Sharing with you things that are on my mind...Maybe yours too. Come back to Wrights Lane for a visit anytime!

25 April, 2017

THE PROS AND CONS OF CHICKEN FARMING BY CITY SLICKERS


When I was a kid growing up in Dresden, ON. we (my dad and I) raised Angora rabbits, chinchillas, hamsters, and chickens, all with the thought of "getting rich quick".  Only trouble was, the furry and feathery creatures all became pets to one degree or another.

It broke our hearts when the cute little chinchillas were ravaged in an ugly attack by a pack of wild dogs. We learned the hard way that clipping the rabbits for their fur at minimal financial return was extremely labor-intensive.  We were never able to get the chickens to lay eggs in spite of our efforts to stimulate them by placing egg-like ivory door knobs in their nests.  The hamsters simply outgrew us by multiplying so fast that we ran out of space to cage them in our garage and had no choice but to eventually get rid of them as best we could, in any way possible...But that's another issue.

Long story made short -- in-town or urban farming was an ill-advised, losing proposition for the Wrights! Our chickens never laid eggs, but we ourselves sure as heck laid more than one!  Ever since that early experience, my philosophy has been: "Leave farming to the people who do it best -- the farmers!"

In all fairness, however, we did enjoy some success with our substantial vegetable garden; particularly our golden bantam corn which became a well-known and sought-after summer dinner table delicacy in town.

With the preceding still lingering in the recesses of my mind, I have been interested in following the recent "Chickens Come Home to Roost" developments in Saugeen Shores, my place of residence for the past 17 years.  All I can think is, the more things change, the more they remain the same and I should add, the more they become complicated.  It seems that there are still people who want to raise chickens in their backyards and they are prepared to fight town hall in order to do so.

I suspected that this is all in keeping with the growth of the "locavore" movement in North America.
The past couple of years in particular saw the popularization of a trend in using locally grown ingredients, taking advantage of seasonally available foodstuffs that can be bought and prepared without the need for extra preservatives.

Locavore encourages consumers to buy from farmers’ markets or even to grow or pick their own food, arguing that fresh, local products are more nutritious and taste better. Locavores also shun supermarket offerings as an environmentally friendly measure, since shipping food over long distances often requires more fuel for transportation.

“The word "locavore" shows how food-lovers can enjoy what they eat while still appreciating the impact they have on the environment,” said Ben Zimmer, editor for American dictionaries at Oxford University Press. “It’s significant in that it brings together eating and ecology in a new way.”

"Locavore", Oxford's word of the year, was coined several years ago by a group of four women in San Francisco who proposed that local residents should try to eat only food grown or produced within a 100-mile radius. Other regional movements have emerged since then, though some groups refer to themselves as “localvores” rather than “locavores.”

Saugeen Shores Town Council (which includes Port Elgin and Southampton), after a third discussion on the subject and in a recorded vote, has approved a two-year pilot project to allow chicken hens within the urban settlement, albeit with several restrictions, that include a registry of hen owners and owners of the property on which hens will be kept.  While I think that a Registry is a wonderful idea, I cannot believe the hoops that would-be backyard chicken raisers will have to jump through in Saugeen Shores in order to realizes their ambitions.  For instance:

The Registry will contain the following information: a) The name of the owner of property on which hens are kept
b) The street address of the property on which hens are kept
c) The mailing address of the owner of property on which hens are kept
d) A statement from the owner of property on which hens are kept which affirms that all requirements are this by-law will be adhered to

No person shall keep hens on a property except in accordance with the following provisions: a) The owner of the land has paid any applicable fee as authorized by this By-law to register the hens with the Town
b) The owner of the land has provided the necessary information to the Town in respect of the Registry outlined in this by-law
c) The owner resides on the property
d) The property on which the hens are located is zoned R1-Residential One, R2-Residential Two or PD-Planned Development, and any special provisions for the listed zones in the Town’s Zoning By-law
e) The property on which the hens are located is within the Settlement Area of the Town’s Official Plan
f) The property on which the hens are located contains a lawfully existing single detached dwelling unit
g) The property on which the hens are located is 1000 m2 or greater
h) Hens can only be located in the rear yard, as defined in the Town’s Zoning By-law
i) The owner abides by all provisions of this by-law."

All permitted hens are to be kept in a fully enclosed coop or run in a manner that contains the hens on the property and prevents their escape from such coop or run and are to be tagged with sufficient information to identify the owner of the birds.  All of which is as it should be.

To me, Saugeen Shores is bending over backwards to accommodate a handful of chicken enthusiasts, dare we call them "locavores", and the aforementioned Registry will go a long way in maintaining a degree of control, but town council would be well advised to take a long hard look at other communities that have implemented such programs.

Granted, it is an idyllic scene from the locavore movement: Plump speckled hens clucking around tiny municipal backyards, laying organic, free-range eggs that can be scooped up mere steps from the doorway.  But municipalities across North America are just now starting to see the unforeseen consequences of allowing hipster farmers to raise chickens in their urban backyards: Hundreds of birds are being abandoned by their owners after they’ve become more of a burden than a blessing.

As Canadian cities from Vancouver to Victoria, Montreal to Guelph get used to their new laws allowing urban backyard chickens, animal shelters in these cities are bracing for a future flood of urban chicken refugees.  “People don’t realize how much work they actually are,” said Barbara Cartwright, the CEO of the Canadian Federation of Humane Societies based in Ottawa, while acknowledging people who attempt to raise backyard chickens are driven by good intentions -- to be more environmentally conscious, humane and to eat healthier.

“Certainly what is not on people’s radar screens is chickens live eight to 10 years. They don’t lay that whole time,” she said. “So what’s going to happen is we expect to see an influx over the next couple of years as chickens stop laying, people don’t have a humane slaughter plan or haven’t thought through an eight to 10-year plan to take care of chickens that aren’t laying.”

Sayara Thurston, a campaigner for Humane Society International Canada, said hens and roosters have already started appearing in Montreal animal shelters on an almost weekly basis. Abandoned chickens have also been found in boxes behind restaurants.  Harsh winters make it tough to have backyard chickens, she added.

“It’s completely understandable that people want to remove themselves from [factory farming],” Thurston allows. “But then the reverse of that is people needing to actually care for these animals, which is something you have to do every day and you have to do it for several years.”

It’s been two years since Vancouver passed its bylaw allowing backyard chickens -- and the law is quite thorough, said Geoff Urton, manager of stakeholder relations at BCSPCA: Residents can only own four hens and no roosters. There’s a minimum distance from your neighbour’s backyard that you can build a chicken coop, and that chicken coop needs to protect the fowl from predators like coyotes and raccoons. The chickens need to be registered online, and an inspector could drop in on you at any time. Urban chicken farmers are also barred from slaughtering the birds themselves, he said, in order to curb botched jobs.

