Office in the Airport
 
        An obese woman, sitting on the cool, tile floor, one leg tucked beneath her massive bottom, the other straight out in front, her back leaning against the full-length glass window, is dozing. She catches our eye in Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi (say that in a hurry) Airport because we are waiting, bored, for our highway bus connection to our destination after a long flight. Our rental condo is four hours away in Hua Hin, on the Gulf of Thailand.
        She is amazing, this woman who looks in her thirties. Wearing black slacks, a black and white polka dot top, black slip-on shoes, she remains alert despite her closed eyes. Round owl glasses sit on her pug nose. Short, curly hair surrounds her round face while her pudgy fingers (a gold band adorns her ring finger) keep tabs on three steadily ringing cellular phones.

        She answers each cell as if in a fog, automatically grabs an official-looking form from her ‘desk’ (a 12 inch plastic stool on the airport floor), scribbles words with her left hand into appropriate spaces, ends the call, motions to a lurking young male assistant who goes running off with said paper to where? The activity repeats itself with each new cell call. The three cells ring continuously.
        When she can’t stand the noise any longer, she reaches for a full roll of toilet tissue, places it on the chair seat in front of her, leans her forehead on the roll using it like a soft pillow.
        This woman is conducting some sort of travel business in this busy airport, oblivious to the hustle and bustle. Her belongings lie scattered around her.  No-one dares enter ‘her’ space.
        She has created her own office with no overhead. And she appears to be thriving. She is an original Made in Thailand entrepreneur.

Thai woman, white man
        We see these couples everywhere. From previous research, I know many websites  promote endless romantic possibilities for a foreign man with a beautiful Thai girl.
        But what catches my eye are the high numbers of these mixed couples. I am curious. In many cases the Thai girls are young; the foreign white men to whom they are attached are predominantly middle-aged plus. And not good-looking or suave. They have overhanging paunches, and some are not gentlemen.
        I watch these mismatches dine together. We are at the next table. Thai girl and foreign man barely say a word (language obviously a problem); the girl invariably grabs her man’s hand throughout the meal as if he’s about to escape. He pays the restaurant bill, of course. They leave hand-in-hand.
        I watch in the mobile phone office when speaking Thai makes business sense. While my husband struggles to purchase SIM cards or figure out what numbers to use for North America with a Thai salesclerk, the middle-aged guy standing at the clerk next to us turns his problems over to his Thai girl. She handles the transaction. Acts as interpreter, takes his credit card, and if he protests about costs he doesn’t understand, she quickly holds his hand to calm him. Then she slides off the stool still holding her high-end store shopping bags, links her arm through his, and off they go to spend more money.

        We walk along the beach where these twosomes are a common sight. She is completely clothed, covered from top to bottom so no sun rays can age her virgin skin. Skin on his chest burned red, he wears his teeny tiny Speedo bathing suit, gut overlapping the waistband. Their hands are romantically linked as they putter along wordlessly.
        In the mall, these couples are everywhere. Thai girl is petite, barely up to his stooped shoulder. In one hand he holds many packages from expensive boutiques. His tiny Thai lady grips his other hand tightly. No conversation passes between them.

       As a stranger in these here parts, I am not criticizing. Rather, I am fascinated at this growing phenomenon.
        Why do I have this nagging feeling that Cupid did not fire any arrows? Perhaps for Thai women the motivating force that binds is money (or the promise of), an escape from poverty, or just wanting to leave Thailand for a new life in a new land.
As for the men, this is probably what they want and need.  A Made in Thailand partner.

        Reminiscing about her childhood holiday homemade treats made my mouth water. I almost relocated mentally to an old-fashioned kitchen thick with sweet aromas.
         My elderly aunt, living in the Maritimes, reminisced when Christmas in the 1930s was simple. And tasty. As I licked my lips, she listed off the goodies I’d only read about: gumdrop cake, barley sugar, ribbon candy, mincemeat tarts.

Gumdrop Cake
         “Gumdrop cake?” I asked. “Never heard of it!” Although it did sound delightfully sinful.
         Turns out gumdrop cake is still very popular Down East in Canada. You can create homemade gumdrops with unflavoured gelatin, lots of sugar, and flavour extracts. But the process takes time…a rare commodity in today’s fast-paced world. So, buy the gumdrops. Then add these colourful edible jewels to a butter pound cake recipe and voilà...gumdrop cake. Beautiful to look at. Fun to eat.
         “Gumdrop cake was always a treat in our house at Christmas. Mum made it every year,” remembers my aunt.

