The Launch of the Santa Corona

If you know anything about Ottawa artist Andrew King, you know he's a bright, creative, talented person. His whimsical, joyful artwork has fascinated me for many years.

Andrew is also an amateur historian, and his love of the Ottawa area, Eastern Ontario, and beyond drives him to blog about lost pieces of our history, from the remains of sunken ships, missing planes, or long-lost towns, Andrew has chronicled our past and its mysteries in a blog and in books.

This past weekend, Andrew launched into something new, in light of the current COVID-19 pandemic, with the hope of lightening everyone's spirits. (I used the words launched and current on purpose.) Accompanied by his partner and fellow artist, Alison Fowler, Andrew headed to Manotick's boat launch, off Bridge Street, to set a piece of art down the Rideau River.

Last week, Andrew built a small, wooden boat, in the vein of his artistic style, in the hopes of setting it along the Rideau, where, by good fortune, the craft would make its way to the Ottawa River, the St.Lawrence Seaway, and eventually, the Atlantic Ocean.

It's a mighty trek, filled with all sorts of hazards: dams, waterfalls, other craft, not to mention the docks, trees, brushes, and other plants that line the shores of these waterways. But Andrew is hopeful that his ship, the Santa Corona, makes its way, eventually.

He's also hoping that others can help.

On the stern of the ship is a message: Hello, this boat was made & launched during the boredom of self-isolation during the great COVID-19 virus pandemic - March, year 2020. Set adrift from Manotick, Ont. on a journey of hope to the open Atlantic. Please throw it back on its quest. Visit andrewkingstudio.com to register where you found it. Thanks!

Andrew also added his name and Twitter nickname, as well as the hashtag #ToTheSea, which you can also follow on Twitter to see any updates on the ship's progress.

Safe journey, Captain Lloyd and Santa Corona! Let's hope you make it to the Atlantic, but that the pandemic abates before then.

Andrew King and partner, Alison Fowler, preparing to christen and launch the Santa Corona.

Dedication speech.

Attempting to open a bottle of prosecco (the cork wouldn't budge).

Second attempt (of course, there was no way this one would break).

Of course, a good splash of whisky wins every time!

The Santa Corona is launched. She flies!

Away she goes (Captain Lloyd stands on the bow).

Just a spec on the water.

Success!

Music Monday: Dancing With Myself

Week 3 into this COVID-19 social distancing, and if you're like me, you're starting to climb the walls.

My family and I have coped by keeping busy. Apart from working from home, we've been getting out each day to take walks, grabbing our cameras to try to keep it interesting.

As with last week, I'm sharing a song that captures some of the social distancing that we've been exercising, in an effort to mitigate the spread of the Coronavirus.

How are you coping? Share your thoughts in the Comments section.

Take care and stay safe.

Photo Friday: No Sexy Lines

One of the things that drew me into buying my Ford Focus, in 2012, was that it was a good looking car. It had interesting curves, especially around the headlights and taillights.

It had sexy lines.

The other front runners, while DW and I were car-shopping, were the Hyundai Elantra and the Honda Civic. In 2012, the Civic was a Plain Jane (my apologies to all the Janes out there), both inside and out. The Elantra had nicer lines than the Honda, but neither came close to the look of the Ford Focus hatchback.

And when the dealership had a white Focus in its showroom, in the Titanium trim level with a bonus, black-and-white leather interior, I fell in love.

Let me be clear: the look of a vehicle is not the determining factor in what I buy. A vehicle must be, first and foremost, safe. It has to protect my family in the case of a collision. Second, the car must be fuel-efficient. With the cost of gas in 2012, I wanted a car that wouldn't need to be filled up more than once a week, based on our average driving to work and for local errands.

The third factor is that the car has enough standard features/conveniences. This factor is flexible, depending on the cost for each trim level and extras. And this factor also ties into the overall cost of the car, though I know how much I can afford before I start shopping so I limit my choices to that budget.

All three vehicles—the Honda, Hyundai, and Ford—met all of these requirements. And so, all things being relatively equal, I went for the final criterion: I had to like how the vehicle looked, I had to feel comfortable being seen in the car.

Of the three choices, I liked the look of the Focus the best.

When we had the car home, I took a lot of photos of the vehicle. In the autumn evening, the sunsets made the white car glow. One year after we took delivery of the Focus, on a fall afternoon, the family and I drove up to Gatineau Park and walked the trail that circles Pink Lake. On that autumn afternoon, the leaves were lit up in bright reds, oranges, and yellows.

