On this mournful January day --- grey, moody, cold --- that matches the current mournful state of the world: COVID, climate change, misery of millions, shock over the recent attack on the U.S. Capitol, it is best to cocoon.
        I close my eyes.

At camp
        Immediately, I am at camp again. On the banks of the Ottawa River on a wooded, 40- hectare haven. Living with five other girls my age --- early teens --- in a bell tent. Girl Guide members, we have bonded during the school year. Now we live together for a few weeks each summer at Camp Woolsey. Away from parents, home, and related responsibilities. Pure bliss.
        This particular year, in a lucky twist of fate, we five have landed positions on Woolsey’s waterfront staff. Our jobs bring prestige, privilege. Meaning we don’t have to peel mountains of potatoes or wash dishes in the Mess Hall. Such duties are relegated to mere campers.

Lessons in life
        However, no matter inclement weather or cold grey river water or black flies, our job is to teach swimming, canoeing, and water safety to campers. All day. Every day.
Gunwale bobbing on canoes was our popular time-off pastime. Today, this game we played astride the gunwales/sides of a canoe, is outlawed. Too dangerous. Liability insurance is now necessary.
        And yet, gunwale bobbing gave us the opportunity to take chances, to learn how to balance, to fall into the water and get up again. Valuable life lessons.

Night adventure
        In the evening, after campfire songs like Land of the Silver Birch, Fire’s Burning, and Taps (Day is Done, Gone the Sun...), we were expected to tumble into our tents and sleeping bags, (flash)lights out, and sleep.

        Except we waterfront girls never followed protocol. After leaders finished their ‘bedcheck’, we crept out of our tent and raced onto the path immediately behind our site. Circulating rumours of a boys’ camp not far away had piqued our interest.
        We decided to raid it.
        Unfortunately, traipsing along a woodland path in the dark proved difficult. Especially when unidentifiable bush noises alerted suspicious leaders that not all was normal. Also, our no flashlight rule to avoid detection was a liability.
        Despite our precautions, our deviously responsible leaders came looking. We dove into nearby shrubbery to escape discovery. When we thought it safe --- once they paraded past our hiding spot --- we ran for cover back into our tent. All this action in darkness.
        The next morning, we awoke to terrible rashes covering our bodies. Rashes that itched and oozed with scratchy sores. Seems, in our haste to hide, we had chosen a patch of poison ivy.
        To this day, I swear we saw smirks on our leaders’ faces.

Retaliation
        Of course, we must retaliate. Anonymously. We hope.
      There were no modern bathroom facilities at camp. But there were those old-fashioned outhouses (with carved half-moons in the door of a small wooden latrine) set apart, due to unsavoury odours, from the campsite. One was designated for campers.    The other outhouse, placed farther away and delicately surrounded by greenery, belonged to camp leaders.
        Cleaning these latrines and throwing lye crystals on the odious contents strewn below the hole were tantamount to hell.

        While some kept vigilant watch, the rest of us took on the smelly job of exacting our revenge. We opened the leaders’ latrine door, lifted the toilet seat, secured saran wrap across the ‘hole’, replaced the toilet seat, left the little wooden building and immediately hid in the surrounding shrubbery, ignoring the swarms of eternal buzzing insects.
        Didn’t take long before a leader needed to answer the call of nature. She ambled along the path to the executive latrine.
        Stifling giggles, we watched her step inside. Lock the door.
        We heard her screams. Immediately fled the scene. Tried hard to silence loud snickers.

Yesterday
        But all this innocent tomfoolery was yesterday.
        Now I must return to today and the current sad state of our besieged world.

        When I was seven years old, our family (three children plus mom and dad) moved from the Maritimes “down home” to Ontario “Upper Canada”. A big move.
      I cried all the way on the train from Saint John, New Brunswick to Ottawa, Ontario. I was leaving behind grandparents and cousins. My entire world.
       In that long-ago time, housing in Ottawa was at a premium. Especially for families with children. Accommodation for a couple with three small children was almost non-existent. But I didn’t know that then.

        My parents chose to live with a French-Canadian family in a Sandy Hill boarding house near today’s Ottawa University.

