Does anyone remember that image of the perfectly roasted turkey being carried ceremoniously to the dining room table while family and friends drooled over the sight of that majestic bird?  American artist, Norman Rockwell, illustrated this special moment in one of his famous renderings.
        Well, the image is just that. An image.
        For many, many years, I have roasted a turkey for Thanksgiving and Christmas. Seems to me I managed to mess it up in as many years.

        I have this fantasy of a perfect Christmas Day with the perfect Christmas dinner. Like magazine editors show in glossy photographs. Outside, thick snowflakes are falling softly and silently from a dark, starry sky. Inside, children play peacefully and happily with toys from Santa in front of a perfectly decorated tree. They don’t know their father was up until the wee hours of the morning trying to assemble a complicated geometric toy or guaranteed fully workable space station to place ready-made under the Christmas tree. (Unfortunately, manufacturers forgot to put in a special screw or bolt or whatever else was lost among the pieces strewn over the floor and under the sofa.) And our young son has finally stopped throwing up from excitement so I can continue preparing the Christmas feast instead of pulling out clean clothes for him after shoving vomit-riddled clothes in the washer.
        At least, I think, there will be a Christmas dinner. It will be perfect this year. It better be. Friends and family are joining us.

        So, to the bird. Seeking excellence, I had researched ‘how to roast a perfect turkey’ for weeks before this big day. Never realized there were so many different roads to perfection. One recipe indicated high heat for the first hour; another called for low temperatures but a longer cooking time. Recommendations were many and varied: brine the bird first; barbeque it on your gas grill outside for a woodsy effect; roast and carve the turkey the day before whilst keeping it moist with its own juices for reheating when needed. Stuff it with dressing. Don’t stuff it with dressing. Rub the skin with butter. Or bacon. Or mustard. Tent it with tin foil. Or not. Pour white wine over the roasting carcass (I feel guilty confessing the sins of my friend who poured red wine over the bird and, well, the visual result was less than appealing).

        Then I found another highly recommended chef recipe for the very best juicy bird. Wrap the turkey first in parchment paper, cover with foil; roast at a low temperature until it’s nearly cooked; remove the foil and parchment then brown in a hot oven until skin is crisp. And don’t forget the meat thermometer…first figure out the thickest part of the thigh where it’s best to insert the thermometer.
        Okay. So now the roasted turkey is ready. Friends and family are gathered around the dining table buzzing with excitement over this most extravagant meal on this most exciting day.
        I’m in a hurry...last minute herbal additions to the gravy to raise it to the gourmet level...then heat it up again…
        OMG! The hot pot slips from my hand. Said pot spills gravy. I watch horrified---suspended in a time warp---as a slimy, brown, murky, hot viscous liquid mercilessly slithers like a prehistoric reptile across the tiles on my kitchen floor. I’m about to scream but I hear the peaceful strains of “Silent Night” in the background.
        I stand there. Defeated. I hear ripples of anticipation from buzzing dinner guests awaiting the anointed bird and its accoutrements.
        Christmas magic?! I don’t think so!

       He came home from World War II a changed man.
       He lied about his age to enlist because he was younger than the official acceptance age.  As the son of a World War I hero, a year-long resident in England with his mother’s family, and an idealist with strong convictions, he held a slightly romantic view of war.  His brother, relatives and friends had already enlisted. It was the exciting, heady mood of the day to ‘sign up’. A talented artist with his own mind, he wanted to join because he felt it in his blood. And it was The Royal Canadian Air Force that attracted him because he wanted to learn to fly.

       There was a systemic problem, though.  His artistic temperament fed a sensitive vein that ran through him. If he saw colours in technicolour, then he saw battle atrocities in vivid replays.  Over and over.
       Soldiers aren’t supposed to be sensitive.  They are taught to be tough robots.
      After his return to civilian life, his subdued temper flared more easily. Tortured by the realities of war, his subsequent art reflected a declining mental state.  Dark canvases featured war lords, demons, and hell.  Years later, his condition would be recognized and labelled as post traumatic stress disorder but at the time, he was diagnosed manic depressive.

