two Tuesdays ago, moments after we finished watching the Netflix documentary Marty, Life is Short, about the comic actor Martin Short.

Until we watched the show I had forgotten I once attended a Halloween party as one of Short's memorable characters, Ed Grimley. 

Even better, after we watched the movie, I found this great picture and can see why Helena was so pleased. Pretty sexy, I know.

I recommend you watch the Short doc. The show -- and I'm not exaggerating -- made me laugh -- I'd forgotten about Katharine Hepburn's hot-dog vendor cousin in "Lifestyles of the Relatives of the Rich and Famous" -- and cry.  When he was 12, Short's older-by-14 years brother David was killed in a car accident. Young Martin was away at summer camp and recalls in the documentary that his camp counsellor came and told him, "Your brother's been killed in a car crash." Short answered: "but is he okay?"  

Easily, the best part of the movie for me was when Short describes the home he purchased when he and Nancy Dolman first got married. There's footage of the young couple in their new house, and Martin announces the address. 

The home's on Indian Road. We live on Grenadier Road. Four blocks west of our house, Grenadier intersects with Indian. 

I'm not going to publish the address here. You'll have to watch the show. But you know what went through my head.

This past Saturday was sunny and warm. A few minutes after noon, I headed west toward Indian Road. Told Helena I'd be back in an hour or so.

Ninety minutes later, I got home. 

"So?" she asked, "Did you see the house?"

I told her. 

Near the end of our block I ran into our neighbhour Healey. (Not his real name.)

He asked how's it going.

"Healey," I said. "I can hardly believe it. You're looking at a guy who is affluent enough and healthy enough and and fortunate enough to spend a whole afternoon doing something as irrelevant and self-indulgent as going for a totally selfish walk for no other reason than I want to. Isn't that nuts? Could a man want for anything else?"

I really did say that. Or something very close to it. 

I continued. 

I did not, I told Healey, have to work; I didn't have to, like, you know, forage for food. Or fetch water. Or maybe haul a broken wagon axle all the way across town to get it fixed so I can get back to plowing tomorrow. 

At this point, you're probably thinking, "If I were Healey, I'd be looking for an exit." But nope. He said he was glad we ran into each other.

"You were raised," I told him, "right."

With that, we plunked ourselves down on a little cement garden wall near his place; Healey proceeded to tell me how in fact he had been raised, and the next 90 minutes zipped in an eyeblink. I went home.

Helena: "Success?"

Me: "You bet." 

Life is indeed short. And a person's life story is way more important than some chunk of real estate.  

It's the Northern Ontario national anthem, stomp it!

BALLINAFAD SATURDAY NIGHT: Me and Tom.
That's the name of the the town the Connors lived in
when I met them, several decades ago. I still have that sweater.

Wait'll you hear what happened to my cousin Rose's nephew David's cousin's son Mason.

Mason was on board a flight recently and found himself sitting beside the late Stompin' Tom Connors' widow Lena. She told Mason the following.

Actually, when Rose shared this news, I thought, "Right. Rose's nephew David's cousin's son Mason. It's as if I was talking to Lena myself." Ha.

Anyway Rose told me Mrs. Connors let Mason know that many years earlier, some bigshot Nashville music producer offered Connors a million bucks for the rights to his song Sudbury Saturday Night on the condition that he change "Sudbury" to "Syracuse."

Tom turned the guy down. Flat. That's a music pun. 

Advantage: Peter. 

And thank you, Mason. Your reportorial skills and nose for news are peerless. It's a great story and you had no way of knowing your distant relative here in Toronto would be so charged up by it.

Seriously. 

The somewhat goofy song has been a part of my life since I first heard it in, I believe, 1969. The first verse and chorus of Sudbury Saturday Night might be the one musical soundbite I've performed more than any other. I even did an accapella version unloading ice from a tractor trailer at Burning Man, in 2016.

The girls are out to bingo

And the boys are gettin' stinko

They'll think no more of INCO

On a Sudbury Saturday night.

The glasses they will tinkle

As their eyes begin to twinkle

And we'll think no more of INCO

On a Sudbury Saturday night.

Etc.

My aging Fender acoustic guitar basically plays the Sudbury Saturday Night opening riff all by itself. 

It's hard to imagine my life without Sudbury Saturday Night. 

And if Connors had gone for the big bucks and sold out, I'm thinking Sudbury Saturday Night--Northern Ontario's national anthem, really--would have disappeared. 

Such a thing has happened before, you know. 

About 70 years ago, one Gordon Jenkins wrote a soulful piece that his wife Beverley performed on a radio show that had, among the listeners, a young member of the U.S. Airforce named Johnny Cash. After completing his service, ex-staff seargent Cash started making records, and one of the biggest hits was Folsom Prison Blues. 