Barley Sugar
         According to Smithsonian Magazine and my aunt, a favourite holiday treat in Victorian times was barley sugar/candy. I guess we humans started eating cereal grains tens of thousands of years earlier than first thought. We began eating refined sugar about 5,000 B.C.
         A couple of centuries later, a lightbulb flashed in some creative sweet-loving brain: if you combine barley and sugar the result is an ever so sweet candy.
         Beginning in the 18th century, candy makers used metal molds to create colourful, remarkably detailed candy toys of barley sugar.
         My aunt says she and her sisters looked forward each Christmas morning to opening their long, nylon stockings stuffed with precious goodies. “I remember those candy barley toys so well. Perfect in detail. Almost didn’t wanna eat ‘em. We’d suck ‘em so they’d last longer.”

Ribbon Candy
         Ribbon candy  was another of my aunt’s favourites.
 Ribbon candy is a traditional Yule sweet that traces its roots back centuries to Europe. Its historical evolution, however, remains fuzzy.
         At first candy makers/bakers developed the sweet ribbons as Christmas decorations for their shops. Each wavy ribbon was formed around the candy maker’s thumb until the 1800s.
         That’s when mechanical crimpers were invented to shape the ribbons. Finger-like crimpers simulated the curl originally put into the candy by hand. While one candy maker made the candy, another spun off a ribbon shape feeding it into a hand-turned crimper. The curly ribbon then slid down a small conveyor where another worker, waiting with scissors, snipped the right length.
 Too much work!
         Obviously, this method to produce ribbon candy was labour intensive.
         Until the 1940s ribbon candy was never made on a large scale; production
required more sophisticated equipment. Eventually, a single spinning roll was developed. By careful tending of the candy batch---and eliminating the hand spinner--- the automated machine could run faster. Trouble was a big bottleneck developed when hand-cutting the candy with scissors.
         Finally, Sevigny Candy of Hanover, MA invented an air activated automatic cutter. And it’s still in use today by F.B. Washburn Candy.

Mincemeat
         The name sounds gross! That’s because the earliest versions of mincemeat were exactly that: minced morsels of meat. “But,” claims my aunt, “it isn’t Christmas if you don’t have mincemeat tarts!”
      During the 12th century the introduction of new preservatives like sugar (honey/maple syrup), alcohol/vinegars and East Asian spices helped inhibit bacterial growth in minced meat, eliminating the need for salting or smoking. We can thank the  Crusaders who returned to England from wars in the Far East. They brought spices, like cinnamon, nutmeg and cloves, for use in meat preservation.
        Although the name remains, most modern-day versions of mincemeat contain various dried and/or fresh fruits suitably soaked in alcohol (like rum or brandy) along with exotic spices. And you can include minced meat as well.
         So maybe, despite your crazy schedule, you might like to try your hand at one of these traditional treats this Christmas.
         Then again, maybe you’ll only have time to visit your local big box superstore  where everything is pre-baked. Like me.

        I felt her anguish as she frantically told me: “that d--- Elf on the Shelf is a pain!     You realize, of course, it’s not just putting it in a different spot each night. Oh no, now it’s got to have a message or it’s got to be skiing or gliding or presenting some small thing---like a treat---to your kids or it’s got to be hanging from the top of our ceiling or it’s…..”

        Like, what has happened to this once inspirational season? We all know commercialism has taken over but now it’s getting ridiculous. Elf on the Shelf is only one example of something we love to hate. In the midst of seasonal stress and expense, Christmas parties, shopping, school concerts, excitement, illness…now you must worry about this little Elf each night: what is Elf doing, wearing, eating? So your kids can wake up the next morning and be totally surprised. Nowadays Elf can’t be a wimp and sit there smiling benignly. No, Elf must take on a life of its own.