       This decent gentle man once took his children for walks in the woods where he paused, listened to the wind whistling through the trees, and whispered: “hear the fairies dancing through the leaves?”  He wore corduroy jackets that warmed his touch and skin, the fabric emitting an aura of sweet tobacco from his pipe: the perfect place to snuggle when the world let you down.  He painted murals on the bathroom walls, creating a fantasy world for his bathing children.  His talent caught the eyes of prominent civic citizens, which led to numerous local newspaper articles and a scholarship. He painted day and night because it was his life’s blood. And in the evening his children, tucked into bed, were comforted when they heard their mother read to him as he put paint to canvas. He encouraged them in all ways creative, from drama and music to art and writing.  Today some of his grandchildren and great grandchildren exhibit---and excel---in those talents. 

       So each November, especially because Remembrance Day is part of this month, I think of him.  Perhaps I’ve embellished some of his characteristics but then, why not?
       For this soldier---who suffered as do all soldiers---was my father.

        Blurry-eyed after a transatlantic flight, I collapse in the airport chair to reconnect my fuzzy brain. A flurry of bright colour flashes by. My bagged eyes follow. She could be a butterfly; her floor-length peacock blue African native dress, splashed with iridescent orange and brilliant yellow flowers, rustles through the drab interior of the waiting room. Golden bracelets, hoop earrings. Matching exotic headdress sits high on her regal head, black hair peeking, falling over smooth brown skin. Fleshy, big-boned, she commands attention. Except a large, frayed elastic bandage encircling her right ankle---bare feet stuffed into a pair of jewel-encrusted sandals---ruins her royal image.
        Welcome to Charles de Gaulle airport in Paris. Local time: 5:00 a.m.

        It’s noon. We are hungry. Dash into a local boulangerie. With loaded baguette in hand, we grab a small table outside the shop to munch food in the sun. Then we see him watching us. Trim black beard, straight back, he sits proudly on the curb, scarf wrapped around his worn suit jacket. Empty paper cup on the sidewalk before him.    Dependent on the generosity of strangers.
        We share half our lunch.
       Later, on le Metro, a young father holding a bottle of half-finished milk while cradling his sleeping infant, lurches down each moving subway car. In his hand, an empty paper cup. Waves it from passenger to passenger for coins.

        In Avignon, closer to the Mediterranean Sea, main streets are dotted with similar silent, docile figures: young, old, male, female. A constant reminder of those less fortunate. We enter a patisserie to purchase a croissant chocolat. We also buy a slice of pizza. The pizza is for the young woman sitting cross-legged on the curb outside the bakery. Lowering her head, she murmurs merci.
        The faces of migrants.

        We are at Gare de Lyon in Paris, preparing to board the highspeed train to Avignon in southwest France. A lonely grand piano sits unattended in the centre of the waiting hall. Until a youth, about 12, sits on the piano bench, and amidst the hub-bub of travellers, begins to play. Beautifully. His train arrives; he quickly departs. Soon after, another traveller sits at the waiting piano. With easy familiarity, his fingers slide over the keys playing a classical piece. Then his train arrives. He departs. And so it goes…a continuous, melodious piano concerto in the middle of madness in a local train station.

        Now our train is ready for boarding: Voiture 6. We walk along the platform. Walk endlessly, dragging our luggage along the full length of this long train. We cannot find Car 6. In stumbling high school French we ask directions from one of the few attendants. He points backwards.We hustle back. Time for departure is near. We do not see numéro 6. Ask again. More pointing back from where we have already dragged our luggage. Not much time. We run. Dragging off-balance luggage behind us. Desperate now. Finally choose any car, no idea what number. Ask a stranger on the voiture. She scans our tickets. Oui, she says, c’est le numéro 6.
        Fall asleep. Exhausted. Wake up three hours later in la gare Avignon.
        And we still have no idea how to find the number on a French highspeed railway car.