Sacred Heart Church
        One of my favourite memories of that time is the magnificent Roman Catholic Church on Laurier Ave East. If ever your faith was in doubt, attending Christmas Midnight Mass in L’Église du Sacré Coeur, a heritage stone building, brought your faith back into focus.
        Sacred Heart Church, a Sandy Hill landmark with its central bell steeple flanked by two smaller spires, stood on guard like a sentry since 1889. The Church’s interior was massive. Oversized ornate paintings of Jesus, Mary, angels, disciples and biblical scenes surrounded endless rows of wooden pews. I recall the sweet fragrance of incense during Christmas Midnight Mass.

        (A sad sidenote: On a bitter November night in 1978, an immense fire with flames that painted the sky orange and could be seen from across the Ottawa River in Aylmer, Québec, virtually destroyed Sacred Heart Church in three hours. In the morning, rescuers made a near-miraculous discovery. In the basement, they found an intact statue of Mary with three candles still burning at her feet. )

        Our family’s attendance inside this francophone Church was due to the invitation from our French-Canadian landlords. Madame Michelle, and her devoted husband, Monsieur George Doucette, were a comic book couple. She was large with an ample bosom and a booming voice amplified when she spoke her heavily-accented English. He was short, thin, and probably fit nicely between her breasts.

Réveillon
        Christmas Eve was a total boarding house affair. Tenants brought food to share in the post-Midnight Mass meal called the Réveillon. (My mother always contributed minced meat pies. Once a week Mme Doucette would pay her to bake pies. They were ‘so perfect’ and her made-from-scratch pastry legendary).
        “Réveillon” comes from the French word “réveil,” meaning “to wake up.” Mme and Monsieur Doucette invited all boarders to attend Midnight Mass with them as their special guests and then return to eat, drink and ‘wake up’. With the arrival of dawn, we all fell back into bed.
        The Doucette home sparkled with festive lights. A heavily decorated fresh fir tree protected gaily decorated gifts beneath it. My mind still inhales the blissful scent of fresh evergreen.

      At Sacred Heart Church, I especially liked watching parishioners recite Hail Marys with their personal prayer beads I so envied. How I lusted for a set of those beads! Even the Mass, celebrated in Latin, added to the religious mystery of the moment.
        To be in that grandiose church the moment Christmas Day began and hear the hymn “O Holy Night” at the end still sends shivers of anticipation up and down my back. After Mass, when the congregation spilled out into the black night, the snow inexplicably began to fall. Soft, billowing flakes floated down, landing on our noses, covering the most mundane object in dazzling white.

        Meanwhile, back at the Doucette home, the “Réveillon” had begun. Noisy diners devoured tourtière (a meat pie made with pork and beef or veal), ragoût de boulettes (meatballs in brown gravy), les pattes de porc (pigs’ feet cooked slowly until incredibly tender), and mashed or roasted potatoes.

        After the meal Monsieur Doucette would play the piano while we sang and danced. The adults imbibed heavily. So much so, I still hear Mme Doucette’s heavily accented English as she approached my much younger, good-looking, and shy father.
“Mon petit cochon,” she flirted. “My little piglet…”
        It was all part of the Réveillon.
        All part of a perfect childhood Christmas memory.

        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.

Hallowe’en
        If you ever meet the Devil on a dark road, don't try tricking him into climbing a tree.
        Or else, you could end up like Irish folk figure Jack O'Lantern.
        One night in a hamlet in Ireland, a conniving local drunk named Jack trapped the Prince of Darkness in a tree by hacking a sign of the cross into the bark. In exchange for allowing Satan to climb down, Jack made him promise to never claim his soul.

        As Jack’s life unfolded, he proceeded to act like a jerk during his entire time on Earth. Naturally, when he died, Heaven definitely closed its doors on him. So Jack turned to his old pal, the Devil. Satan, believe it or not, upheld his end of the deal and ignored him. To seal his message, the Devil hurled a piece of coal from hell at the dead man.
        With nowhere to go, Jack took the blazing coal and placed it in a turnip to use as a lantern. The dead man then set out, doomed to wander until he could find an eternal resting place.
        Which is why today on Hallowe’en Eve, we see Jack O’Lanterns everywhere. Jack is still searching for a resting place.

Hallowe’en origin…
        The history of Hallowe’en goes all the way back to a pagan festival called Samhain.
        The word "Hallowe’en" comes from "All Hallows' Eve" and means "hallowed evening."
        Hundreds of years ago, people dressed up as saints and went door to door, which is the origin of Hallowe’en costumes and trick-or-treating.
        Ghosts are especially popular this night.