Since chickens only lay eggs for two years, Urton expects to see urban chickens trickling into animal shelters soon.  “We’ll need to keep monitoring the situation to make sure as time progresses we don’t end up with an influx in chickens because of this fad,” he said.

Good bylaws can certainly help curb urban chicken abandonment because the farmers will be more dedicated and educated about what responsible chicken farming entails.  Meantime, the Canadian Federation of Humane Societies is beginning to tell its shelters to keep an eye out for chicken orphans and be prepared should any come into their care.

All I can say to my neighbors in Saugeen Shores is "let's be careful in counting our chickens before they are hatched."  The trial project may not be what it is cracked up to be!  We may well end up with more than we bargained for and resultant egg on our collective faces!

If you ever have a chance, I would encourage you to watch the old "I Love Lucy" television episode film clip where Lucy, Fred and Ethel Mertz attempt to get into the chicken raising business, with hilarious consequences.


16 April, 2017

EASTER, A TIME OF VICTORY OVER EVIL -- JUST NOT IN THE MIDDLE EAST

Easter Sunday marks the climax of Holy Week in the Church calendar. Seven days earlier, Christians around the world had celebrated Palm Sunday, commemorating the story of Jesus’ triumphant arrival into Jerusalem just before his crucifixion.

The Gospel writers describe how crowds of excited followers, including many children, welcomed Jesus’ entry into their city by laying palm branches across his path. Last Sunday, all around the world and still following this ancient tradition, little children marched up the aisles of local churches proudly carrying similar green foliage.

The excited children of a Christian Coptic church in the Egyptian city of Tanta were taking a joyous part in this same ritual when the suicide bomber suddenly struck. Newspaper accounts of this atrocity described in gory detail how their palm branches, now broken and blood spattered, were scattered across the floor amid the bodies of 27 murdered worshippers. Another 78 Coptic Christians were wounded.

It was the second blast, this time at the ancient city of Alexandria, which drew more attention to the “plight of the suffering church.” Although fewer were murdered in this bombing also claimed by ISIS (17 died) the symbolism of the attack was instantly evident to any scholar of church history.

Alexandria is home to the largest church in the entire Middle East. Its Christian population dates back to around 150 AD when, according to tradition, the Apostle Mark founded the first place of worship in that city. Over the following centuries Alexandria became the centre of theological debate and a forum for Christian scholars from across the Middle East to gather and discuss critical issues, including whether or not Jesus was truly Divine.

In 639 AD, the city was conquered by invaders carrying the banner of a new religion called Islam. Even so, It took another six centuries before the population finally attained a Muslim majority.

Many Westerners assume that Christianity was only recently planted by zealous missionaries in predominantly Muslim countries across the Middle East. Within that assumption one could find the belief that it is only reasonable for Islam to resent and reject these interlopers.

Facts cry out loudly against this faulty conclusion. Large and thriving Christian communities in Egypt, Iran, Lebanon, Iraq, Syria and other now-Muslim nations predated the conquering arrival of Islam.

Persecution of the Church has been well documented through the following centuries. A Genocide beginning in 1915 killed an estimated 15 million Armenian Christians in Muslim Turkey. In recent decades many Christians have been forced to flee from communities where their ancestors have lived for many hundreds of years. One especially tragic story is that of the Christians in Mosul, Iraq. Most have fled the onslaught of ISIS or were murdered before they could escape. Even in United Nations camps they have feared further persecution from radical Muslim refugees.

Headlines have captured the recent horror of extremist attacks by car or bomb against civilian populations in Stockholm, Brussels and Saint Petersburg. While no one would minimize these atrocities, each was essentially a “lone wolf” assault by radicalized Muslims.

By contrast, the Palm Sunday massacres of Coptic Christians was a cleverly coordinated attempt by a well-entrenched Muslim extremist group to begin the eradication of an entire community -- one which only wishes to worship in peace.

A pessimist could conclude that there is no future for Christianity in the Middle east, given these now-overwhelming Muslim majorities, including many who are hostile toward the followers of Jesus. An optimist could point out that, historically, many Muslims have lived in peace with their Christian neighbours. The several police officers who died trying to defend the Coptic churches presumably were also Muslim.

Easter Sunday is always about hope and renewal, a victory against evil, a triumph of life over death---maybe one day even in the troubled Middle East. Little children anywhere in our world will once again carry Palm branches without fear of persecution.

Meantime, sadly, I am not holding my breath.  I do not know what this world is coming to!

(With thanks to Rev. Bob Johnston, rt'd. for his contribution)

14 April, 2017

A VISIT TO THE BATTLE OF VIMY MEMORIAL



Southampton resident Bill Streeter has a wealth of knowledge when it comes to the battles in which Canadians participated.

With the 100th anniversary of Vimy, Streeter began to reminisce over other monuments that commemorate fallen Canadian troops. "One of the most moving for me is 'The Brooding Soldier," says Streeter.
The Brooding Soldier

"St. Juliaan/St. Julien was the site where the German army first used gas as a weapon against the French and Canadian troops in 1915," he explains.  "It was stored in tanks much like welding tanks today, and when the wind direction was blowing in the right direction toward the allies, the Germans opened the tanks."

The French troops retreated immediately while the Canadians moved forward with urine soaked rags over their faces and drove the German troops back 4.5 miles.  The 18,000 Canadians held the line but more than 2,000 died.

Commemorating the site, the 'Brooding Soldier', was actually one of the designs submitted for Vimy.  "It is situated on a very moving location perched on the top of a ridge looking down to Ypres and the surrounding countryside," says Streeter.

While he says there may be others from the area who died in the battle of Vimy, on a recent visit he found the grave marker below at Canadian Cemetery No. 2 by the grounds of the Vimy Memorial.

"Private D. McIntyre died during the battle on April 9th. He was born in Paisley on September 10th, 1882. His next of kin was his mother Mary and prior to enlisting he was a 'railroad' man. He was not married.

13 April, 2017

THERE ARE TIMES WHEN I DISAPPOINT EVEN MYSELF

I was thinking this morning as I was getting dressed: "I wouldn't wish me on my worst enemy!"

That startling, self deprecating thought, obviously requires a slight explanation:

1) I often do some of my deepest soul-searching when getting dressed in the morning.  It has been known to take upward of an hour for me to get to the stage where I'm finally putting on my shoes. Heck, I've even fallen asleep in the process, coming to my senses with my pants still around my knees some 20 minutes later.

