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.

           “Come ‘ere! Come ‘ere!”
         One of our tour companions waves excitedly. Points. We rush to where he’s standing. Hopeful.
           “Right there! See them trees moving! Right there!”
            Squint into the bush. Shade eyes from scorching sun. Nothing.
            “Aw. Gone now.”
            “See anything?” I ask.
            “Naw,” he confesses. “Just moving leaves. Had to be an elephant.”
           Sure, I think with skepticism. This guy probably sees Casper the Friendly Ghost rising out of a pumpkin patch on Hallowe’en.
            We’re on a wild elephant safari into the Thai jungle at Kuiburi National Park. Chose this tour because there was a chance we might actually see elephants in their natural habitat. After researching these majestic mammals, we decide this is the way to go even though we are warned we may not see any. Luck and being in the right place at the right time is our mantra.

            “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 were typically chained day and night, most of the time to chains less than three meters long. They were also fed poor diets, given limited appropriate veterinary care and were frequently kept on concrete floors in stressful locations.”   World Animal Protection (WAP) report
            At our next jungle stop, our group of 8 jumps off, scans the horizon in anticipation. We are on a plateau overlooking a large treed valley. Suddenly a flock of white egrets erupts from distant tree tops. We do know there is a symbiotic relationship between egrets and elephants. Egrets get a free ride and meal from insects the elephant kicks up as he moves across the jungle floor. In return, the egret feeds on parasites living on the elephant. We mention this quietly to our hyper tour friend.
            “Elephants!” he suddenly screams to everyone. “Those white birds mean elephants!”
              Not necessarily but possibly. The white birds we spy are far in the distance. Trying to spot an elephant in a treed jungle from our lofty vantage point is impossible. Our motormouth friend has stirred up a hopeless hope.

            We mutter: “this is the afternoon. Animals and birds are usually active in the early morning or evening. Any elephant is probably resting in the shade out of the hot sun like any sensible creature.”
             And so, as the afternoon wears on, our hopes diminish for seeing an elephant in the wild. But we continue to wait. And look. Scour the landscape. Walk back and forth across the cliff top.
          Close to twilight now. Park closes at 6 p.m.; insects already feasting on unprotected tourist flesh. Reluctantly we climb aboard the back of our safari truck. Slowly the driver retraces our rough and muddy route.
            “Stop!” orders a half whispering, half shouting guide with skillfully trained eyes. Points into the jungle to her right. Sun beginning to set. Rays act like an illuminating backdrop.
            Scanning eyes, cameras ready, silence. Ignore bug bites.
            Guide points again. Straining eyes catch a large, round gray mound amidst trees in the distance. It moves!
            Yes! See him! See his tusks! About 100 metres! Chomping on leaves! Ambling through his natural habitat! Unaware of spying human eyes!
            Cameras click in unison.
            “Madame,” cautions the guide respectfully. “No flash please!”
            Damn my camera!
          

Group stands in back of panel truck. Mesmerized. Watch every move Babar the Elephant makes as he slowly, languidly, eats his way through the foliage, ambling across our muddy trail in full view about 80 metres behind us. Then he blissfully wanders into the bush, disappears from view.
            Giddy. Thrilled. Worth the heat, bugs, discomfort, mouthy tour companion.
            The elusive elephant.

Maps: Kuiburi Park

       Her deft delicate arms swirl in circular motions over the ‘up’ escalator railing as she rides the moving stairs cleaning its glass sides.  When she reaches the top, I watch as she crosses to the ‘down’ escalator on the other side and repeats the cleaning motion.
       Dressed in the mall’s pale yellow service uniform with a white frilly apron, the graceful young Thai woman---shining black hair in pony tail---wears orange rubber gloves. She uses dark blue felt cleaning cloths to continue her escalator cleaning routine: sanitizing each moving railing while standing, holding the cloth firm against the constant motion; placing the cleaning cloth on a pole, wiping the moving parts as she rides again to the top then crosses over and repeats the same cleaning riding the down escalator.