Day of the Dead
        Meanwhile, across the ocean in Mexico, the faithful celebrate the Day of the Dead on November 1st. Skulls are a common sight.

Personal ‘Day of the Dead’ experience
        Once upon a time, due to ignorance, I thought Day of the Dead festivities were somehow connected to North American Hallowe’en celebrations and All Saints’ Day.
        Not.
       Day of the Dead is the time Mexicans remember family and friends who have died. They visit the cemetery and leave food offerings shaped like skulls at the altar. Candles, incense and a picture of the dead person are part of these ceremonies. Parades to the cemetery by relatives of the deceased are common.

        My husband and I happened to be in Veracruz, Mexico, on The Day of the Dead years ago.
        Veracruz, a large city, was festive, frenetic and alive when we arrived after a long day’s drive. We chose to eat at a popular outside dining area in a local plaza. Mariachi bands played while diners ate at the various restaurants. 
        Walking back to the hotel after our meal, we were met by enthusiastic revellers. Gathered around a festively decorated marble entrance, they invited us to join them. Once inside the hall, we realized the sheltered statues in a well-lit display were of Veracruz’s forefathers.  Creative pieces of installation art and homemade shrines relating to the deceased leaders were placed before each statue.

        Since this was the Day of the Dead, the group invited us to participate in their local custom honouring their city’s forefathers.
        Admiring the art and paraphernalia, we were suddenly serenaded with live music. Six female dancers, each wearing local finery, began to dance in a slow, mesmerizing rhythm. Each dancer’s black lace dress was adorned with brightly embroidered floral designs. Their upswept hair styles sparkled with interwoven strands of fresh flowers. Golden jewellery dangled from their ears and circled their necks and wrists.
        A whiff of alcohol hung in the air. Of course, we accepted a glass of home brew.

And so…
        This was how, in a foreign coastal city, we---a couple of gringo strangers---were warmly introduced to the Mexican traditional celebration of the Day of the Dead.
On these auspicious dates…
        When black cats prowl and pumpkins gleam, May luck be yours on Hallowe’en.
And…
        Remember and celebrate the Day of the Dead.        

Day of the Dead celebration video

Greece 1
        Weighed down by heavy backpacks, we run as fast as our retired legs can to Gate 2 in the Athens airport. “Hurry!  Hurry!” calls my husband as I scurry behind him. 
        We’ve just seen the flashing ‘final call’ on the departure screen for our flight to Crete. A late arrival from Munich results in this mad dash.
        As we breathlessly arrive at secondary security the attendant shakes his head sympathetically and says, “Sorry, they’ve just closed the doors to the plane.” Breathing hard, our shoulders slumped and aching, we look at each other. Exhausted. Can’t believe our bad luck.

Greece 2
        I have just insisted—no---demanded my husband turn around the rental car (when safely possible). Head back to flat ground. Driving along Cretan mountain roads is not for the faint-hearted. 
        Our one lane veered much too close to a death-defying drop. No guard rail protection from open space.
        Just as we were about to turn the hairpin curve, a group of maddeningly stupid sheep ambled around the bend in front of us.
        Where the devil were we supposed to go? Over the edge?
        Still shiver thinking about it.

Mexico 1        
        Dressed in black, wearing black sunglasses, black gloves, highly polished black boots, the Mexican federale cocks his finger at our car, pulls us over on the Isla del Carmen causeway. He motions to my husband: open the car window. Leans uncomfortably in too far. Says in fractured English, “you have committed an infracteeon”.
Mexico 2
        Sweat pours from my pores. Am drowning in my own perspiration. Hair wet. Stringy.  Breathing laboured. Burning lungs. Thankful we sit in blackness so our guide can’t see me struggle to maintain equilibrium. Want to curl into the fetal position on the floor. Maybe air is cooler and not so fire-hot there. Steady beat of the drum is a rhythmic thump.... thump... thump. How much longer in this temazcal? Can we last this session of 45 minutes?