2) Because it is my nature, I think a lot about my checkered(?) past in those early morning, mind-wandering episodes -- what I have or have not accomplished in life, what I have been neglecting lately but should catch up on today without fail, relationships I've had -- the sorts of silly things that one's mind conjures up when it is allowed to drift aimlessly and unabated.

It is the later that sent me off on the "worst enemy" tangent this morning.  When I think of relationships, it is often members of the opposite sex that immediately come to mind, you know -- in a Willie Nelson-Julio Iglesias "All the Girls I've Loved Before" kind of way.  Come on now, we've all had affairs of the heart that linger rather endearingly, if we are lucky!

In all honesty, I have never achieved wealth in a financial sense, living for the most part a hand-to-mouth existence.  I can be difficult to live with, subject to mood swings, temperamental and stubborn. Like I say, and on reflection, the handful of young ladies who "came in and out my door" post adolescence, can thank their lucky stars that they did not end up with me to contend with for the rest of their lives.  There is a very good chance that I would have been a big disappointment, not cracked up to early expectations of what I should have been

One of the things that I always felt that I had going for me, however, was that I seem to be adept at care giving.  As some readers know, I was in the primary care giving role for nine years with my first wife Anne before we lost a battle with the "C" word.  In retrospect, I always felt that I could have been at times a more sensitive and "caring" caregiver, not letting my nerves and accompanying stress get the best of me.  I readily acknowledge there were occasions when after the fact, I thought my best could have been a little better.

For the past six years, I have have once again been thrust into a care giving situation with second wife Rosanne.  "I'm a veteran now," I thought..."I'll do much better this time."  And, as before, I've tried my best, but there are lingering doubts and I get mad at myself every time I lose patience because my tolerance has worn to the breaking point.  It's a tough gig, no matter how you look at it!

Finally yesterday, the impossibility of carrying on with the status quo finally struck me.  Without going into the grim details, Rosanne had reached a point where I could no longer adequately look after her in our home.  I had to ask for help and our family doctor took quick action.

Even though we live just five doors from the hospital in Southampton, it took a crew of five firefighters and two ambulance attendants to move Rosanne a mere 200 yards to the emergency department. To make a long story short, however, she is now resting comfortably in a respite ward where she will remain indefinitely, or at least until a plan for her future care can be arrived at.

I had difficulty talking Rosanne into the move which I insisted was in her "best interest".  I tried to explain that it was not a permanent sentence, only temporary until better arrangements can be made for her.  I spent an hour with her this morning and was over-joyed to detect new resolution in her voice and acceptance in her manner.  However, her initial reaction -- "I wouldn't do that to you," still rings in my ears and probably always will.  Victimization that I'm all too familiar with.

Any wonder why I wouldn't wish me on my worst enemy?

I may just go to bed tonight with my clothes on.  That way I won't have to get dressed in the morning...and think!

10 April, 2017

SIMON GIRTY: HERO, RENEGADE OR BOTH

Artist's rendition of Simon Girty at his rugged best.
"The early 1790s were perilous times. During much of this turbulent period, guerrilla warfare between Natives and whites raged across the undefined, wide open, western lands of the continent. The restlessly roaming residents of the young Republic, probed, then penetrated, the frontiers of the unexplored West in a relentless quest for ever-more new land. In fact, an underlying cause of the American Revolution was the passionate pursuit of Indian land by Americans, including some of so-called founding fathers, one of whom was in fact George Washington. They expressed unrelenting dissatisfaction with the restrictions imposed upon their land speculation ambitions by the King’s Proclamation of 1763."  

With the forgoing chronicle by author Philip Hoffman as a backdrop, what follows is an almost unbelievable story that is the equal of anything Hollywood or fiction writers have ever produced.  It is of particular significance to me  because there may be a family connection dating back to the late 1700s.  It is a two-part story about the unimaginable struggles of early immigrants in a new land, but it all comes together in the end, as if by script.

Catherine Malott’s parents were of French extraction living in Maryland, circa 1750, when it was decided to move into new territory in Kentucky. Coming down the Ohio River their flatboat was attacked by Indians and all the family was captured.  The father, Peter, however managed to escape and to make his way back to Maryland.  He was never to see his family again.  In fact, thinking that Sarah and his children were all dead, he went so far as to re-marry and raise another family.

After many hardships the remainder of the family, with the exception of Catherine, were brought into Detroit and there ransomed and released.  Meanwhile Catherine, reputed to be a strikingly beautiful young woman, was retained by the Indians in Ohio.  At Detroit, Catherine’s mother Sarah met a man by the name of Simon Girty, known to have close ties with the Indians.  Sarah offered to pay a substantial sum for her eldest daughter's safe return to her family and Girty accepted the commission with a promise to rescue Catherine from the tribe that was holding her captive and in successfully doing so he found himself a wife.

At the time Girty, a Frontiersman in every sense of the word, was employed by the Indian Department at Detroit, actively assisting with American penetration.  Many colourful tales are told of his actions in exploits ranging from Pennsylvania through Ohio to Kentucky.  At the end of the American Revolution he was awarded Crown land, along with fellow officers of the Indian Department, on the lower Detroit River at Malden, south of Amherstburg.  The land would become his future, and last, home.

It was to this farm that Simon brought his bride Catherine Malott, a girl 24 years his junior. One can only speculate on what happened to Catherine during her three years of captivity and what attracted her to a man almost twice her age.  It would be understandable if she was inordinately grateful to Simon for her rescue from the Indians and for his probable offer of love.  Then again, perhaps she had no choice in the matter.

One story has it that Girty convinced his Indian friends that he wanted to take the maiden back for a visit with her mother in Detroit, promising to return her thereafter. Girty, however had another plan and subsequently gained control of her through wedlock.  Their marriage in 1791, according to the old age testimony of Catherine herself, took place “at the mouth of the Detroit River."  The union was solemnized by a clergyman, a rarity for Protestants in that period on the frontier as usually such marriages were performed by the officer commanding at Detroit.  A daughter, Sarah, was born in 1792 and four other children followed -  John, Nancy, Thomas and Prideaux.

Simon was exposed to Indian culture while in captivity

Surprisingly, Simon's early history was similar to that of Catherine, in fact he too spent his formative years as a captive of Indians.

The story of Simon Girty, the frontiersman of the American Revolution and the War of 1812, is a prime example of the distortion that can be given to “history” -- in this case meaning the appearance in literature of a personage long subjected to adverse propaganda. “Renegade” and “heroic frontiersman” are the two guises in which he has been portrayed.