        Worse, when your kids go to school each morning and compare Elf activity, your Elf had better outdo their friends’ Elf’s antics. Otherwise you fail in Elf creative ingenuity.
        From humble beginnings, the Elf has shifted into high gear, creating a frenzy and adding holiday stress for too-busy parents.
        The first rule of this Christmas icon is: you can’t touch Elf. Second rule is Elf will not speak or move while you are awake.
        Remember, this Elf was sent from the North Pole to watch over your little ones and report back each night to Santa on your children’s behavior that day. Then Elf magically reappears the next day in a new position….and the crazier the setting, the better.

        Now so popular every family must have one, Elf’s new life is creating havoc. Changing its position each night is a no-brainer. But now Elf must show his adventurous side, which, in turn, shows off your creativity---or not. For instance….
       We found our Elf on the Shelf melting his cares away in a giant hot chocolate marshmallow bath.
        We found our Elf in a once-full, now empty box of Oreos.
        We found our Elf on a zipline of thread sliding high across the kitchen
          

        Once upon a time in America---2004---mother Carol Aebersold and twin daughters Chanda Bell and Christa Pitts created the children’s book, took a financial risk when it was turned down by publishers, and the rest is history.
        In a world gone crazy, harried parents deserve a real break. Especially from a demanding little Elf at Christmas.
        But wait! There’s more good news!
        Do you know there is a birthday Elf? Yes! The Elf on the Shelf: A Birthday Tradition! This means you can resurface your Elf for 24 hours to help celebrate your child’s special day before Elf heads back to the North Pole.
        Bet you can hardly wait to start that new tradition on your child’s next birthday.

        It was a dark and stormy night.
       I was a teen baby-sitter, hired to take care of two terrors---boys aged 10 and 11--- while their parents partied away the night. None of my friends would babysit at this house. The word was out among us. Not worth it. But I needed the money.
        I remember the boys were still up and raring to go at 8 p.m. on a school night. Made no difference to them when they settled down. Made no difference to me, either, because I wouldn’t be the one to get them up in the morning. Mom and dad left with strict instructions for the kids to be in bed by 9 p.m. They could ‘play’ until then, have a bedtime snack, and then settle nicely into bed. They shared a bedroom.
        Oh, I forgot to mention their black cat. Monster was his name. That’s because the poor animal had been teased and tormented by said two boys. Since I was a stranger in his midst, his yellow cat eyes stared at me with deep suspicion. “Just put him outside later,” suggested the missus who sensed my uneasiness. “He likes to wander. He’s used to spending the night out.”

        Mister and Missus said good-night. Left in their finery for the evening.
        For the next hour I was consumed with playing hide-and-seek with the boys. Not a great idea since it whipped them into hysterics. Did I mention Monster who trailed in, out, and between the boys as they hid in their favourite hiding spots? Always eyeballing me with those large yellow eyes. Whipping his long black tail back and forth. Finally, I called a halt to the game. Not only was I exhausted but the boys needed to settle down. Besides, there was an alternative reason for me wanting to wear them out. I knew the film classic “Hound of the Baskervilles” was on TV and wanted to watch the movie uninterrupted.
        After a snack---and a story---for each one of course, they covered up their heads under their bedsheets to giggle. Monster watched all of this with a hands-off attitude only cats can convey. Won’t lie. Felt uneasy around that cat. Decided he would go outside before I began to watch the movie.
        Finally, the hellions settled down. Went into the living room where the TV stood on a corner stand. Picked up and began to read the newspaper. Opened the pages wide. Felt uncomfortable. As I slowly lowered the newspaper, I saw Monster, sitting on the floor before me, crouched. Tail waving ominously. As if ready to pounce. Yellow eyes staring at me. Scaring me.

        Decided to let him out. No. Monster was having none of that. Hid under the couch instead. Damn!
        Turned on the TV, determined to see the film. Ever watch Hound of the Baskervilles? Scary. Looked around the darkened living room. TV tight in the corner, full length drapes covered wall-to-wall windows with opened side slats that overlooked a darkened ravine. Drapes began to billow into the room with the help of a sudden night breeze. Easy to imagine they were ghostly images, waving haphazardly.
        Worse, Monster had emerged from his hiding place under the couch. Sat on the floor facing me. Twitching tail again. Stared with those hideous yellow eyes.
        My own eyes moved from the TV screen: the poor devil running across the moor, demon hound howling at his back... to the staring yellow cat eyes watching me.