Nicaragua 1
        In the morning, following a hard travel day and restless sleep, we had just stepped from our small hotel onto the uneven, narrow sidewalk. Turned to our right. Out of thin air, he appeared on my left. A boy about eight with large brown eyes. He said nothing. But he raised his hand, waving fingers frantically in his mouth. I stopped. Stared. Then he vanished. Took mere seconds to process his gesture. The child was hungry. Asking for food. Quickly I looked around for him. He was gone.
Nicaragua 2
        Too many insectos in these tropical countries. Suddenly my husband beckons me to the baño. “Spider,” he whispers, “big one.” Points to an open drawer. 
        I gasp. Tarantula! Two of its black hairy legs dangle over the edge, poised as if ready to jump.
        Oh, what to do? Although a whiz at defeating bugs, he is not sure how to tackle a 10 cm tarantula. Is it fast? Poisonous? Aggressive? 
        He runs for help from our Nica neighbour. While he’s gone, I nervously eye the tarantula in case it decides to scurry somewhere. Like towards ME.
        My husband returns pronto with our Nica neighbour who sees the tarantula. Reaching into his back pocket, he brings out a metal tape measure. While we both watch in awe, he extends the tape to a desired length. Deftly, quickly, he places the end of the tape under the tarantula. Flips it out of the drawer. Immediately steps on it. 
        We stare at the scattered remains of the large black hairy intruder. 
        Then I think about all the other dark hiding places in our rented casa.

Thailand
        It was Valentine’s Day. Treated ourselves to a French restaurant. Little Paris, a small bistro---ten-minute walk from our condo---may be French in name and menu but its staff is Thai.
        Sipping fine French wine, we dined on tender filet of beef, finishing with an ice cream dessert laced generously with a vodka sauce. With spirits high, appetites satiated, we began to thread our way back.
        As usual, the street was choked with traffic: open back taxis, motorcycles, cars, bicycles, vendors, people, dogs, children, even horses. All vying for space along the route.
        Halfway home, my husband stopped. Gasped.
        “What’s wrong?”
        “My backpack! Left it at the restaurant! Have to go back!”
        Just as we turned to return, a motorbike left the road and stopped in front of us.
        “You forgot your backpack,” our waitress said. Hands it over with a smile.
        Barely had time to utter thank you before she was back on her motorbike. Returning to the restaurant to serve more customers.

Tunisia
        As soon as our guide dropped us off at the Souk (a smaller version of The Grand Bazaar in Istanbul) in Sousse, Ali appeared by our side. 
        I recognize you from the hotel, he said. I work there.  My name is Ali. What are you looking for? Let me help you. You are very lucky. This is the final day of a three-day fair and prices are very good...I can take you to a special place for leather…
Hard to believe…
        …that in this time of coronavirus, we will not travel. We will not have the privilege to experience new experiences. 
        Until we start again, what haunts me is this famous quote by Brazilian novelist Paulo Coelho: If you think adventure is dangerous, try routine. It's lethal.

If you like travel, check out our www.vamostravelblog.com
If you like art, check out our son’s work at www.perryrath.com

        One hot August afternoon in the midst of this COVID crisis, I decided to do something different. Click off the computer and check out our neglected home library.
A frequent online user for keeping in touch with family and friends and conducting searches about this and that, I rediscovered an old love when I left the screen.
Begorrah! How could I have ignored real, paperbound, richly illustrated/photographed coffee books? The kind that attracts the eye. And attracts the nose with that print smell. Perfect for perusing. Dreaming. Drooling.
        Such discoveries…

What is a dragon?
        In the World Atlas of Mysteries, I stumbled on a forgotten section about dragons. Little did I know dragons turn up everywhere. Author Francis Hitching points out it’s hard to find a society that has not included a dragon in its legendary history.
        So, is there a basis in physical reality to believe in the existence of dragons? Most learned texts say no.

Dinosaurs
        However, in his book about World Mysteries, Hitching disputes that statement. To begin with, he notes there is a remarkable resemblance between dinosaurs and the dragon.
        He suggests this hypothesis: could it be that up to a few thousand years BCE, with 90 percent of the Earth’s surface uninhabited by man, a few of these dragon-like beasts were living millions of years beyond their time?