       All part of the people-watching as I sit in this modern beach side city mall in Hua Hin, Thailand.  Watching couples stroll by, I am struck by the inordinate number of ‘mixed’ ones: white males with nubile Thai women.  The men: Caucasian, mostly older, overweight, and unattractive, followed by pert and pretty Thai girls who could be their daughters. 
       The tiny women lag behind because they can’t keep up with the long strides of their male counterparts who seem to ignore their distress.  They dress provocatively, small breasts showing hard nipples through gauzy tops. They trip behind in four-inch-high heels, determined to be No. 1 Girl.  Maybe get an offer they desperately want:  get out of Thailand for a better life with a doting Sugar Daddy or, if they’re lucky, a husband.  Their sing song sound language is delightful to the ear.  At least, at first.  Maybe after a steady diet or angry discourse of same, the melodic chimes could become annoyingly grating.

       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.

       Then there’s the entrepreneurial and maligned/lauded Thai woman who offers online advice (for a price, about $545Cdn for VIP membership) to her readers on how to catch and hold the rich white man of her dreams.
It’s easy once you know how.  VIP members are coached on: how to ask for money, what to ask for (trip/accommodation/favours), the language of love and/or commerce, irresistible sexual practices….

       Which brings me back to Phil, the 50-year-old divorced Californian, father of two, who sat next to us on our flight to Bangkok.  On his way to meet his Thai woman, whom he said he met at an American banking conference, Phil was antsy and anxious to get to her.  Before our astonished eyes, he opened a small jewel box and brought out the exquisite diamond ring he planned to give her as a marriage gift.  I choked.  Of course, they had gotten to know each other, he said.  Of course, he will bring her back to the States to live, he said.  Of course, he had not met her parents and family yet, he said; he admitted some trepidation on his part: “they eat different things, you know.”
And so begins our three month education in Thailand.

Maps:   Thailand          
             Hua Hin

      Why is there such hoopla surrounding New Year’s Eve?  Over the years we have attended dozens of New Year’s get-togethers; I cannot think of one that met expectations.
      Perhaps it’s because guests aren’t supposed to celebrate until midnight.  This means, if your party begins at 8 p.m., you are obliged to mingle, tell, or listen to, bad jokes, gossip, and drink until the bewitching hour of midnight.  So for four hours you chat with people you genuinely like.  But let’s face it. Four hours held captive with the same people is three hours too long.  Then comes the countdown and kisses all around at the stroke of twelve.  Sometimes those kisses are welcome.  Often, because of alcohol saturated breath, they are not.

      I recall, wincing, how tortuous it felt during a Command Performance New Year’s event.  This translates into dinner with bosses or senior executives of workplaces where some minion had come up with the grand idea of dining together at a restaurant, then retiring to the Big Boss House in time to celebrate the magic hour with glasses of bubbly. Of course, the expectation was---if you followed the tribal rules--- we remain in Big Boss House until at least 2 a.m. Forced laughter at dumb stories by said leaders is encouraged, nay, mandatory.
      This painful exercise led me to consider the origins of New Year’s Eve and reconsider its value.

      In 46 BCE (Before Common Era), Roman Emperor Julius Caesar first established January 1 as New Year’s Day. Janus was the Roman god of doors and gates, and had two faces, one looking forward and one back.  Caesar thought the month named after this god (“January”) would be the appropriate “door” to the coming year.  He celebrated the first January 1 New Year by ordering the violent routing of revolutionary Jewish forces in the Galilee.  Eyewitnesses say blood flowed in the streets.  In later years, Roman pagans observed the New Year by engaging in drunken orgies—a ritual they believed constituted a personal re-enacting of the chaotic world that existed before the cosmos was ordered by the gods.*
      Aha! As I surmised, New Year’s Eve is fraught with No Good. 

      And New Year’s Resolutions? Research claims 38-45% of us (me!) never make resolutions and of those who do, only 8% are successful in achieving their goals.   
      The idea of Resolutions reputedly began with the ancient Babylonians some 4,000 years ago in mid-March when crops were planted. Babylonians made promises to the gods to pay off their debts and return any ‘stuff’ they had borrowed. If they kept their word, the pagan gods would favor them in the coming year. If not, they would fall out of favour—a place no one wanted to be with those deities. 