        Suddenly, without any provocation, the cat leapt at innocent me, imprisoned on the sofa. Terrified, stifling a scream, I grabbed Monster by the scruff of his neck and threw him down the basement stairs. Heard him hiss on the way down.
           By the time, the parents had returned from their night of revelry, I was a basket case. I should have charged more.
        I never returned to babysit. And they finally gave up asking me.

        1:  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. It took only seconds for my mind to process his gesture.  The child was hungry.  He was asking for food.  In a vain effort at redemption, I looked around for him.  He was gone. The boy in Nicaragua still haunts me.

        2: “Spider,” he whispers, “big one.”  He points to an open drawer.  I gasp. Tarantula!  Two of its black hairy legs hang over the edge, poised as if ready to jump.

        3: It’s no secret it’s open season on the farang (a person of white race) male here.  But he knows he is hunted and as long as both know the unwritten rules, it’s a game as old as prostitution.  Online stories reveal ‘sad, sleazy, desperate men paying for love with Thai girls’ detailing the lonely lives of wealthy British, American, European and Asian males who pay well for a romance tour to Bangkok.  Apparently, such tours are also popular in Colombia and the Ukraine.

        4: Spread your wings and imagination and come along with us now to Tunisia located on the Mediterranean Sea and site of the first Arab Spring...As soon as the taxi driver dropped us off at the Souk (market) in Sousse, he instantly appears by our side. I recognize you from the hotel, he says. 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….”

        5: Twice as many elephants work in Thailand’s tourism industry as the rest of Asia combined, with the vast majority kept in severely inadequate conditions…. When not giving rides or performing, the elephants are typically chained day and night, most of the time to chains less than three meters long. They are also fed poor diets, given limited appropriate veterinary care and frequently kept on concrete floors in stressful locations. 

        These travel blog excerpts hopefully identify me as a slightly adventurous woman with an inquisitive mind and growing awareness of what makes our world tick. My personal growth has exploded because of embracing off-beat locales, foreign customs, friendly people and weird food. Few know I was once a scaredy-cat wimp, terrified of leaving home and hearth for far-flung destinations.
Fast forward now to another awareness: our damaged environment.
        A longtime close friend shared a column that is causing me second thoughts. In it, the writer shares her ‘aha’ moment on extreme climate changes as she questions the wisdom of flying. To far-away places.
        Although environmentally conscious, I have managed to turn a blind eye to flying and its effect on our environment. Because I want to continue to experience other countries, religions, people, food, customs in different parts of the world. I want to continue to learn. Like I learned about the secret war in Laos. I want to grow more. I want to know more.
        But when one of our sons writes: “We humans need to seriously think about and deal with the rift with our Natural World. We are out of sync….”  then it’s time to study and reflect on our delicate world climate.
        To travel or not to travel...that is the question.

        So I was hitting tennis balls with two eleven-year-olds on a public court when the car with four male teens drove up and parked beside us. I thought to myself, oh damn, these guys probably want us to get off the court to play serious tennis. Out they lumbered---big, hunky guys---­­­­­­and started toward us.
         To my surprise, however, they strolled right by the court, each with their heads down, each holding a smartphone or some electronic device. One almost walked into a tree. The others just kept walking. Not talking. Just watching the screen down and in front of them.
         It was a beautiful day. Clear sky, sunshine, a perfect temperature. Not sticky. Refreshing weather. They didn’t see the leaves rustling overhead. They didn’t see the cardinal perched high above. They didn’t see the old man walking his tired dog along the trail. They didn’t see the clumps of colourful cosmos waving in the summer breeze.

        I remember my husband and I mentioning to our married sons at different times how difficult it must be to bring up children these days. We never had to compete with screens.
         But this summer was an eye opener. This was the summer of e-devices with grandchildren. And it made no difference where we were. Screens, to the dismay of parents, are omnipresent: in restaurants, on the street, at home, in parks, even in movie theatres. There, movie goers are encouraged to use their smartphones and participate in on-screen games with other screen addicts before the main on-screen attraction.
         And it’s not as if the parents don’t impose time---or content---restrictions. But have you ever tried to pry anyone away from his/her screen? Have you ever been in a restaurant, seen a table of four diners, each busy with a smart phone?