        Long, long ago, my heart’s desire was to live in a big city. Lights, action, camera! And great restaurants. My mother raised an eyebrow, warned of dire things in the land of concrete.
        As it turned out, my husband and I did the next best thing. We live in a ‘burb of Toronto the Good (a sarcastic moniker nowadays; once called “Good” because of so-called Victorian high moral standards in the 1800s. Also called Hogtown but that’s another story. And oh yes, a hint that hip hop star, Drake, had renamed TO ‘the 6’ a couple of years ago. But I digress.)
        On occasion, from our home an hour away, we drive or hop on the GO (Government of Ontario) commuter train. Which we did every day for one week recently.

        That’s when reality hit.
        Each morning, aboard the 6:20 a.m. train, I people-watched. There was the blonde woman, hair pulled back in a pony-tail, mid-30s, rings on each finger. (But no bells on her toes…couldn’t resist that...). Her heavy eyes stared into space, flickered momentarily, then closed, her head bouncing on her chest. Instantly asleep.  Beside her, a sharply-dressed middle-aged Suit lowered his face for a mere second, nodded off immediately.
        Looking around the commuter coach, the same scene was replayed but with different characters. Some commuters used earphones, inhaling relaxation music, I imagine, or perhaps listening to business-related data, hoping to absorb a fraction of info before falling asleep.

        This early morning train from suburbia to Toronto was strangely silent, filled with dozing denizens: fellow zombie-like commuters, whiplashed by their bobbing heads rolling around or snapping back and forth. Each sleepyhead trying to catch a few more zzzzz’s before hitting the ground running at Union Station, final stop, tearing off in different directions to their destinations after an abrupt awakening.
        Study after study reveals the unhealthiest part of your work day is your commute, whether sandwiched in public transport---or sandwiched in traffic in a car---on the way to your job. Long commutes (60 minutes) affect your mental and physical wellbeing. Researchers point to rising blood sugar and cholesterol levels, an increase in stress, anxiety and depression. Plus your waistline adds inches. Presumably because of snacking more. Usually on unhealthy food.

        And if you’re stuck in a crowded, standing-room only public transport bus, tram or subway, there is added mental discord. Zero personal space. Fellow passengers bug you. Like the too-loud cell phone talker next to you. Who cares whether her drapes are black or gold or fall off the window in shreds?
        And if you actually find a seat on a crowded subway, you may find a standing male’s pant zipper or a woman’s heaving breasts stuck inches from your face.  And how unjust being forced to contend with the sitting-next-to-you stranger who emits an odour most foul! Or you could be squished like a sandwich while standing---physically closer than you’ve been with your partner for ages---no support needed--- on an overly-crowded bus.

        After this rat-race experience, it was time to rethink by big city obsession. More and more I noticed articles on why someone broke loose and moved to the country.             
        Seems the first delightful discovery is living simply. Slower pace of life. Less pollution generally. Friendlier folks. Walking to the market. Stopping to smell the roses. Having once lived in an Ontario town, population 5,000, I got it.
        So maybe I could have been one of those zoned-out zombies trying to keep constant deadlines, eating on the run, chronically tired, depressed, edging towards insanity. But by some good luck, I’m not.
        My mother’s advice was sound: better be careful what you wish for.

        As you read this, pretend you are a child of summer again. Lying in the tall waving grass at the top of a favourite hill. One of your bestest things to do is close your eyes, let yourself go, and roll down the hill. See how far you get. Do you curve left or right or roll straight down?
        When you open your eyes, glance upward, catch some lazy time. Watch floating white fluffy clouds---in elephant or fish shapes---slowly drift by high in the sky. A fuzzy bumble bee, oblivious to your presence, buzzes around the chicory weed on your right. The bee lands on the plant’s purple flower to gather its pollen. You marvel at how close you are, yet how ignored by the insect. A grasshopper jumps nearby, landing on a blade of grass not far from your field of vision. Your eyes are like those in a giant head as you watch this not-so-attractive-but-fascinating bug sway on the blade in the breeze. In every direction you see green, green, and more green. You feel at peace.                   
        Maybe you didn’t know it then, but you were in perfect harmony with Nature.