In '69, Jenkins successfully sued Cash for copyright infringement. I'm betting you've never heard Jenkins composition, Crescent City Blues which sorta disappeared, until you click here. Cash later admitted to the infraction.

I know it's not the same for the Sudbury song. But a good story's a yarn.

And my sixth or seventh cousin twice removed cousin/nephew Mason, who I haven't met (yet) clearly knows a thing or two about storytelling. Maybe he'll be a journalist like his dad's cousin David's aunt Rose's cousin me.

And to think the story came directly from Lena's lips to my ear.  

Mickey don't lose that number

THERE MAY BE SNOW ON THE ROOF: But there's no furnace. 
Michel's living in a uniquely unwinterized bungalow.

My son Michel, 33, lives by himself in a small house about two hours north of Toronto, in a wee village called Severn Bridge. 

Michel's place is on the bank of the Severn River. And in the summertime, the  Severn Bridge area is alive with tourists. 

One of the coolest things? The all-day, everyday watercraft parade, featuring  multi-million-dollar yachts, one-person kayaks and everything in between that passes by Michel's front door. It's a huge part of a  hot-weather day's entertainment. 

But in winter? Hah. 

Yesterday, I was lucky enough to see some riverside action:  A beaver played on the ice a few minutes before gracefully slipping below the surface. How they survive remains a mystery to me. 

Similarly, how Michel--who sometimes gets called Mickey-- thrives is a mystery. But since he moved to Severn last spring, he texts me several times a day, to tell me how much he loves his country home.

That said....

Exactly 36 hours ago, my wife Helena and I were not sure if our Mickey was dead or alive. (Spoiler alert: He's fine. And happy as a beaver.)

But there were a few rough hours, I'll tell you.

We'd lost touch. 

Most days, Michel and I exchange a few texts but mid weekend, he went silent. I pretended not to worry. Monday morning, still nothing. Helena and I thought I'd better head out. (Mick has no wheels at the moment.)  All sorts of scenarios wafted through our worrywart parental noggins.

A RIVER RUNS UNDER IT, SOMEWHERE
The view from inside Michel's place

At 6:30 Monday morning I headed up highway 400. It was dark, snowing and I was uncharacteristically unable to just listen to music and drive. Michel lives like a frontiersman up there. His digs aren't winterized. It's been a record-breaking winter. People fall and hurt themselves. Power goes out.

My trip didn't get any more fun when, 10 klicks south of Michel, an ambulance, with siren sounding and lights flashing, passed me, headed his direction. 

Sometimes, "it made my stomach churn" isn't a figure of speech. I tried to keep up to the ambulance but the paramedics left me in their snowy dust. I couldn't see whether they turned off on the road that leads to Michel's place. 

By the time I arrived at the turnouff, my gut was sore, my mouth dry. I switched off the radio and did my best to not outdrive the snowy conditions. 

Though I've been up that road dozens of times, I usually do so in the summer. Snow-covered landscape looks completely different. As embarrassed as I am to admit this, in my anxious state, I drove right past Michel's sideroad and found myself on an unfamiliar, curvy, single-lane snow-covered backroad. Turning around isn't that easy.

I eventually did a three-point turn (a double-you-ee?) and found my way to Michel's. It was dark. I knocked hard. Peered through the window.  

Michel appeared from the shadows and leaned through the door frame to greet me. If I look happy in that photo up there, it's because I can't remember being more relieved. The stress disappeared just like that.

Turns out that early Sunday morning, Mick's phone cacked out, and he hadn't made it to town yet. 

He knew we'd be worried, he said, but he'd also had a buddy staying over and had told his friend when he was leaving to give us a call to let us know everything was okay. 

Of course because his buddy happens to be a card-carrying guy, when Michel asked if he had our number, he said "yeah," and left. 

Except he didn't.

Michel told me he would have asked another man who lived down the road to give us a call but Michel  only knew our landline number. We don't have a landline any more. 

To be fair, I don't know Michel's cell number. Or those of his sisters, either. Or, for that matter, yours. 

Seriously. It's a thing. And there's no cell-phone directory, though that is a bazillion-dollar idea.

Mick said he tried to log on to an old laptop so he could email us but forgot his password. The  BOT at the login gate indicated it would text him a security code.  A lot of help that was.

Michel: "I knew you'd be worried. I thought about going onto Netflix and changing my user name to 'My Phone's Broken' thinking you might see that but then how would I know if you did or not. " (I love this idea.)

Short story long, Michel now has a new phone, he and I had a marvelous visit and as recently as two hours ago, Mickey reported that a souvenir fridge magnet in the shape of a penguin is safely adhering Helena's and my numbers to his fridge.

 I asked if he was okay with me blogging about our adventure and he texted "Go for it"

As soon as I finish this blog (with its attendant earworm) I am going to write down all the important numbers  and stick them in my wallet. 