        Without sounding like an ancient granny spouting outdated ideas, I do understand parental concerns---and their accompanying stress.  CBC’s Marketplace, an investigative program, featured “why you’re addicted to your smartphone” and it’s well worth watching. It’s an eyeopener:
         But wait! Here’s something new for parents to worry about besides everything else they worry about. Ever hear about the latest ‘research’ about linking the use of cells to bone spurs in the skull?

        Excuse me, while you watch these I need to get back to my smartphone. It’s been pinging incessantly. I can hardly wait to see what’s waiting.

        “Where’s your black bag?”
        The question came from the back seat of the car I was driving. We were following the lead car, driven by my husband. After racing around a barnyard playground, jumping on giant inflatables and ripping along ziplines on a traditional fun farm in southwestern Ontario, my passengers---two 11-year-old girls and their Korean grandmother---were heading home. My husband’s lead car held the Korean grandfather and two more 11-year-olds.
        “Pardon?” I asked our young backseat passenger who was translating for her grandmother.
        “Where is your black bag? My grandma wants to know if you have your black bag.”

        “You mean my purse.”
        I paused. Thinking.
        Then said, “I do. Tell her it’s in the trunk.”
        I could hear the girl translating my words.
        “She means the other black bag. The one with my cell in it.”
        Uh-oh. I did not have the other black canvas bag. I assumed---never assume I know---someone else had taken responsibility for it.
        “I do not know where the black canvas bag is. Is it in the back seat with you girls?”
        Fingers crossed.
        “No.”
        “Oh, my goodness. (Actually, I muttered an expletive here.) We need to turn around. Go back to the farm,” I panicked. “But first we need to let the lead car know what we’re doing.”

        Unfortunately, we were dependent on the cell phone to call my husband in the lead car. The cell was now missing. It was in the black canvas bag left behind at the farm.
        How to attract attention so the lead car will stop?
        Honk. Honk. Honk. Honk. Multi, short shrill blasts as I leaned on the horn.
        No reaction from the lead car.
      So I opened the sun/moon (what is the difference please?) roof and while still driving to keep up with the lead, I stuck my arm out the open top and waved. And waved. And waved. Frantically. So did the girls. To get the lead car’s attention. We caught everyone else’s attention. Including the farmer atop a slow, lumbering hay wagon. The Korean grandmother looked somewhat amused. She wanted to know about the strange, open roof. But no time for explanations.

        While I was waving, the younger passengers in my car helped by simultaneously yelling: “STOP! STOP! STOP!” Little girls have very loud shrill voices.
Surely my husband, glancing in the rear view mirror, would see my frantic waving arm and wonder why I was doing this and therefore stop.
        Not.
        I figured if he couldn’t hear the horn and couldn’t spot my waving arm from the roof of the car, then surely he would never see us.
         So he would not stop.
        Meanwhile, I had to turn around quickly, before we were too far away from the farm. No time to waste.
       I saw an approaching intersection. Desperately hoping he would glance in the rear view mirror, I signaled to turn right. Then did so.
        I watched as his car blithely continued on. He did not see us make our turn.

        I sighed. Now I must return to the farm to retrieve the black bag. At some point down the road he would glance in the rear view mirror and realize we weren’t behind him. Only then would he stop.
        But when was that? And where would I be? And how could we connect with no cell phone?
         I sighed again.
        As I was planning my return, I heard something in Korean behind me. The 11-year-old in the back seat said she asked her grandmother again about the black canvas bag.
        That’s when her grandmother, sitting beside me on the front seat, held up the black canvas bag! With the cell phone in it!
        “You had the bag beside you all the time!” I said in astonishment.
        The Korean grandmother smiled sweetly. She held up the black bag again for me to see. She nodded pleasantly. No idea of the havoc rattling inside my brain during the interval of the missing black bag.
        I sighed: long, relieved, and just a wee bit confused.
        So we continued on our way and it wasn’t long before I spied my husband’s lead car parked along the side waiting for us to catch up from wherever…
        …and he had no idea about this drama over a missing black bag.