        Fast forward to Summer 2018.
        Be afraid. Be very afraid.
      Today’s walk in the tall grass of a favourite wooded area harbours dangerous insects, eager to land on unprotected skin, suck your blood, and leave you with a debilitating disease. Like Lyme Disease, West Nile Virus, or the sometime life-threatening effects of a wasp sting.
        Like monsters hiding under our childhood beds or running rampant in fairy tales, Lyme Disease is our newest walk-in-the-wood villain; the disease is spread by ticks found worldwide.

        West Nile Virus infected mosquitoes are rapidly taking away the pleasure of walking in the woods, too. The latest info advises you to spray preventive---and toxic---chemicals on your bare skin.
        As for bees and/or wasps---if their stings trigger allergic reactions---you have a hazardous health problem.
        Unfortunately, insects are not the only danger in the wild these days.

        This summer, noxious fumes from multiple forest fires rule the world. In Canada, the province of British Columbia is particularly hard hit. Family and friends from around the province complain of headaches, sore throats, respiratory difficulties, all caused by smoky skies.
A poignant prayer from our artist son lights up the apocalyptic scene and captures the essence of Nature’s fragility: these fiery hot spots---raging out of control--- are not natural nor beneficial for forest regrowth. Constant, licking flames deliver instant destruction to people, wildlife, and property.    Negative effects bombard the environment.

        As a child, my fondest memories are long hikes in Canadian woods with cool running brooks, tall erect evergreens, warbling bug-eyed frogs, stately standing blue herons, the haunting call of the loon on a quiet inland lake….
But these idyllic memories clash with today’s realities. A hike in the woods now is almost akin to mediaeval times when the very idea of going into the woods sat in the dark heart of fairy tales. Then, the forest was a threatening, mystical world, filled with unknown misadventures, terrible challenges, and life or death decisions.
        Sometimes, when my husband and I head out for a hike today, with necessary garb like long pants tucked into long socks tucked into hiking boots, wearing long sleeves in Sahara-sweat temperatures, protective hat on vulnerable head, carrying a backpack with water, energy bars, ointments, bug spray, sun protection from UV rays, and yes---a cell phone---I get the feeling there’s a big bad wolf or bug or fire out there somewhere just waiting to gobble me up.

        I didn’t feel a thing.
        Here we were, walking barefoot on the sand along the beach, reconnecting with Nature, breathing in the salt sea air of the ocean. Feeling great, almost smug, that we were among those fortunate to be on vacation while the rest of our friends were slaving at some job.
        Not.

        Eight hours later, large red, swollen welts appeared on the back of my legs, on my arms, and on my back. Same with my husband. I looked disease-riddled, unhealthy and unsightly. Ugly as in UGLY!
        And itchy! Scratch. Scratch. Scratch until blood appeared. As bad as a dog with fleas.
       Because the welts appeared so long after our beach walk---in fact, overnight---we suspected bed bugs in our hotel bed. But research proved us wrong. Bed bug bites appear all over your body, not only on specific parts. Plus, blowing a hair dryer after lifting a mattress revealed nothing. (The hot air is supposed to send bed bugs scurrying from hiding places.)

        So what could be biting us?
     A few other hotel guests also sported these tell-tale welts and finally, after consulting with similar victims, we learned, too late, we had provided a feast for sand flies. Nasty, not-fighting-fair insects that we can’t see or hear or feel until after their biting damage is done.
        What to do? Remedy suggestions are varied:
      Spray yourself with lavender oil. Insect repellant. Vinegar. Rub your bite with Tiger Balm. Garlic. Calamine Lotion. Baking soda with water. Salt. Stay away from the beach at dawn and dusk. Wear long pants and long sleeve tops. Wear socks!

        What happened to the romanticism of the beach? Lying half-naked, your lover beside you, trickling grains of sand into your navel, as you both listen to the rhythm of life through the undulating waves of the endless sea while the smiling sun goddess caresses your nubile body.
       Wait! This erotic scenario ignores the scourge of sand flies!

        I went on sand fly information overload when I researched the subject. 
        Sorry to say, sand flies are biting us worldwide. However, based on their genus, distribution is categorized as either old world or new world sand flies. The genera Lutzomyia, Brumptomia and Warileya occur in the new world countries, while the genera Phlebotomus and Sergentiomyia occur in the old world countries.
        Conclusion: you can’t escape them anywhere!
       Anyone else out there have any experience with sand flies and how to contain these nasty little critters?
        Or, is it as has been long predicted:
        Insects rule!