Lizards
        He writes how classical scholars like Aristotle believed dragons were based on observations of nature, rather than imagination. If so, Hitching proposes, then lizards are the probable dragon prototypes.
        He points out a species of small Indo-Malayan lizards which ‘fly’ through the air on webbed wings. Their generic name is Draco.
        While wintering in Progreso, Mexico, I used to watch fascinated as small, almost transparent, lizards/geckos ran up and down the window panes. They reminded me of mini dragons. So did our son’s pet iguana, called incidentally, Drako.
        And then there is Komodo Island. When travelling in Indonesia, we missed a visit to the giant lizards of that island. These ‘dragons’ attract hordes of tourists.

Celestial Influence?
        When Hitching writes about dragons, he includes sky watching.
        In ancient times---as today---people were fascinated with starry, starry nights. (Long ago, mankind didn’t have to compete with ambient light from artificial sources.)
        Watching closely on a clear night, we see a star-studded sky rife with action. Our forefathers held the same night-time skies in awe. Planets and stars were revered as deities.
        Anything unusual that interrupted the flow of a night sky pattern--- a comet, an eclipse, the conjunction of two planets---was believed to directly affect life on Earth.

Comet Dragons
        Thus, it was probably an unusual set of natural events that set off the dragon myth in the sky, concludes Hitching.
        He suggests an impressed writer in 12th century CE, described “a star of marvelous bigness, stretching forth… in the likeness of a dragon…”   A streaking comet.
The Big Question
        So, are dragons fact or fable? This calls for more research.
        I must go online.

Now, The Tower
        The Eiffel Tower to be specific. The iconic symbol of Paris.
        One of my rediscoveries during no screens were the marvelous images in the coffee table book Paris Magnum. Came across the famous photo, Tour Eiffel,1954, by Magnum member, Marc Riboud.  His amazing shot of a painter balancing on the Tower’s beams high above the city first appeared in Life Magazine in 1953.
        I studied this photo for a long time. Kept returning to the same questions. Where was photographer Riboud when he took this photo? He had to be at the same height, didn’t he? And who was the painter? What is the story behind the photo?
        To find out, I quickly clicked on the computer to do an online search.
        Unfortunately, in this case, I found… nothing.

Little known tidbits
        However, while looking for an answer to my photo questions, I stumbled on other interesting tidbits about the Eiffel Tower.
        Like:
        There’s a secret apartment at the top.
        Gustave Eiffel did not design the tower.
        The Eiffel Tower was supposed to be torn down after 20 years.
        Hitler ordered the Eiffel Tower to be destroyed.
        ….and more…

Best of Both
        So, while enjoying our considerable selection of coffee table books, I realized it helps to have the best of both worlds:
        I rekindled my love affair with books.  
        I learned to stop worrying and accept the screen.

Postscript
        Got a few more minutes? Check out our son! I mean, his artistic endeavours! www.perryrath.com

        We know seven kids.
      The biggest challenge their parents face during this COVID lockdown is the screen. It’s tough enough to have kids home all day and keep them totally occupied. Inevitably, the kids turn to screens. After all, what’s a kid to do?
       Still, their parents are trying hard to combat screens despite the COVID shutdown blues.

Paper folding and bike riding
        One young lady is into origami big-time. She has folded many sizes of paper boxes and has become an expert. She became fascinated with the story of the girl who folded 1000 Cranes. To date she has folded 70 cranes, a turtle, a dragon, and a parrot. She says she is determined to reach her goal of 1000 cranes.
        Her brother---he who loves his screen games and is a computer whiz---is painfully pulled away to go bike riding with his father.
        Still, both use screens to connect with friends.

A sports enthusiast
        Another sociable kid, a teen who loves to participate in team sports, is also a screen addict. Much to the frustration of his parents. He’s into guitar playing, too, but who can play the guitar all day---or all night---long?
        Seems with the lifting of some restrictions he can now practice soccer (although no playing league games). There’s even a summer ski training ‘camp’ using roller skis to hone his cross-country winter skiing skills. All with social distancing, of course.
        But he uses that screen to connect with friends.

Country Living
        His preteen bro, artistically talented, draws creative cartoons with zest. He writes accompanying stories ripe with imagination. He also plays the fiddle. But not all day, every day of course. He loves to share riddles.
        Their younger sister keeps up to her bros by drawing and making murals using stickers. She also plays the fiddle. But not all day, every day of course.
        These three also have the luxury of tending a large garden. If they feel like it. They also watched adorable, fluffy chicks grow up and move into a first-class handcrafted chicken coop. Alas, the growing hens and roosters are less cuddly now.
          Of course, each uses a screen to connect with friends.