        He’s known as the world’s most terrifying doll. People familiar with him insist Robert the Doll is haunted: responsible for all kinds of mysterious mishaps including car crashes.
       Nonsense!
        Not.
      For we have suffered under the spell of Robert the Doll’s curse each time we visit---or try to visit---Key West, Florida.
        Our misfortunes began several years ago after viewing the weird-looking, three-foot- high, life-size doll on display at the Fort East Martello Museum in Key West. Having heard about Robert’s reputation and seeing the actual doll, fashioned from cloth and stuffed with straw, dressed in a sailor suit, we both arrogantly dismissed its/his supernatural powers as “absolutely ridiculous”. No intelligent person could fall for that hocus-pocus stuff.

        Except…
       …we had openly voiced our disrespect to Robert in front of it/him. A no-no, confirmed museum staffers.
        That was the day, after visiting Robert, that we lost the keys to our condo, had a flat tire on our rental car, and carelessly misplaced some cash.
        At the time, my husband and I looked at each other. Not possible. This rag tag of a doll can’t possibly hold any supernatural powers. Never mind that every year tens of thousands of people pay to see Robert. He receives one to three letters a day, most of them apologies from visitors whose bad turn in life is blamed on their disrespect to the creepy doll.
        We dismissed all this evidence: until our cursed trip to Key West this year.

        Our early morning Toronto flight, due to land in Atlanta, Georgia, was set to touch down in time to board a direct flight to Key West for a noon arrival. To glorious sun, swimming, drinks poolside...!
        Not.
      Because the aircraft could not land due to inclement weather, our flight was diverted to Columbia, South Carolina. Five hours waiting in the plane on the ground. True, the pilot kept us dutifully updated; we were plied with foil-wrapped sweet and salty airline snacks (of which we soon tired) and water. By this time, we knew our chances of getting to Key West the same day were next to nil.
       Finally, given clearance, we arrived in Atlanta. A mess! Every re-directed flight had been pushed back. Airport concourses were jammed, in near chaos, with kilometer long lines of passengers, many with babes-in-arms, trying to rebook through hapless, overworked agents.
        Discovered via machine we had been rebooked by the airline for the next day but each on separate flights. Hanging on to a “may we help you?” telephone receiver forever, while partially standing in an endless line, my husband managed to secure us a flight together the next day at noon.

        Now for accommodation. With hundreds (thousands?) of stranded passengers, could we possibly find a place to stay the night? (miraculously, we did.)
Suddenly, separately, but at the same time, we looked at each other. Is this the continuing saga of Robert’s curse, we impishly suggested? Surely not! But any disrespect to that weird-looking doll results in documented bad luck. World travelers for decades, we had never run into such a conundrum of flight associated problems at one time as we did now.
        Next, we began to track our luggage. Clearly tagged for Key West. So how did it end up in Miami?
        We left home on a Saturday. Arrived in Key West one day later after enduring one of the worst white knuckle flights ever! Luggage did not appear until Monday noon: two days astray.
        So…whom/what do we blame for this miserable experience? The airline? Bad weather?
        We shudder to admit this but...it was probably due to the curse from that insidious doll.
        Pardon me. I should never have written that.
        We humbly apologize for any disrespect to you, Robert.

Map: Florida Keys

        The two girls knocked on the door, visibly upset. The 10-year-old tightly held the handle of a red bucket. In it were four curled-up balls of fur, instantly recognizable by their black masks.
           “Baby raccoons!” I gasped.
           “Please,” she half sobbed. “Can we put them in your wild space out back so they will be looked after by another mama? Theirs was scared away and now they’re all alone. And you’ve got to feed them. You know those eye dropper things? You can feed them that way with some milk.”
        She was on the verge of tears as her words tumbled out.

        It just so happens these two young ladies are but two of our beautiful grandchildren. The eldest is a student of Nature and all things wild and wonderful. The youngest listens carefully to her sister. The story they told was a tragedy to them.
Papa had begun to spring clean their yard. To his shocked surprise, after opening the storage box which held his gardening tools, he came face to face with one large and fierce-looking raccoon. Grabbing a broom, he quickly shooed away the animal. Later, when he looked inside, he spied torn pieces of debris fashioned into a nest. Four furry little masked faces peered up at his strange face. Where was their mama?
        Enter the red pail. Two little girls and one papa wearing protective gloves scooped up and placed the babies with some greenery in the pail. But where to take them? Of course, this was a Sunday and all manner of telephone calls for animal rescue went into voice mail.