        She left her comfortable home in British Columbia, Canada, without knowing where she was going or what kind of a life she might lead. On the long road trip, she drove in the car with him, blindly faithful, dependent on his love and affection---and wily ways---to get them where he wanted to go. Through the uncertainty of the United States, the dangers of Mexico’s drug lord territorial wars, the fickleness of their vehicle, they soldiered forth, like flying on a wing and a prayer in a lightplane. Sometimes, at night, when they stopped for bed and rest, motels refused them occupancy. Because of her.

        Finally, they stopped in Belize City, Central America.  To begin a new life in ungodly heat and humidity, matched only by new strains of insect bites, erupting, itchy, on virgin skin. Yet she hung in there. Trusting her mentor. She even got used to ungodly weather, like hurricanes. Probably uncomfortable, she never complained: loyal, loving, and lost in adoration for him. Even today.

        Her name is Annie. A beautiful border collie. And we visited her folks while they lived in Belize where we soon learned: Annie ruled supreme in the household.
So maybe she didn’t have her own TV (did you know dog television for $5US a month is now a valid channel?) but Annie was royalty, above the common folk like us. Her owner even homecooked, then froze for future use, special doggie food* for her.
One hot, humid day, we waited expectantly for a chef-inspired meal in Annie’s owners’ air-conditioned apartment.

        We had just returned from a hot, humid sightseeing adventure to Altun Ha, nearby Maya archeological ruins. We were sweaty, tired, and mucho hungry.
        As we sat around our hosts’ bountiful table, extolling the virtues of tropical fruits, my salivary glands anticipated the fresh beef stew dish prepared by our chef/host. Animated conversation, long cool drinks, the click clack of eating utensils---even Annie sitting longingly beside our chef/host at the head of the table--- presented the perfect Norman Rockwell painting of generous hospitality and culinary delight.  With gusto, we dug into our beef stew, rich with gravy, simmered to perfection with healthy chunks of carrots, eggplant, and squash. Delicious!
        I happened to notice during this fabulous repast, however, that our usually animated host was not so. In fact, looking round the table, I heard conversation from everyone except our chef.
        “You’re awfully quiet,” I said. “Feeling okay?”

        “Um,” he replied, his hand on the nose of his favourite Annie. “….feelin’ fine.”
Suddenly I noticed he hadn’t eaten a morsel of food. “You sure? You haven’t eaten a thing.”
        He shifted slightly in his chair. “Um…” His voice trailed off.
        “What..?”
        “This stew,” he commented slowly. “I made a mistake. This is Annie’s food.”
        Stunned silence. Slowly, deliberately, each diner put down knife and fork.
        I looked at Annie. She cocked her head.
        “Sorry ‘bout this,” our host said. “Say something...anything…like you’re mad at me…!”
        Thinking carefully now. What could/should I say? Unexpectedly---as if from a galaxy, far, far away, as if I no longer controlled what I said---I heard my words tumble forth automatically:
        “Bark. Bark.”
        Like I said, it’s a dog’s life.

        *see comments below for Annie’s food recipe

Map: Belize

        Through the open front window of our cement box casa overlooking the dusty street, we watch neighbourhood children play baseball. Our window, of course, is not screened but decorated, as most typical Central American homes are, with wrought iron bars that serve as security. Maybe insects still have free passage but presumably it’s difficult for bad hombres to crawl through narrow spaces. Our casa sits at the end of a no-exit street lined with other similarly styled homes with various degrees of attractiveness/decay.