Girty’s later years were closely associated with the Detroit River area where he held the appointment of Interpreter in the British Indian Department, first at Detroit, and later at Amherstburg. In Essex County, scores of persons have Girty for an ancestor and it has been a perpetual source of annoyance down through the years for his descendants to read untrue stories imputing to Girty deeds in which he had no part.  However, there are two sides to every story and I tend to favor a blended, admittedly condensed version, at the risk of losing some of the flavor and color that is inherent.

Undoubtedly, Girty was rough and tough, a hard drinker and a true product of his age and situation. The myth that has grown around the image of Girty suited the war-time tensions born of the Revolution and American hatred of the Indians -- the general downgrading of him as one of the “enemy”.  Poor identification and communication contributed the myth, the acts of others being attributed to Girty. The result has been that in novels and a modern play, Girty is held out as the arch-type of frontier ruffian. However, some, more serious writers, have made an honest attempt to show Girty as he was, a minor officer of the British Indian Department doing his duty as he saw it.

Simon Girty was born on the frontier at a period when the French and British empires were expanding their bounds in the Ohio territory at the expense of the Indians. The date of his birth has been given as November 14, 1741, the second son born to Simon Girty Sr. and his wife Mary Newton. His elder brother was Thomas, and at two-year intervals two more brothers came into the Girty household, James and George.

The Girty home at this period was on the east bank of the Susquehanna River five miles above present Harrisburg, Pennsylvania. There were various removals but the Girtys lived always on the extreme frontier under primitive conditions. Simon Girty Sr. was a trader in Indian country, but also kept a tavern as an accommodation to travellers and neighbours.

Tragedy entered the Girty story when the senior Girty was killed in an dispute with a bond-servant, Samuel Sanders. In this same encounter John Turner, a neighbour and half-brother, killed an Indian known as “The Fish”.  Sanders was convicted of manslaughter at the assizes in April 1751. Sometime later, in 1753, Turner married Girty’s widow, and by this marriage was born still another son Thomas Turner, in about 1755.

The American phase of the Seven Year’s War soon engulfed the frontier. The French had erected Fort Duquesne at the junction of the Monongahela and Allegheny Rivers and by this means held the key to the Ohio territory. Braddock, the British commander moving from Virginia towards Fort Duquesne was defeated in the Battle of the Wilderness, July 9, 1755. The next season, Noyan de Villiers, the French commandant at Fort Duquesne moved eastward against Fort Granville, a British outpost on the Juanita River.

The Turners with the Girty boys and others from the area, were taking shelter at the palisaded fort when it was surrounded by the French and their Indian allies.  Resistance was hopeless. Turner himself opened the gates and gave entry to the Indians.

The Indians conducted the Fort Granville prisoners to the Delaware Indian town of Kittanningon.  At this location Turner was identified as the killer of “The Fish” and accordingly was executed in the Indian fashion by burning at the stake. Sarah Turner and the Girty boys were witnesses to the stepfather’s sufferings.

Simon with brothers James and Thomas
The family members were then separated. Mrs. Turner with her two younger sons, George Girty and John Turner were adopted by the Delawares. Thomas Girty, the oldest son made a successful escape about this time. James Girty was adopted by the Shawnees, while Simon Girty was taken to Upper Sandusky in Ohio to a Seneca town and adopted by the tribe's chief. Simon was then about 15 years of age and for the next three years, until the general pacification, lived among that tribe and was treated as their own.

This period of Indian captivity gave the Girty boys a taste for Indian life which never left them. Each had become able to converse in the Indian language in use in the Ohio valley and thus they were able to act as interpreters for the traders which then surged into Fort Pitt, the former Fort Duquesne.

Fully six-feet tall with an impressive build, large head and black eyes, Simon Girty was said to be tough and temperamental with rough manners and a grim sense of humor born of the harsh conditions in which he spent his life.  Someone recalled that his somewhat sinister face was made more so by Mohawk Chief Joseph Brant who laid his cheek open with a sabre in one notable physical confrontation.

Girty in 1760 was employed by a trader as an interpreter in the Delaware Indian towns northwest of the Muskingum River in Ohio. There he became so well liked that a Delaware chief, KA-TE-PAPKO-MEN, exchanged names with him. Thus early in his career he exerted that influence which in the years of the Revolution and the Indian wars afterward made him such a valuable agent for British influence.

In 1775 he joined the Virginia militia and was originally on the side of the “Patriots” and was hired as a sort of liaison between the Continental Congress and the Six Nations. Simon went on to further service with the Continental Army in a number of campaigns on and away from the frontier but was often snubbed, denied promised promotions and witnessed Continental troops massacre Indians whose tribes had given their support to the fledgling Americans. This and the fact that it was clear the Americans intended to move west to settle lands Britain had reserved for the Native Americans, finally prompted Girty to defect to the British side in March of 1778.

He went to Detroit, Michigan and was employed by the Indian Department as a go-between with the local tribes.  It was during this time that gained an unsavory reputation in the American press as he participated in Indian raids against American settlements. The fighting was harsh to be sure and Native American warfare was not the same as that in Europe. However, contrary to revolutionary propaganda, Simon Girty saved the lives of many captives who would have otherwise been killed.

Girty aided the British throughout the frontier in raids on colonial outposts as well as at the victory over the Kentucky militia at the battle of Blue Licks. Feared and hated on the American frontier, he eventually retired to his farm with Catherine and a growing family where for 10 years he raised corn for the government and continued to work with the Natives.  Blind, crippled and a shadow of his former self, he spent his happiest hours at his favourite public house recounting tales of his spine-tingling career. Even then a $1,000 American bounty remained on his head.

When Oliver Hazard Perry's 1813 victory on Lake Erie opened Canada to American forces, Girty fled to his friends the Mohawks. His house was overrun but not destroyed because the Americans did not realize that he had lived there. He returned to it in 1816.

Americans resurrected the memory of Simon Girty during the War of 1812 to again make him the face of British and Indian savagery but by that time Girty was near the end of his life, still one of the most hated men in America despite the fact that there is not a shred of evidence that he ever actually participated in any of the atrocities attributed to him. The only thing he was “guilty” of was returning to the loyalty of his King and fighting to defend the lands and rights of the Indian community both sides of the American and Canadian border.
Memorial stone erected on the front lawn
of Simon Girty's homestead.

Simon Girty died February 18, 1818 and was buried on his homestead with British military honors. Warriors on both sides respected and remembered him fondly. To the Mohawks, Simon Girty was to become an "Indian Patriot." American frontiersmen called him a white savage and years later, Kentuckians crossed the Detroit River into Canada "just for the satisfaction of spitting on his grave."