When we returned to the car, I noticed a lone, red maple leaf had fallen onto the hood of the car, next to the headlight. The contrast, against the white paint, mixed with the curve of the headlight, made it irresistible to the photographer in me.

Here's the picture. I swear that I didn't move the leaf.

Four weeks ago, today, we walked away from the Ford. Over the seven and a half years that we owned the vehicle, it was a love-hate relationship. We loved how it looked. We hated the mounting problems with the car, from the transmission to the electrical components. When it did work, we loved how it handled; when it didn't work properly, we hated how it handled.

Again, we found ourselves shopping for a new vehicle. And again, we had our three criteria on our list. We found that all of the cars we were looking at met the same safety standards. This time, when it came to fuel efficiency, we fully researched electric vehicles, versus plug-in hybrids (PHEVs), versus full hybrids.

Though our initial intent was to go full electric, none of the vehicles met our budget. We then considered a PHEV, but when we looked at ranges and the additional cost, we decided that full hybrid was the way to go. We narrowed our choices to two hybrids, though they were very different vehicles.

We had to make a choice: replace the Focus with an equal car style or go for something more, that could also replace our SUV, when the time would ultimately come for us to go full-electric.

The first choice, a Hyundai Ioniq, was better looking, in my opinion. I could see myself driving it. The other choice, a Kia Niro, in my eyes, was pretty plain looking. I didn't like the front end and the back end reminded me of a VW, and wasn't outstanding.

The Niro—our ultimate choice—lacked sexy lines. But that's not why I buy a vehicle.

For me, the interior of the Niro is good-looking. It's a practical vehicle with loads of great features. And I do love the look of the dashboard's instrument cluster: it's so clean, so easy to read.

Finding a good angle to photograph the exterior is tough for me. I thought of that autumn shot of the Focus, with the leaf next to the headlight, and I thought, those are sexy lines.

I looked at the headlights on the Niro and tried to duplicate the shot, without the leaf.

Nope. No sexy lines.

What do you think? What car have you owned that you thought was sexy (no supercars, please)?

Happy Friday!

Window of Opportunity

Each night, there is a window

through which I must pass

if sleep is to be achieved.

And, for the third time this week,

this window's been missed

and awake I'm made to lay.

Today's gonna be a bitch.

Wordless Wednesday: A Day At The Beach

 

Music Monday: So Far Away

As we enter our second full week of isolation and social distancing in order to combat COVID-19, I thought I'd share a song that has periodically entered my head, starting when my CBC morning radio show, Ottawa Morning, asked listeners to help them compile a playlist for these times.

I suggested this song, along with another one, which I will share next week.

How are you doing?

Happy Monday! Stay safe.

Distancing, Socially

DW and I are doing our part in self isolating during the COVID-19 pandemic. We are both lucky enough to have jobs where we can easily work from home, using Google Hangouts to keep in touch with our co-workers. I have a desk that is set up in our basement; she is set up at our main computer workstation, in our dining room.

Meanwhile, our kids are chatting with their friends through social media and are binging on Netflix and Amazon Prime.

But we still feel that we need to get outside for fresh air and exercise. Every day, this week, we've taken some time to get on trails around the city: the Chapman Mills Conservation Area, Mooney's Bay, Hog's Back, the Arboretum, and along the Ottawa River.

We've also reached out to friends who are in the same boat and also want to get outside.

We arrive in separate vehicles and keep a healthy distance from one another.

Just because health officials are stressing that we avoid crowds and exercise social distancing, they are not saying that we must avoid cautious contact. We humans are social creatures, and our mental health depends on being around others.

We're going to continue to get out with friends and will ensure that we don't get too close to one another. Until health authorities say differently, we're going to remain social.

From a distance.

What are you doing to combat cabin fever? Share your thoughts.

Stay safe, folks.

Wordless Wednesday: Winter's End at Vimy Bridge

The Cold, Empty Room

The following is an excerpt from Gyeosunim, the sequel to my novel, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary. As I mentioned in a previous post, the sequel will move through different periods in time: 1988, 1998 to 1999, and 2019.

This excerpt is liable to change or may be removed from the final manuscript.


The loneliness seemed endless but was finally broken by the loud rattle at the door and a man entering the holding cell. An armed guard was with him but stayed outside as the door closed and locked again.

The man was in his fifties. Tall and thin, but fit. He had a full head of hair, though cropped short and showing the early signs of greying. He wore a uniform that looked neither like the police or military. It displayed no badge, no name, no medals. Nothing gave away his rank, if any. In his hands, he held a dossier. It wasn’t thick with papers, not that I would expect many files, if any, of me. I was a nobody: my passport said I was Canadian and nothing about me said that I was anything other than a tourist.