        A year ago this was our winter home in Léon, Nicaragua, in a working class (a step above poverty) neighbourhood called Cuatro de Mayo, so named for those killed there during the Nicaraguan Revolution of the late 70s/early 80s. We chose this city because of its cultural and historical significance. We chose this home because it was the only available rental unit renovated to accommodate foreigners who needed amenities: a half-decent kitchen with a roof over it (never mind the red ants I had to pummel with clenched fist each morning; or the tarantula in the bathroom drawer), a stove with an oven (i.e. more than a hotplate), and air conditioning, the latter most necessary in 35 C plus heat.
        As foreigners on this short, volcanic black dusty street, we were curios. So we wanted to show residents we cared about, and were interested in, their life and families.
        We were watching the kids out our front window play baseball with a rubber ball. They used their forearms as a bat.
        “Let’s buy them a bat!” we chimed together. Obviously they couldn’t afford a proper bat. Or a proper baseball. 
            Nay. Nay. Let’s think about this. Who gets to keep the bat? Maybe the bat would create envy, discord. Maybe the ball would get lost and cause tears because it was special.
        Ultimately, we concluded these children were using what was available to them to play a game they loved. If we interfered in any way, we would upset the balance. They were having fun and they didn’t need any North American do-gooder gift of so-called ‘proper’ equipment.

        Gradually we came to know these people. And vice versa. How hard they worked for such little pay! They struggled for any small luxury. Blanca, next door, offered to clean our  place for extra money after working in a health clinic all day. As soon as we paid her, we watched as she took her little boy’s hand while he skipped beside her to the nearest tienda for a special treat.

        One day, the wage earner from the run-down shack across the way presented us proudly with two home-baked cookies. The taxi driver farther down the street drove us to our destinations making sure we knew where to go when we got there. Gradually we felt comfortable and absolutely safe among those living on this dusty little street where women tried hard to keep their homes clean by sweeping water over the dirt. Always a friendly Buenos Dias, a wave, a warm greeting from children and adults as we left or returned ‘home’.
        It was an emotional farewell when it came time for us to depart for Canada. One neighbour presented us with signed copies of their son’s photograph so we would not forget them. Unexpectedly, we felt close to these people.

        Today, we are heartsick for our former neighbours. We read Nicaragua is in turmoil. In crisis.
Reports Nicaragua Today:
Initially triggered by now-aborted reforms to the near-bankrupt social security system, the unrest broadened into a rejection by many Nicaraguans of President Daniel Ortega, who is seen as autocratic.
From the Nicaragua Daily Mail:
Clashes broke out in Nicaragua between opposition demonstrators using homemade mortars and pro-government groups, with the worst occurring in Leon, northwest of the capital Managua.
A barricade was built across the main road into the city which was used by anti-government protesters to fire their weapons from. Since protests began last month, 76 people have been killed and more than 800 wounded.
        Léon! Our Nica hometown! What about the families on our street who scraped by each day selling their homegrown vegetables, tortillas, firewood? What about the old vendors who hawked their wares and stopped to chat with our neighbours? And what about the kids on our dusty little street? I still hear their laughter. Can they still safely play baseball, soccer, tag…be carefree…play cards under the street lamp at night?   Who will take care of them if their parents are affected?
        Sadly, I have learned it is the real people with nothing who protest for a better life. And it is the real people, many innocent, who suffer the repercussions of violence.

Map:  Nicaragua

       When one of my lifelong friends came to stay at our home years ago, our three young sons were blasé about another woman my age coming to visit. Despite my explanations, they didn’t get it when I told them she was an Indian classical dancer.
       That is, until they watched her transform from an ordinary me to an exotic barefoot creature swirling in silk: ankles ringed with bells, hair pulled back and adorned with white flowers, neck dripping with sparkling jewels, wrists encircled with golden bangles, face bronzed with special makeup, eyes enlarged with loud and exaggerated kohl eyeliner.
       The awestruck boys soon learned it is the dancer’s eyes and facial expressions that command your attention while her exquisite hand, foot, and body movements unfold an ancient story.“Wow!” they chorused when they saw her dancing costume and watched her apply makeup.
       “Wow!” was all they could say after her concert. They never forgot her.
       Few people forgot her once they saw her dance.