While I have been unable to establish a direct family link, it is only natural for me to wonder if, at some point, Catherine Malott Girty would have contact with the former Delilah Malott and her husband Philip Wright (my great, great grandparents) who also lived on neighboring Crown land in Malden.  Simon would have surely regaled them with his stories.

I wish that I knew more about Catherine's story -- what her life was like as a captive of the Indians, what her life was like with Simon, what life was like after her husband's death.  Perhaps that would be asking too much.

Quite by coincidence, Catherine died January 1852 and Delilah passed away several months later.  I would dearly love to make a family connection, but have determined that it is next to impossible, given conflicting information and records that have been altered and confused by succeeding generations of researchers.  It does not help that two Sarah Melotts show up in the records of the period. It is all too coincidental that Catherine's mother, Sarah, was born Keyes and was married to Peter Malott while Delilah's mother was also named Sarah, born Tracy and married to Joseph Malott. So confusing! So many unanswered questions!

It all simply boggles the mind.  I find myself laying awake at night just thinking about it -- and wondering...

You would think that I do not have a life of my own.

That too is reality.


Memorial stone and plaque erected at 1173 Front Road South, Highway 18, Detroit Riverfront, Malden, Ontario. Lot 11, 1st Concession, Malden Township, Essex County, Ontario
Inscription on the memorial stone reads, "Simon Girty 1741 - 1818 A Faithful Servant of the British Indian Department for Twenty Years."
Inscription on the plaque above reads -- "Simon Girty UE 1741 - 1818 - Girty's life crossed cultural boundaries between native and white societies on the frontier of American settlement. In 1756 his family was captured by a French-led native war party in Pennsylvania. Simon was adopted by the Seneca, then repatriated in 1764. An interpreter at Fort Pitt (Pittsburgh), he became an intermediary with native nations. In 1778, dismayed over rebel policy on the natives, Girty fled to Detroit. During the Revolutionary War, and subsequently in the Ohio Valley, he was employed by the British Indian Department while serving native nations as a negotiator, scout and military leader. Angry at his defection and fearful of his influence, Americans made Girty a scapegoat for frontier atrocities. He is buried here on his homestead. Erected by the Bicentennial and Toronto Branches of the UELAC with assistance of the Ontario Heritage Foundation."

Adapted from The Wright Story http://mywrightstory.blogspot.ca

07 April, 2017

NURTURING SPACE BETWEEN SPIRIT AND OUTSIDE WORLD

I am often amazed by the wisdom dispensed by some of my Facebook friends. Esther Joyce Coulter Main is a case in point. 
In a post entitled "Thoughts For The Day From Sacred Medicine", she suggests: "When we open ourselves to the possibility that the quest for permanence in a constantly changing world is futile, something shifts within us." We see our former end goal of “happily ever after” for what it truly is -- a shimmering mirage on the horizon that is always just outside our grasp.

"Once the cosmic jig is up, our lives become less about establishing and defending and more about allowing, flowing, and sensing. Like a tango dancer on a moonlit terrace in Buenos Aires, we learn to love the changes, keeping our minds clear so that we can react in the blink of an eye to any dip or surge in tempo," Ester continues.
"Change is guaranteed.  Surrendering to this fact is an essential part of the path. By doing so, we arise from the ashes of who we once were, stronger of heart and able to hold space with compassion in any situation.

"When we’re experiencing pain, the suffering can be heightened by the fear that the pain will never stop. When we’re experiencing pleasure, the pleasure can be thwarted by the sad truth that nothing lasts forever.

"The wise know not to grab or shun either of these, but instead learn to nurture space between their spirit and anything the world outside brings to their doorstep. By not pulling toward or pushing away, we are able to give full presence to every change that happens in our life -- the good, the bad, and the ugly."


NOTE:  I am connected with Esther through the Essex County Branch of the Ontario Historical Society and a mutual interest in genealogy.

Quite by coincidence, I came across the little saying below yesterday and felt called to share it along with Esther's thought-provoking sentiments.
“Your mind is a garden, your thoughts are the seeds, the harvest can either be flowers or weeds.”

Our thoughts often pass behind our eyelids without much investigation into their origin, as though these assemblages of information are out of our control – a simple reaction to something we just witnessed.

But are they really so untamable?

In Eastern religions, particularly Tibetan Buddhism, there is a notion of cultivating spaciousness or breathing room between our inner world and any events that are transpiring around us. It takes a little practice, but if we learn to hold space for whatever the “outer us” is experiencing, we can begin to examine the thoughts, beliefs and patterns that are running through our minds.

Will this thought help me evolve and thrive or will it hinder me?

If it passes this simple litmus test, we nourish it. If it is toxic or doesn’t serve our highest ideals, we know it’s time to set up spiritual shop and trace it down to its roots for further exploration and healing work.

“Spiritual life is a lot like gardening. We till and cultivate the garden of our heart, planting seeds of presence, openness and the ability to respect whatever arises. We water each one so the things which are beautiful in us can blossom.” – Jack Kornfield

Master gardeners and small farmers never stop minding their soil, even in times of abundance when the plants are flourishing. In order to create a healthy ecosystem, they must be aware of the natural rhythms and character of their particular plot.

If everything is roses in your life right now it doesn’t mean your inner gardening is done. On the other hand, if you’re going through a rough patch today don’t think it’s too late to start planting new seeds.

We humans tend to get spiritual in a hurry when big life challenges arise, but when the rain clouds part, we forget to continue our higher practises. What we often forget is that the deep work we did in the hard times is what sprouted the happy times we’re now enjoying.

I fully understand that the foregoing is a lot to absorb in one swell swoop and I recommend re-reading the offerings and spending some time considering each individual thought, as I have done in presenting them. The process can be extremely grounding...and enlightening.


03 April, 2017

I'M PROUD OF MY "CONVICT" GREAT-GREAT-GREAT GRANDFATHER

NEWS FLASH!!! INTRODUCING A NEW BLOG SITE: You won't find much in Canadian history books about Britain's transportation of convicts to the New World in the 1700s. In fact, Americans in particular, have rather romantic ideas about how their country was founded.

We’ve long been fond of the mythology surrounding persecuted people freely traveling to the New World and building the greatest country on Earth. But, like all history, it’s much, much messier than that. Our history includes plenty of genocide, slavery, and just a dash of prison folk — and the latter may be news to many reading this post.

Honestly, I didn't think much about that part of history either until a couple of weeks ago when, much to my surprise and temporary chagrin, while doing some family genealogical research, I discovered that my great-great-great grandfather Henry Wright was in fact, one of the "convicts" transported to America in 1763. The sad part of the story is that he was only 13 years of age -- a mere adolescent still in puberty. The subsequent story that unfolded for me is indeed a remarkable one...and I'm rather glad that I am here now to talk about it. If you are interested in knowing more, you are invited to check out "The Wright Story" http://mywrightstory.blogspot.ca.