      Then, much later, along came Emperor Caesar whose subjects also offered sacrifices to their god Janus, making promises of good behaviour for the coming year in return for favours.
      So began the Resolutions and the practise took root. 
      Meanwhile, ever wonder about the origin of Auld Lang Syne? The Scottish poet, Robert Burns, wrote this New Year’s favourite.  The 1788 piece literally translates to “old long since” and means “days gone by”.
      Which brings us to a couple of other tidbits to ponder as the New Year approaches….
      -The world population is expected to reach nearly 7.6 billion at the start of 2018, the German Foundation for World Population (DSW) recently declared; over the past year, the number of people in the world has increased by 83 million - or approximately the population of Germany.
      -Stephen Hawking, Oxford professor and physicist, known for his groundbreaking achievements in science, is also recognized for making predictions about the future of humanity and Earth. He claims 100 years is how long we humans have left on Earth (BBC ). This is a stark shift backward from the 1,000 years time limit that Hawking had predicted in 2016.  According to Hawking in his BBC science series, Tomorrow’s World, climate change, overdue asteroid strikes, epidemics and population growth are to blame for the new century-long doomsday clock.
      Thus it is with trepidation, mixed with hope, we raise a glass and toast you and yours with sincere best wishes for a healthy, peaceful, and thoughtful 2018. 
      *U.S. News and World Report December 23, 1996

     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.

       “Jack the Ripper is one of my ancestors.”       
       When a close friend shared this information, it was with a hint of pride.  Jack the Ripper added a salacious touch to his lineage.  Which got me thinking.  What about mine?
        Little did I know what awaited me.
       A word of warning.  Unless you have at least two generations of names and dates from which something concrete can be traced, be prepared to play the frustrating detective.
       My search began with an elderly aunt, the last living relative on my mother’s side with any sense of historical pride.  She lives in New Brunswick.  We live in Ontario.            
       Although you can research on the internet, there’s nothing like touching base with a real person who might have actual photos, records, stories, about your ancestors.  So we drove to New Brunswick where the plot thickened. 
       My mother’s family did not seem to care about lineage.  I could acquire some scant knowledge about my grandparents on her side, but one generation earlier?  Not much from the early 1800s except for the names of both my great grandmother and great grandfather, their original country of birth, and two grainy photos.  This was a breakthrough.

       After our visit with Auntie in New Brunswick, she suggested where to start looking for real evidence. “Look for dad’s old house in Oxley around Amherst (Nova Scotia).”
       With great enthusiasm we followed what we thought were her instructions. (Amherst is a town in Cumberland County nestled between the Bay of Fundy and Northumberland Strait.)
       First harbinger of discouragement.  The keeper of records, the Cumberland County Museum and Archives, did not open until 11 a.m.  We looked at our watches.  9 a.m. 
       Not people to waste time in this fast-moving century, we drove 20 minutes to the town of Oxford, Wild Blueberry Capital of Canada (who knew?). Auntie identified a nearby village called Oxley where she was sure the family home was located. She was sure the family burial ground was in Rocky Cemetery.  Both places were definitely located along the Rocky and Roslin county roads, aka old Highway 321, a little-used thoroughfare running through sparsely populated areas.        

       Since our directions and names were vague---no fault of Auntie who shared with us what she had been given---we stopped at Oxford Town Hall where a friendly attendant enthusiastically pointed out how to get to 321. “Gets pretty rough,” she warned.
       And so began our quest.  Sparing the frustrating details, we discovered Rocky was actually Rockley, Oxley was actually Oxford, and the family home had been reduced to ashes. Apparently, vagrants were living in the deserted house and the good village fathers, after placing a newspaper advertisement seeking permission from the family, received the okay for the local fire department to burn down the home. Problem was Auntie’s sister, who granted the permission, didn’t tell Auntie until much later.

       The revelations continued. Grandparents were not buried in Ocean View Cemetery in Saint John New Brunswick but in Cedar Hill Cemetery that overlooked the sea.  Names were often incorrectly spelled, male and female names (Elija vs Eliza) used interchangeably, and family secrets, once skeletons in the closet, were finally spilled.

       The ultimate reward came with one of Auntie’s startling comments.  “’Course you knew about George, one of dad’s relatives. He was a pirate.”
       Wow! What is more exciting than a swashbuckling relative who sailed the open seas under the skull and cross bones black flag?  Why did George become a pirate?  What treasures did he plunder and where were they hidden?
       So maybe this ancestry stuff is worth all the time, trouble, sweat and tears after all. And there’s so much more to learn.
       Move over Jack the Ripper.

Maps: New Brunswick       
           Nova Scotia