Puppy Tales and more
        Yet another young lady we know is also an artist. She loves to draw and with the COVID shutdown her bedroom has mushroomed into an art gallery showcasing her vibrant work.
       Her older sister became hooked on an online (screen!) environmental course originating from the Maldives. The subject was marine biology that just happens to be her first love.
         Both girls also practice dance moves to share videos with their friends via TikTok .
         And then they welcomed a puppy into their home. Puppy love at first sight.
         Naturally, when they’re not with puppy, they use a screen to connect with friends.

Not all as it seems…
        Despite their chosen---and seemingly absorbing---activities, these kids are not immune to the hazards of living in today’s climate of fear.
          Nor are most kids. It’s traumatic being cut off from your friends, school social life, and having your young life turned upside down. Even their final school year days were virtual...via a screen. Every day now there is disturbing news of deaths and an easy spreading of the virus. In a young, fertile mind, does that mean you, your parents, your family?
           Anxiety and worry are rearing their ugly heads among these vulnerable youth.

Solutions        
        By now you’ve guessed these seven kids are our beloved grandchildren. They represent a very small sample of what their generation is suffering right now.
        The worst part is this continuous vicious cycle. The only solution is to continue to isolate as they are. So sometimes they lose their cool. I know I do.
        As of this writing, there appears to be a glimmer of hope here in Canada as portions of the forbidden become cautiously open again.
        For the sake of young people everywhere, many already suffering adverse emotional reactions, let’s hope this pandemic disappears sooner than later.
        Then maybe the screens, with us forever now, will seem less important than actually playing outside with friends.
        And the silence of the street will end.

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        As a former weekly newspaper columnist years ago in Smalltown, Ontario, I was fortunate to interview passing-through celebrities of the day.
        Remember Ben Wicks? A well-known cartoonist of his time, he died in Toronto, 2000. His obituary describes him as a British-born Canadian cartoonist, illustrator, journalist and author.
        I also recall him as owner of The Ben Wicks pub on Parliament Street in Toronto’s Cabbagetown. (New owners took over the pub in 2013. A blue plaque commemorating Wicks has been installed on the railing and a wall-sized outdoor cartoon by Wicks has been retained.)
        In our very long interview, Ben Wicks described his personal roller coaster ride to success.

His early memory
        “I grew up on Fleet Street (London, England). My father was a printer. My mother, a charlady at The London Times.” He admitted talking about his childhood was unsettling and “very emotional”.
        “In the London of that day, things were bad. I had a twin brother who died 3 ½ days after we were born. There was no money.” An undertaker who knew the Wicks family offered to bury his brother by lying the child between the legs of a deceased woman in a closed coffin. His parents accepted the offer.

And then came World War II
        London’s children---and Wicks was one of them---were evacuated during this time. “From this warm, close family,” he recounted, “I was forced to go on a train to Wales. I was twelve. Having never left home before, it was pretty traumatic.”
        Standing in the station where the exiled children were delivered, “we stood there while families picked us out. A miner and his wife who had no children chose me.”
        But the union didn’t work and after a few months, “I was sent back and the village smithy picked me up.”

Emotional trauma
        The rejection, suffering, confusion and emotional stress of that awful experience still haunted the Ben Wicks I met.
“You have to be prepared when luck comes along”
        Which brings us to his start in cartooning.
        With only a few lines and a related caption, Ben Wicks could create an instant, effective and timely message. What was even more amazing was how he produced his cartoons a month in advance.
        Each morning, he claimed, he read the wire service (remember, these are pre-online days!). He credited his ‘excellent nose’ for news, a helpful ability since he filed current stories that he felt would still be topical in a few months’ time.

Humble beginnings
        By his own admission, Ben Wicks held some 32 odd jobs (among them clogmaker, barrow boy, electrician’s mate, and a musician aboard the Queen Elizabeth liner) since leaving school at 14.
        The turning point came in 1960 while he worked as a milkman in Calgary. “We lived in a one room flat and I was home from my milk route at noon. So, I bought this book on cartooning….” And in it he discovered a list of markets.