27 March, 2017

BILL VERKERKE DEDICATED HIS LAST YEARS TO VOLUNTEERISM

Bill Verkerke at his Care Centre stand for the Heart & Stroke Foundation...There was no avoiding him!

In keeping with my interest in ordinary people who have accomplished extraordinary things, I want to talk about a special, unassuming man who left an indelible mark on his community through untold hours of selfless volunteerism.


In Southampton, Bill Verkerke was a legend. For more than 15 years he went door to door canvassing for the cause that he believed in, the Heart and Stroke Foundation, and was in fact one of the highest fundraisers ever in the Province of Ontario.

After suffering a stroke himself and having to move to the Southampton Care Centre, Bill continued his fund-raising efforts. Every February, he would 'set up shop' at the front door of the Care Centre to continue his passion and, this year (his 18th fundraising year) he was there once again for what would be his last.

While being recognized by the Heart and Stroke Foundation as one their best-ever fundraisers, Bill Verkerke was also honoured in 2011 by Rotary International with the Paul Harris Fellowship Award. In addition, in 2015, he was the recipient of the Jarlette Health Services 'Making a Difference' award. Beside canvassing for Heart & Stroke, he also volunteered for the Salvation Army (more than 1,700 volunteers hours at the Port Elgin Thrift Shop) and the Canadian Cancer Society.

Sadly, Saugeen Shores lost Bill Verkerke March 18, in his 88th year, but we can't let him go just like that.

Born in the Netherlands in 1929, Bill Verkerke was one of eight children of Willem and Jannette Verkerke. His father was a produce farmer and Bill recalled working alongside his siblings as they would weed their own staked-off rows in the fields. Growing up in the Dutch depression, the German occupation and then the devastating North Sea Flood, the virtues of diligence, generosity and community were firmly rooted in the young man.

After the Flood, with determination and $27 dollars in his pocket, Bill immigrated to Canada in 1953. He was supposed to travel to Saskatchewan but he spotted a map and thought that Ontario “looked so much nicer, more fertile” and he settled in Galt with his younger brother who had made the journey before him. He headed to the employment office and landed a job with Galt Casting. He stretched his 45 cents an hour and took a night course to learn English. All the while, he found time to plant and tend to a garden and shared his produce among his co-workers. 

Bill was homesick for Holland however and was considering a return to the Netherlands when he met Glennys Beechey, a co-worker that caught his eye and who had a knack for baking pies and preserves. Their love bloomed and the couple married in 1967. Bill’s family grew as he embraced Glennys' three children as his own.  In 1978, they purchased a cottage in Southampton where they enjoyed summers together with kids and grandkids. Bill delayed his retirement in Southampton until 1992 and then filled his days watching Lake Huron sunsets and thunderstorms with Glennys.

He was very devoted to Glennys and after her passing in 2004 he needed something to occupy his days. He wanted to make a difference and that's when he took on the role of fundraiser supreme.

A friend recalls Bill Verkerke at his front door on cold winter days, well past 80 years of age. "I always hastened to invite him in to take shelter and find warmth against some snow-filled, blustery streamer roaring over us from across the icy lake. A small man, Bill would stand in our front hall, red-nosed and glasses steamed, as he pulled from his plastic bag a receipt book. He was making his annual pilgrimage down our mostly deserted side street to canvass for the Heart and Stroke Foundation."

"He always called me 'Mr. ...' even though he had spent more years on this earth than I.  In his last years of neighbourhood canvassing, Bill’s hand would shake as he wrote out my receipt. Trudging through the snow and painfully climbing those two front steps, even with the assistance of his cane, was becoming a challenge. But there he was, cold and tired, just fulfilling his chosen volunteer service," the friend adds with admiration.

Statistics Canada reports that in 2013, 12.7 million Canadians were involved in some aspect of voluntarism, contributing almost two billion hours of service to their communities. It is a bit concerning, however, that the number of volunteers has dropped from 13.3 million only three years earlier. One cannot help but worry that the trend may continue downward.

Researchers have documented two other trends in voluntarism. More Canadians now prefer to give money to a cause rather than their time. A primary obstacle to volunteering is lack of available hours. A third shift is that volunteers increasingly want to engage in “ knowledge philanthropy,” offering a time-limited contribution where their specific talents and professional experience can be utilized to meet an organization’s particular need.

A previous Statistics Canada survey (1998) found that 49% of contributors made their financial support or time commitment primarily through a place of worship, Another 17% responded to a door canvasser while 13% contributed after receiving a mail request. That same survey noted that 31% of Canadians were supportive of voluntarism, either through giving time or money. Motivation for giving ranged from a desire to use one’s skills, a wish to contribute to the community or because one had been directly affected by the cause they now represented.

None of these statistics would have meant much to old Bill Verkerke and the amazing contribution he made to his retirement community in the last couple of decades of his life.

Metaphorically speaking, his friend can picture Bill now at the Pearly Gates, about to quietly announce his arrival with a tentative knock on that massive door which opens to Heaven and eternity. "Saint Peter has already heard about Bill’s good works, welcomes him home and quickly throws wide open that heavy door; this time Bill won’t even have to knock. A heavenly choir then greets him with this old Biblical chorus:

'Well done, thou good and faithful servant; enter now into thy rest'."

23 March, 2017

I REALLY DO MISS OUTDOOR PICNICS IN THE SUMMER

My dad Ken and I cleaning up our dessert after one of many outdoor suppers prepared by my mother, circa 1945.
In sorting through a massive collection of family photographs, many predating me by a good 30 or 40 years, I recently realized that casual photography is a relatively modern phenomena. Picture taking of yesteryear was more formal and generally recorded rather sober (people had yet to learn to say "cheese") family gatherings of some description. I have also come to the conclusion that good old-fashioned picnics are pretty much a thing of the past...And what a shame!

Growing up in the 1940's, I probably got in on the tail end of the picnic era.  I have fond memories of not only family picnics in the summer months, but of outdoor community dinners and socials on church grounds.  My folks ate "suppers" outside three or four times a week in our backyard in Dresden and went on picnics virtually every weekend, generally along the St. Clair River or at Rondeau Park (then known as Government Park) on Lake Erie.  It was just "the thing to do" in the months of June, July and August.

Summers were truly meant to be lived outside.  Virtually every evening was spent on comfortably appointed front porches where friends and neighbors would drop by for visits and, more often than not, a spot of tea -- hot or iced.