        The idea of bringing them to our place was a no-brainer as far as they were concerned.  We border a wild space where raccoons, rabbits, and similar furry animals frequent the many large trees and bushes. Maybe another mama raccoon would care for the four orphans?
        After considerable discussion, the consensus was: take the pail of baby critters back home and place it exactly where the shed stood. Mamas of every species always come searching for their babies.
        The next morning, we received happy texts: all four babies had been furtively removed during the night by one mama raccoon who was probably exhausted by morning. The two girls were relieved and ecstatic.

        Each of our three sons has experienced the bane and joy of living near a wild space. One is in his second year trapping a family of squirrels---one by one---somehow sequestered each Spring in his home. After capturing them, he, with his two children, drive said trap containing the excitable creatures to a faraway park. This second set of grandchildren releases the furry babies and parents into the wild. The procedure takes four or five trips over as many days.

        Yet another son, father to three more of our grandchildren, lives in a wilder space in northern British Columbia. He and his family have watched black bears, moose, deer meander on their property; listened to coyotes howl at night. But their close encounter with one large pack rat hiding under a wooden floor immediately caught the kids’ attention. After trapping the critter, they drove a considerable distance before releasing it in the wild. Their next unexpected experience? The haunting wails of a fox mating call. In the middle of the night. Immediately outside their windows. Three wide-eyed kids mashed together in one master bedroom trying to decipher the unknown screeches.

        These wildlife encounters are obviously a nuisance to the affected fathers. But did you know we have over 700 species at risk here in Canada? According to the Canadian Wildlife Federation, our wildlife habitat continues to be lost faster than we can restore it. Environmental pressures are worsening. Yet our environment, our economy and our culture were founded on our relationship with wildlife.
        So what’s a little touch of the wild in the midst of our concrete jungle?

        Rushing around during Easter shopping, we finally lined up impatiently at the checkout cashier with our groceries. I happened to glance behind me.
        A fragile little old lady, grey haired with blue eyes twinkling behind a set of bifocals, was bent over, leaning on her walker. Her walker basket was filled with groceries to buy and a few Easter goodies. Carefully, I unloaded her items on the checkout counter.
        She smiled at me, said: “thank you.” I smiled back.
        “Guess you’re getting ready for Easter dinner,” I said.
        “No,” she said. “I’m alone.”

        Her unexpected reply caught me off guard. Speechless. Whirling through my mind was an image of this tiny elderly woman sitting alone in her apartment (I guessed) watching TV, eating some oven thawed-from-frozen meal. Her honest reply left me clueless as to what to say next.
        “Well, hope you get to enjoy a glass of wine, though.” What a stupid thing for me to say!
        Why didn’t I ask her to join our busy, noisy family for dinner? Why does that brief interchange with that little old lady continue to haunt me?

        Compare my response to what I read/viewed on social media yesterday. The story smacked me right in the face.
        Jamario Howard was sitting with his friends Jamychol and Tae at a barbecue joint in Oxford, Alabama, waiting for food, when he noticed an elderly woman sitting alone. 
        "My first thought was 'dang I'd hate to have to eat alone,'" he told CNN. So he went over and asked her if he could sit with her.
        The woman said yes, and after they talked for a while Howard found out she had lost her husband and the day after would have been their 60th anniversary.
        "I instantly gave my condolences and asked her to come eat with us," Howard said. "She was excited to do so."
        Howard shared a picture of the heartwarming moment, which happened April 18, on Facebook. It went viral with more than 44,000 shares.
        "The point in this is always be kind and be nice to people. You never know what they are going through. This woman changed my outlook on life and how I look at other people," he wrote in a post accompanying the picture.
        Howard said the woman's name is Eleanor and the four talked about "everyday life, sharing stuff about each other" while eating BBQ and fish.
        "Our actions were truly from the goodness of our hearts,” Howard said.

        Psychologists warn that loneliness is the new epidemic today. Loneliness affects almost half of adult Americans… One in five Canadians identify themselves as lonely.
        Loneliness and social isolation can be as damaging to health as smoking 15 cigarettes a day, researchers warn, and the problem is particularly acute among seniors, especially during holidays.
        Wish I could start all over again with that little old lady.