All for Fun
      “It was a hobby,” said Wicks. “I mailed 6 cartoons to the Saturday Evening Post planning to mail them out again to other markets as soon as they were returned.”
Fake Letters
       But the Post liked his work and offered him a contract. However, since he was an unknown, they asked for three letters of reference.
       “I faked the letters,” chuckled Wicks, “and drew for the Post for two years. Strictly gag jokes.”

The Rest is History
      Acting on a colleague’s advice, Wicks then moved to Toronto to work for the Toronto Telegram from where his cartoon, The Outcasts, was soon syndicated in over 50 newspapers. He drew his witty cartoons in a simple style that became popular with readers. When the Telegram ceased to be in 1971, he was picked up by the Toronto Star.  
        At the height of its popularity, the daily Wicks cartoon was carried by 84 Canadian, and more than 100, American newspapers.

Children especially
        He was always interested in, and advocated, for children. His book, “No Time To Wave Goodbye”, highlights selected accounts from more than two million children under the age of thirteen who were displaced from London during World War II. The book is a traumatic reminder of his own childhood.
          In 1986, he was made a Member of the Order of Canada.
        Wicks was also known for his humanitarian work. He used his illustrations to publicize the plight of civilian sufferers of the Biafran War in Nigeria, and became a supporter of Oxfam.
The Ben Wicks Pub
       One of his last words to me, after our fascinating and marathon interview, was “when you come to Toronto, stop by the Pub. Ask for me. If I’m there, it would be great to see you again.”
        We did. My husband and I stopped into his pub on Parliament Street. Some time later.
And, as genial as ever, he greeted us warmly.
        But he had no idea who I was.

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        Once upon a time, I was a columnist for a weekly newspaper in a small Ontario city. One column I wrote featured how our three sons wanted a pet. More specifically, a dog.
         My husband, despite four-legged creatures being attracted to him, nixed the idea. Too much trouble. Who was going to walk it all hours of the day and in all kinds of weather? And pick up after it? And, with the five of us out of the house for a significant part of the day, how was that fair to a dog? Also, we travelled a lot. What then? Place it in a kennel (an expensive proposition) or depend on kind-hearted friends (who would no longer be friends after two weeks of dog-sitting)?

        No, he decreed. Our lifestyle did not suit a dog member. (I must confess I was always on the fence. I had two dogs and a cat at separate times as childhood friends.   But I never said that out loud!)
        So instead of dogs, a myriad of weird creatures inhabited our home.  Once, as a parting gift, visiting relatives left behind a cage containing two gerbils for our sons. The givers insisted these little rodents were no trouble: clean, pleasant, quiet little pets…until one promptly disappeared into the recesses of the house. This incident caused a violent argument about whose fault it was. Then there were two chameleons (“one will just die of loneliness…we’ve got to have two”) and eventually, an iguana. Called “Drake”, short for Draconian, he became a legend in his own right.

        Hanging with his claws on the front door screen, Drake often turned away pesky salespeople who, catching sight of this mini-dinosaur flicking his tongue, did not dare ring our doorbell. We gleefully watched them creep away. Drake was also guilty of eating leaves from our houseplants leading to weird looks from visitors; on entering our home, one only saw tall green leafless stems standing alone in large containers.

        Fast forward now to 2020 and the Pandemic.
        Common sense (and psychologists) tell us that an adoring pet does wonders for the soul. And our mental health.
        The instinct to turn to pets during this pandemic is supported by science, says a researcher studying how pets help people.
        Researcher Megan Mueller says pets provide nonjudgmental emotional support, and studies show that “contact with pets help reduces stress and anxiety, particularly when you are experiencing a stressful situation.”
      Studies have also shown how animals help people cope better with social isolation—that is, being physically separated from others—and with loneliness.
        So, in that spirit, several members of our family have opted to follow that advice.
In the case of two sons, the pet idea started with the kids, then mom got into the picture, and finally dad agreed. (Fathers often link pets to a money drain.)

        A few years ago, our 8-year-old-grandson begged for a pet rabbit. If not a pet rabbit, then maybe a kitten, something soft and furry. He’d been playing with both animals in cages at local markets. After research, the parents settled on a male kitten. But not any male kitten. He came from a trusted litter and was not allowed to leave his mama until properly weaned. This meant, although he was ‘given’ the kitten on his birthday, our grandson couldn’t physically own him until at least six weeks later. But visit ‘his’ kitten he did, hold him he did, snuggle him he did. The day he brought him home was the day his parents took a photo of him with Bear (his kitten’s name) in his arms. His last words before falling asleep were “this is the happiest day of my life”. And Bear is still a happy member of the family.