Whether a picnic was a community affair or just a family or party picnic, the picnic basket was the all-important item for the occasion (coolers were very rare in those days as were fire pits and barbecues for on-the-spot grilling). When it was a community picnic, it was essential to bring a well-filled basket since one could usually find some friend or neighbor who was alone or who failed to bring certain eats along.
My mom's metal picnic basket.

The success of a picnic depended in great measure upon the packing. For this purpose two wicker baskets were usually brought along -- one, for the food and the other for the utensils, paper plates and cups for drinking. My mother's favorite "basket" was made of metal with plaid decoration and I will forever associate it with family picnics. Sandwiches formed the standby at a picnic lunch, and there was practically no limit to the variety in which they were created. Also included was fried chicken, a beef loaf, or a cold boiled ham sliced very thin and served with dressing.

My favorite picnic meals consisted of potato salad, deviled eggs, cabbage salad, cold sliced chicken or roast beef, ice tea and lemonade (always made from scratch), raisin or apple (with cheddar cheese) pie and lots of cookies.  In season, fresh sliced tomatoes,strawberries and peaches from our garden were the order of the day.  If we were eating outside at home, my mom would often make a casserole of some description.  Hot dogs and hamburgers were unheard of and there was never any wine or liquor. A table cloth for the picnic table, if you were lucky enough to find one, was a must as were a couple of blankets if you decided to eat on a sandy beach or grassy knoll in a park setting.

Truthfully, today I cannot remember the last bonafide picnic that I have been on.  Generally, I think that picnics are just too much trouble now and air-conditioned fast-food outlets too plentiful and convenient.  In my case, Rosanne is house-bound because of health reasons but when she was able she preferred not to eat outside because of hot temperatures and bugs (those "creepy-crawly things") and I suspect that she is not alone in that kind of thinking today.

But, just think about it...When would a picnic really be a picnic without a few uninvited guests? If you asked ants and flies, they'd probably tell you that they don't crash picnics uninvited. They would argue that it's you who decides to have a picnic on their turf!  It is simply Mother Nature as she should be and it all goes with the territory.

While it is no fun going on picnics all by oneself, I do grasp every opportunity to take a coffee or a sandwich and cold drink out to my porch on nice summer days.  Everything just tastes so much better outside.

...And a nap in the fresh air afterward is glorious!

22 March, 2017

INSPIRATIONAL STORY OF GRIEVING MOM WHO RAN BOSTON MARATHON

Mary Lou Hills in the Boston Marathon jacket that proved to be her motivation in crossing the finish line.
I like stories about ordinary people who have accomplished extra-ordinary things...There is generally an inspirational message in the telling and something special to tuck away in the back of our minds.

Take Mary Lou Hills of Southampton, for instance.  A homemaker and business woman approaching middle age, she preferred going for casual walks around town as a form of recreation until the year 2000 when her 20-year-old son was tragically killed in a car accident.  She started running after that for the therapeutic benefit and as a way to help her deal with debilitating grief.

"Running became a passion," she admits.  Runs around the block became extended runs along the streets of the Lake Huron community.  Her bedtime reading evolved into books on running strategies and techniques.  Then came the competitions -- five and 10-kilometre races, and a handful of half-marathons.

Mary Lou even completed the 30 km Around-the-Bay Road Race in Hamilton, but it was a half-marathon in Niagara Falls in 2010 that really changed her approach to her growing passion for running.  As fate would have it, she met Kathrine Switzer, the first woman to complete the Boston Marathon in 1967.  (A race official tried to rip off Kathrine's number partway through the event and disqualify her because women were not officially allowed to compete in the marathon in those days...She had entered the race "illegally" by registering as K. V. Switzer.)  Today, half of the Boston Marathon's participants are women.

From that point on, the 56-year-old Mary Lou dedicated herself to qualifying for the world's best-known and iconic marathon, drawing in excess of 30,000 competitors and more than 500,000 spectators annually.

Qualifying for the Boston Marathon is no simple feat.  There are stringent rules, Competitors must run in an officially sanctioned marathon and meet time requirements.  Based on her age, Mary Lou had to run 26 miles and 385 yards (42.195 km) in four hours and 15 minutes. In a year of advanced training, she ran five days a week, anywhere from seven to 20 km per day.  On her "rest" days, she stretched, did yoga and worked on exercising her core muscles.  Then there was a strict sleep schedule and an even more strict diet.

"It was carbs, carbs, carbs," Mary Lou recalls.  "I basically ate nothing but bananas and pasta for 365 days."  She admits that she may not have made it without the patience and support of her husband, Mike who became chief cook and bottle-washer in preparing her special training meals.  He also went out on training runs -- Mary Lou running and Mike on a bike, loaded down with water bottles and energy snacks.

"Most of all, he gave me emotional support.  He understood what qualifying for the Boston Marathon meant to me and he helped overcome any doubts that I may have had," she said on reflection.

Mary Lou decided on the Mississauga Marathon as her qualifier.  "It's a relatively flat course," she explained.  "I thought that would help my time."  And the strategy worked with Mary Lou crossing the finish line in four hours, 13 minutes and nine seconds -- with more than a minute to spare.

A few weeks later the long-awaited invitation arrived in the mail...A card with her name embossed on it read: "You Have Been Accepted Into the Boston Marathon."

"I'll never forget that moment," she said in an interview.  "I had done it...I had qualified for the Boston Marathon!"
Mary Lou enroute to her four-hour,
44 minutes finish of the Boston
Marathon in 2012.

"Qualified" is the key word.  Actually running in the marathon is something else again.  There are no shortcuts. It took another excruciating 12 months of preparation. This time she had a program specifically designed for the granddaddy of all marathons with emphasis on longer runs, faster times...and hills.  The Boston route is known for its uphill climbs, one of them being "Heartbreak Hill" that has proven to be the undoing of countless marathoners.

To make matters worse, the race is held in the early spring, so Mary Lou had to do her peak training through a Grey-Bruce winter of snow, sleet, rain and high winds.  A few days before the big race she developed pain and tightness in her hips that got so bad that Mike had to load a mattress into the back of their car, enabling his wife to stretch out on the trip to Boston. To make matters worse, much to the Hills' surprise, when they arrived in Boston after having their supply of bananas confiscated by U.S. customs, the area was in the middle of a spring (2012) heat wave.

"We thought the weather would be like Grey-Bruce in April, cool, maybe a bit rainy," Mary Lou said. Instead they were greeted with desert dry temperatures reaching 93 F, or 35 C.  Concerned about the extreme heat, officials strongly advised participants to consider deferring their participation in the race until the following year and thousands took the advice, but Mary Lou was not one of them.