Truth to tell, I almost learned the same lesson exactly two years ago.

Helena and I were at Mardi Gras when she got separated from all her documents. The fact that she had our phone numbers in her wallet saved us from a wrecked vacation. I wrote about the close call at the time, and probably vowed to take steps.

Wonder whether I'll follow through this time around.

An important Valentine message, courtesy of His influencer

CARLO'S A CUTIE ALRIGHT: What's not to love?

Earlier this week--and for reasons I'll explain in a minute—I was researching the newest appointment to the Vatican's roster of saints, namely, Carlo Acutis--patron of the Internet--when I uncovered a bit of intel that might bring down a multi-billion-dollar industry.

I am of course referring to the Valentine's Day business.

This is serious. And I apologize in advance for any broken hearts that result.

But at this point, you're like, "Hold on a second. Did you just say 'patron of the Internet'????" 

I did. And there's a darn good reason I was looking him up and why he is interrupting this important breaking news story.

Thursday I was lucky enough to attend the annual Canadian Online Publishing Awards, held at the Dim Sum King in downtown Toronto. The event celebrates some of the finest Internet-based journalism in the country. I was a judge in the 2025 competition.

I thought, "Wouldn't it be cool to tell the awards giver-outers about the cool new guardian angel of social media? A saint they can call their own! Maybe even name an award after him, like Oscar."

In other words, I was doing serious journalism.

For the moment, all you need to know about Carlo is this: 

He was born in Monza, Italy. Carlo was on this side of eternity from May 3, 1991 until he died of a horrible ailment called acute promyelocytic luekemia on Oct. 12, 2006. (Oct.12 is his feast day.) He spent so much of his short time here using tech to spread the Word in all manner of social media formats with such miraculous results--Vatican saint people say--that Carlo the kid became Carlo the very first millennial to be canonized, on  Sept 2, 2025.

VALENTINE'S DAY. MASSACRED: One upside
is,  Al Capone's dreadful VD-memory... cancelled!

Check out his website.

By now you're asking, "What has this got to do with Valentine's Day?"

In doing my research, I learned this: 

In I969, the Vatican removed Valentine and a couple of dozen other saints from the general church calendar.  

While they didn't take away Val's saint licence, he in effect lost his day job. Read about it here.

I know my theory would hold up in court. 

It's not easy being a messenger.  And I apologize in advance to Hallmark, chocolatiers and manufacturers of tacky lingerie everywhere. 

As far as I can tell, Feb. 14 is no longer St. Valentine's Day. End of story. Full stop.

I warned you this was big.

But I am only one man. I'm hardly in a position to come up with a remedy to what I foresee is a huge fallout. 

The only thing I can think is, forget about this one day. 

Cover your bases. If you love someone, do nice stuff for them every day. All year long. With all your might. Why take chances? I bet even the candy companies would be down with this.

I'm sure Carlo would give my notion a like. 

2025: The days of your

SURVIVING A CRASH COURSE: The bike story could have had a far worse ending.

My daughter Ria asked what my favourite moment of 2025 was.

My first response?

"Walking away from a motorcycle crash was pretty awesome. How many people get to do that?"

Publishing a very warmly received book of stories wasn't bad either.

Neither was enjoying my day job and the people I work with all week.

I'm alive and healthy in one of the most comfortable societies in the world in the absolute best time in history. With an insanely fun family.

Is this barfy enough for you yet? I'm not done.

2025 was a standout year for me.

But a favourite moment? That had to be Saturday., Dec. 13, at 1:30 in the afternoon. 

THE LIKE BUG: The only car that makes
people smile and punch one another.

My wife Helena and I were in our 2016 Beetle travelling from Toronto to my hometown of Sudbury for a Christmas dinner hosted by my sister Bertholde. 

Of course it was snowing and except for a few overconfident types in 4x4s, traffic was just creeping along. But welcome to central Ontario in mid winter.

Helena and I were discussing the words "you're" and "your".

 

Helena has a masters degree in speech and language pathology from the University of Toronto so she knows a thing or two about articulation and hearing. She suggested that even though one might think the words "you're" and "your" are pronounced the same, there's actually a difference and that we can detect the distinction if we listen closely enough.

I didn't agree.

 

So we tried an experiment.

Her idea, folks.

I'm paraphrasing but it went something like this. Helena: "I'm going to think a sentence containing either 'your' or 'you're,' but I'm only going to say that word out loud. And then you guess which one I'm using."

Are you still with me?

 

I barely know how to transcribe what happened next. Bear with me.

Helena: "Silence silence silence silence your [or you're] silence silence. Which one was it?" 

Peter: "You are?"

H: "You're right."

DATING OURSELVES: Me and Helena
in our pre-broken-oven days.

P: "You are."

H: "What?"

M: "You said 'you're."

H: "Okay your turn."