       I always knew her by the name, Groves, as in Anne Groves. After marriage she morphed into Anne-Marie Gaston. But to our family, she was always known by her stage name, Anjali.
       Groves was one of a dozen childhood girlfriends who continue to remain close today through frequent reunions and social media. Ours is a unique friendship with ties forged at an early age. We mark and celebrate each other’s life milestones: happy, sad, always reflective.
       Pretty, tall for her age, energetic, athletic, she was also inclusive. One of us suffered a degenerative disease. Groves treated her as an equal and Joan thrived.
Groves was our acknowledged leader. From Girl Guides to high school head girl, she blazed the way. Although her energy seemed inexhaustible to the outside world, we, her girlfriends, knew better. Groves could jump, sing, dance, play, forever it seemed. Then she needed to recover. She collapsed to sleep days at a time.

       It was this energy and leadership quality that led her to India. Following university graduation, she was attracted to CUSO (Canadian University Service Overseas) as was another of us. While Marlyn spent a two-year life-enriching experience in Ghana, Groves inhaled India. Passionately.
       India proved to be the catalyst for her rebirth. As Anjali, she won accolades and awards for her Indian classical dancing, and was feted internationally for her significant contributions to this demanding art. Following her marriage, she and Tony Gaston created exquisite dancing productions.
       This month Groves died after suffering from multiple myeloma, a debilitating cancer of the blood. She lived for years with this painful disease yet continued to appear in Indian classical dance productions and wrote books on this fascinating art. http://www.legacy.com/obituaries/ottawacitizen/obituary.aspx?n=anne-marie-gaston&pid=188737504
        At her memorial service, the Buddhist monastic shared this appropriate dedication: May whatever blessings come to me from whatever good I do in the world, may that be shared with all beings to aid in their path to Awakening.
       At the same service, an admirer described her life as a shining star that streaked across the sky ending in a blaze of light. She was, indeed, that bright star.
       Farewell, Anne Groves, of Ottawa. One of us forever. May you rest in peace.

       Amidst the cacophony of loud voices, colours, noise, clutter and people in this Laos night market, she seemed out of place. Yet she stood out among the rest.
       Her simple stall, a ruby red material covering the ground, contrasted with her mustard coloured top, black embroidered trousers, and bare feet. She was sitting cross-legged on the ground, holding her toddler son. His sister, about 8, sat slightly apart on her own.

       We were in Luang Prabang, its town centre designated a UNESCO World Heritage Site. Described in travel brochures as Simply Beautiful, this former Royal capital and mountain kingdom is considered one of the most beautiful in Asia. Struck by its charm: warm people, rich cultural heritage, myriads of Buddhist temples and street markets, French architecture (Laos was once a protectorate of France), we were delighted to be slightly off the beaten track. Laos, a communist country, is landlocked, almost hidden in southeast Asia.

       What attracted us to this young woman’s particular stall were her unusual metal articles for sale. On closer look we read a sign in English that began, these bracelets were bombs. We saw spoons, chopsticks, bracelets, rings, bottle openers….
       And so began our education.

       Her metal collection tells the story of a secret war waged in Laos from 1964-1973 by the U.S. Its aim: stop the spread of communism across Indochina. 250-260 million bombs were dropped on Laos during that time; 80 million failed to detonate.
       The tragic result: more than 34,000 people have been killed or injured by cluster munitions since the bombing ceased in 1973; there are still 300 new casualties in Laos each year. The majority of victims are children.
       Two years after the bombing stopped, villagers began to cast spoons from war scrap metal scattered around their forests and fields.
       Enter American New York designer, Elizabeth Suda, who visited Laos in 2008, saw the metal jewellery and objects, asked some questions, and the rest, as they say, is history.

       She subsequently founded Article 22, a design company named for the 22nd article of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights.
Article 22 also launched The PeaceBombs Project, one of the most important and moving enterprises to support the Laotian artisan. Using bomb fragment materials from the Secret War during the Vietnam War era, Laotian craftsmen/women now create meaningful jewelry and useful utensils for sale worldwide. Proceeds go back to the artisans and their communities.
       Postscript: Yes, we supported the PeaceBombs Project and purchased some items. Each time I glance at my aluminum ring from that young mother’s stall in Luang Prabang, I am reminded there is hope amidst despair, reconstruction from destruction.