        With kids home during this pandemic it was only a matter of time before another son fell victim to the pet syndrome. As he confessed, “it was almost child abuse” not to get a puppy. Enter one guardian puppy, a mini labradoodle, to be picked up this week. The excitement and preparations and longing for ‘Luna’ have reached a crescendo. Mama is as thrilled as the girls. Papa remains a little subdued, warning of care obligations, expenses, and on and on. But no-one’s listening.

        First son has not succumbed yet to the pet syndrome. His preteen twins have had their teeth weaned on hamsters but there has been talk. Mother is all for a puppy “this is the best time with everyone home” but so far…nada. We shall see.

        The crazy part is…all these fathers, including my husband, who complain about the work and expense of a pet, will fall madly in love with these adorable little critters. And these critters will be the ones who enthusiastically welcome home the hard-working dads. That is, when dads stop working from home.

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        “Join us for a Thai cooking class,” urged a German friend when we were in Thailand.
        Me? Miss Suzy Homemaker who wants nothing to do with complicated cooking?
Give me an easy recipe and I’m happy. But Thai? All that chopping and prep work and stirring and spices. Who needs it? My best Thai dish is pad thai prepared from a box.
        Yet here I found myself, apron donned, at a Thai Cooking course in Hua Hin.
        But let me back up for a minute. You can’t just ‘cook’…oh no, you’ve got to go to the market and buy your ingredients first. Groan. More walking on a hot, humid day.

        However, the local 100-year-old market is an education. Busy. So much to see. Spices with fragrant and spicy aromas; fresh herbs begging to be tasted. Even toads crowded together in a mesh bag for a special dish. “They aren’t alive,” I suggest. “Watch their eyes,” she says. I peer at the toads’ eyes. They are blinking!

        Fortunately, much of what we eventually prepare is familiar to my western palate.
It is true, Thai food has gained in popularity in North America. Thai cuisine rates among the most celebrated global favourites due to its flavor and health value.
        So, we purchased our fresh chicken breast filets and pork collar pieces, coconut, rice, water chestnuts and a myriad of herbs and spices from small stalls tended by local market keepers. My learning curve increased exponentially.
        Because of this course I didn’t really want to attend, there are certain spices/herbs I now crave in my home-based cooking. Like Kaffir lime leaves (bai makroot). The leaf of this lime is used in soups, salads and curry dishes. Added at the end of cooking, it emits a sublime lime taste.
Tip: to prepare lime leaves first pull out the main vein. Then roll 4 or 5 half leaves and slice the roll very thinly (2mm).

Spices and their health benefits
        I learned so much more about spices and herbs, the secret to successful Thai dishes AND their health benefits. Of many favourites, these three are only a sampling:
        Galangal/Siamese ginger (kha) – also called Laos. From the same ginger family we are familiar with, of similar shape and colour. Used for curry paste, soups and salads. Dried galangal must be soaked in water before use.
Health benefits: Today galangal is used extensively in Traditional Chinese and Ayurvedic Medicine and is often thought to be more beneficial than ginger. 
        Lemongrass (Thakrai) – looks like a large piece of hard grass. Used in teas, soups, salads and curries. Only the lower part is used for curry pastes while the entire blade is used in soups and salads.
Health benefits: Lemongrass has been used since ancient times in Chinese medicine for conditions like flus, colds, headaches, abdominal pain, arthritis, fungal conditions and more. Grow Lemongrass at home.
        Holy Basil (Krapow) – used in curry dishes and stir fries. Adds a hot flavour.
Health benefits: for use as a remedy for common physical and mental disorders. Acts as an adaptogen to fight the effects of ongoing stress; also balances the mind, nerves and emotions.

Do-it-Yourself
        Finally, this course taught me much more than I anticipated about the Thai kitchen. It is a form of creative expression.
        Want to try a dish? Click the link below for the fabulous Penang Curry with Chicken recipe. Bear in mind, our class prepared penang curry paste from scratch. Believe me---and lucky you---it’s easier to use Thai sauce mixes found in your supermarket’s Asian food aisle.
        ทานให้อร่อย! Enjoy your meal!

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