P: "Your."

We probably covered 60 kilometres with this important experiment. And it's way harder than you think to just "think" most of  a sentence but say only one of the words out loud.  

Turns out Helena was (duh!) right. There is a teensy weensy difference in tone between you're and your. 

We then tried a few similar words and only stopped when

I told Helena about the lady in the delivery room who was shouting "Don't! Won't! Can't!" and the doctor said "Not to worry. Those are just contractions." 

Best moment of the year? Why not?

We weren't talking about why our three grown children Ewa, Ria and Michel have all taken to living in the boonies; Ewa on Vancouver Island, Ria on Manitoulin and Michel 15 minutes north of Weber's Burgers. We weren't discussing the rising cost of cheese and apples; we weren't talking about the food trap epidemic that makes us nervous when we're running out of toothpicks; we weren't describing aches or medicine or steps we should be taking to replace our aging Bosch oven that has a cracked burner. 

We were having the serendipitous kind of baggage-free conversation people enjoy when they're dating. 

If you don't understand why such a moment could be the highlight of a year, you haven't been married  long enough.

I hope you're enjoying the first week of 2026 as much as yours truly is.

 

Mining your pease and qeues

JOINED AT THE WORDLE:
Rose Rice and the author,
back before Wordle or colours were invented.  

"Ask your friend Tracy."

The speaker was my cousin Roseanne Rice. (I know. Her name Rose Rice sounds like the fancy car, the one that's known for not making any sound! Haha.) 

Roseanne was referring to Tracy Bennett, the Wordle Editor at the New York Times. I'd asked Rose if she thought today was the first time in Wordle history that the word started with .. oh never mind...but that's when Roseanne advised I consult Ms Bennett.

Tracy Bennett's not really my friend. 

We've never met. For all I know, by the time I post this, she might have been promoted. Maybe now Tracy Bennett oversees six-letter words. Haha. 

That's a very good joke. Tracy Bennett works at the New York Times; arguably the finest newspaper on the planet. Motto: "No slouches need apply." Thinking about Ms Bennett's skill level brings to mind the expression, "she has probably forgotten more about editing than you'll ever know. Peter."

Imagine how many people benefit from Bennett's deft Wordle work. Two years ago I was in the All That Jazz coffee shop near my house. I turned to the woman behind me, whom I had never seen before and without any introduction, asked, "Get your Wordle this morning?"

As if she'd been expecting the question, the stranger immediately started in about how close that morning's answer was to her go-to opening word. 

Me, I don't use a standard opening word. I have no "system." In any part of my life.

But every day, around North America, more than 10 million people stare at their phones and then punch in five starting letters, hoping they will be---out of the more than 165,000 five-letter words there are in English (I looked it up)--right.

So, you, Tracy Bennett, for doing your part in making this daily ritual a life-affirming event for everyone, deserve a high five. (Five? Get it?) 

Same as all those other anonymously working editors out there: Wordy craftspeople who do precisely what you might have assumed your grandma believed you did when you told her you worked as an editor. 

GAMED AND CONFUSED: Often, my
Wordle chart looks eerily like Tetris.

They smooth out the language; assure (or is it ensure?) accuracy and mostly, keep writers from sounding dorky.

Jen Lauriault is one such. She's the copy editor at the publication I work at, Law360 Canada. I'm not saying nice stuff about Jen solely because she was a high school student at Elliot Lake Secondary School when my nephew Hugh and nieces Norma and Jennifer were there. Or because she met her husband Marc when they played on the same hockey team. That scenario alone conjures up a heartwarming Netflix holiday feature.

In the few months I've worked with Jen, she has edited my choice of words and politely suggested the equivalent of, "Peter if you say that, you'll not only sound like a jerk you might bring this whole place down." 

An extraordinary editor doesn't merely make sure words and colons and stuff are in the right places, they guard against tone deafness. When we're all exactly three clicks away from being cancelled, tone deafness can be fatal.

Back at Chatelaine I wrote a lot of headlines, including for gardening stories. One day, I thought I'd cleverly incorporate a popular Oprah Winfrey saying; i.e., "You go, girl!" Our story was about hoeing. Do you see where I'm going with this? Can you believe I thought "You hoe girl!" would make a great attention-grabbing headline?  

More times than I want to admit, people like Jen, the Chatelaine editors and Tracy Bennett keep the world safe other people's klutziness.  

In doing so, they make all our lives better. 

Which brings me to a something I've noticed and wondered about Wordle. 

Am I the only one who thinks Wordle words are always sorta positive? 

As far as I can tell, Wordle never sparks anxiety. They're always, well, nice. Has anybody been "triggered" by a Wordle answer? My guess is no. 

Which, even if it does cut the number of opening-word possibilities down to, say, a piddling 100 grand, is more scientific proof why all skilful editors go to heaven.