"I wasn't going to let hot weather scare me away," she said.  "Although, to be honest, what really kept me from deferring to 2013 was the thought of another 12 months of training."

On the morning of the event, hundreds of school buses transport the participants to the starting line outside of Boston.  The runners are sent off in waves, with those in wheelchairs going first, followed by the top seeded competitors, then batches of 5,000 to 10,000 at a time...It was 45 minutes before Mary Lou's wave even started moving.

The heat was the worst of it, but the hills were a close second.  "It seemed like every time I looked up, there was another hill to climb," she remembers.  Gatorade Endurance, the drink of choice among runners, was freely handed out by the cup full at water stations along the course and kept our Southampton girl going at a determined and steady pace.

She also credited spectators with motivating her.  "There wasn't a metre along the whole route that wasn't deep in people, cheering and pushing us on."

I know from experience as a one time distance runner, that there can be a lot of negative thinking in the early stages of any race, especially one that is 42 kilometres long.  At some point, an inner voice speaks up and tells a runner that there is no turning back, similar to a second-wind.  Unfortunately for Mary Lou, that voice was a long time coming on this occasion and she found herself wondering if she would be able to finish.

She, however, had purchased a commemorative race jacket at a Boston Marathon Expo the day before and she remembered thinking "If I don't finish, I'll never be able to wear my jacket."

That thought was enough to push her aching, sweat-drenched body onward.  She crossed the finish line without stopping and in a more than respectable time of four hours and 44 minutes.  "I did it -- I ran the Boston Marathon!" she remembers screaming to herself.

The next day Mary Lou went out on the town to celebrate, her medal for finishing the marathon proudly hanging around her neck.  She and Mike ate the best cannoli available in Boston and had a beer at Cheers on Beacon Street, before taking in a Boston Red Sox baseball game at Fenway Park.

The best part of the day following the marathon, however, was waking up in the morning, opening the Boston Globe newspaper and seeing her name and time included in the race results.  "That's when what I had accomplished really sunk in...I was part of an elite club of runners who had finished the Boston Marathon," she states with understandable pride.

She thinks her son would be proud too.

Without question, Mary Lou Hills demonstrated that with determination and supportive motivation, it is possible to turn a tragic personal loss into an amazing accomplishment.  She has been an owner of a general insurance brokerage in Southampton for 25 years and continues to be active in the community as a volunteer advocate and vice-chair of the Business Improvement Association.

19 March, 2017

A LITTLE FUN AND ENJOYMENT FOR MY MUSIC-LOVING FRIENDS

Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, and flight to the imagination.“ Plato

(Some of the songs in this post have been blocked for copyright reasons...Sorry!)

A friend came to me Yesterday, and told me All You Need is Love. Well It was One Sweet Day and I knew I Just Wanted to be Your Everything. I had a touch of Night Fever and felt it wouldn’t be long before Another One Bites The Dust, so it was vital for me to Apologize knowing I’m A Believer and that We Can Work It Out. Truthfully I’m a pretty Smooth guy and never one to fool around with other people’s emotions, so I suggested that we play a game called Foolish Games knowing in the back of my mind that I Will Always Love You.
The rules are simple, and it just takes two to play. You start by Tumbling Dice and adding a spoonful of Brown Sugar, and then You Start Me Up understanding that You Can’t Always get What You Want. After long languorous weeks in the sun I announced to my partner, “Let’s Spend the Night Together.”  We found Satisfaction in a Villa in The South of France, and lying in bed looking into one another’s eyes I said to her, Are You Lonesome Tonight.” She replied “Call Me Maybe.” (I’ll call her Maybe maybe, although her name is actually Billie Jean)

For the next six months we played the game constantly. I became her Daydream Believer and she became my everything, and I told her You’re My World. I asked her to Help as we spent every hour in each other’s company. Then suddenly, without warning She Walked Out The Door Right Out Of My Life.........
I concentrated on Stayin’ Alive but finally broke down and picked up the phone and called my Lady who accused me immediately of being a Gold Digger. Deeply offended I responded saying, “You hussy, you playboy Centerfold. With a demur chuckle she answered Don’t Think Twice It’s Alright and I suddenly realized. Wow It’s Just Like Starting Over, I felt like I was Blowing In the Wind to which she answered angrily...”well That’s What Friends Are For. You and I are like Fire and Rain," and she slammed the phone down.
Every Breath You Take is still like a knife to my heart, I thought to myself What A Feeling. When I’m Rolling In The Deep or writing some Iambic Pentameter I generally discover that if I’ve been Tossin’ Or Turnin’ or singing some other Silly Love Songs I become unusually hungry, and need a snack. I find my mind wandering like a Candle In The Wind knowing always that I Want To Hold Your Hand while I’m Shadow Dancing because I’m trying to stand Side to Side as I eat my snack by the fridge. It’s all quite confusing really, but at least it makes perfect sense to me.

I was never the same after we broke up. I Heard it Through The Grapevine, that Billie Jean had found someone new, and just a month ago I received a text from her with just three bitter words that said simply: “You’re So Vain."  I immediately shot back a four-word manifesto You’re Still the One. “That’ll teach her,” I thought.
A great song can’t be written One Moment In Time. It’s always about Respect and with patience I could become a Party Rock Anthem. It’s important to understand How I Live, when I’ve Got A Feeling that just won’t quit, especially when things turn Physical. You see...when I look into your eyes I realize that You Light Up My Life, you’re My Girl, my sweet little Doo Wah Diddy Diddy because I can’t Imagine life without you. I’ve been Running On Empty for so long now that without question We Belong TogetherYou’re my Uptown Funk baby my little Ruby Tuesday. You’ll never Unbreak My Heart, oh you with those Betty Davis Eyes. You’re my sweet lovin’ Dock of the Bay, My Girl, but God Only Knows, that When a Man Loves a Woman There Ain’t No Mountain High Enough, but baby You Are the Sunshine of My Life, my True Colors so I Say a Little Prayer  for you. Sadly though, the harder I tried, the more I realized our love was dead.

Life went back to normal, and became an American Pie moment. I started to write again, at first depressing poems about lost love but finally coming to a point of being proud of my work again. I wrote a new song that was (little did I know it at the time) going to change my life. I spent All Night Long writing it and knew...yes I really knew that this song was The One. Oh Baby, Baby It’s a Wild World and then I realized that We Will Rock You, because as the great poet Wordsworth once said, She’s Only a Woman To Me. I was drawn to a frenetic emotion -- slipping away, wanting as always to Keep On Rocking in the Free World, but then without warning I bounced back and suddenly was singing You Raise Me Up. Wow...it truly is a Wonderful World.