The man stood behind his chair for many minutes. He opened the file folder and had it tilted toward him, so that I couldn’t see what he was looking at. I could make out that some of the contents were 8-by-10 sheets of photographic paper, and he was closely examining each one. Every once and awhile, his eyes would lift from the dossier and meet mine. He would hold his emotionless stare for several seconds before returning his gaze to the photos in front of him.

“Don’t speak unless spoken to,” Charles had said to me this morning. “Do not look agitated. Remain calm.”

It was easy for Charles to say. He wasn’t the one who was trapped in this holding cell. He didn’t have this icy man standing before him. I broke the silence. “Why am I here?”

Nothing. Not a word, nor a gesture.

“What have I done?”

Nothing.

“Why did those men come after me?”

The man turned another photograph over in the dossier, his focus on it like it was the only thing worth attention in this room.

“I’m a Canadian citizen. I’ve done nothing wrong.” I had buried my Scottish brogue, letting my Canadian accent push through.

The man did not look up from the papers.

I fell silent again, my eyes locked on his face. I focused on my breathing, making sure it was slow and steady. I would say nothing more, make no other moves beyond inhaling and exhaling.

Through the door, I could hear boots marching in unison. There were at least two pairs of feet, but it was impossible to count any more. The sound grew as the soldiers approached the door but then the sound diminished as they continued past and faded away. Somewhere, a heavy door opened and closed with a sudden, terminal boom.

Silence, once again, broken only by the shifting of paper.

“Is this your first time in Berlin, Mr. Townsend?” the icy man finally said, the words leaving his mouth so suddenly, without an obvious intake of air, that he startled me. I kept my calm expression, focused on my breathing. It was my turn to stay silent.

Townsend was the name on the passport: Gregory Michael Townsend, born in Niagara Falls, Ontario.

“You see, our records show that you entered East Berlin today, through Friedrichstrasse Station, for the first time ever.” He revealed one of the glossy, black-and-white photos. There was no mistaking my face, wearing the clothes that were currently on me. “But the problem is, there is a person by the name of Alexander James Carson, born in England, who crossed into our fair city, on foot, through Checkpoint Charlie, a mere two days ago.” He produced the photo that showed me, dressed differently, passing through the customs inspection post. My hair was tousled and I had four days of facial growth, the circular-framed glasses that were plain glass trying to alter the shape of my face. A padded t-shirt, under the buttoned shirt, added about 10 kilos to my stomach. It wasn’t the best disguise but it offered a shadow of doubt.

Two days ago, I entered East Berlin with a British passport. I walked through Checkpoint Charlie and followed Friedrichstrasse up to Unter den Linden, then turned left and followed the boulevard as close as I could get to the Brandenberg Gate. I shot some photos and then made my way back, stopping along Unter den Linden at an ice cream stand for a flavourless, vanilla cone, and then back through Checkpoint Charlie.

Today, Charles had been with me, though no one would know that to see us. I had jumped on the S-bahn train at the Charlottenburg station; Charles, at the Bahnhof Zoo. We had never made eye contact: he stood on the train, facing the left-hand side of the train car. I sat on a bench on the right-hand side of the train, three rows back. I watched directly ahead of me but could see him in my peripheral. My instructions were to count the stops, to make the first move to get off at Friedrichstrasse but not to get ahead of him. Charles would depart the train ahead of me. Though I had never crossed the border before, I was to act like I had done it several times before. Just follow Charles, do what he does, but don’t stay so close, don’t look like I was following him.

Once past the checkpoint, I was to walk out the front doors to the station and onto Friedrichstrasse, where I would hail a taxi and speak only three words to the driver: “Alexanderplatz, bitte.” World Clock, Alexanderplatz, please. I was instructed to not follow Charles, nor watch him walk out the back doors, onto Georgenstrasse, where he would hail his own cab with similar instructions to the same destination. Charles, however, spoke perfect German and would, no doubt, strike up a conversation with his driver.

The ride was short, passing the Berlin Cathedral along Unter den Linden, over the Spree River, and past the radio and television tower, Fernsehturm, where we made a turn around the Alexanderplatz U-bahn station and came to a stop a short distance from the World Clock but with it well in sight.
I paid my driver in tiny paper notes and got out of the taxi. That’s when I saw the first man, dressed like me. In identical shirt, pants, shoes, and jacket.

I looked at the photos that were held in front of me. I leaned forward and focused on the disguised version of myself. “You think that’s me?’ I said to my interrogator. I looked down at my flattened, natural stomach, and added, “Kind of fat, isn’t he?”

The man returned the photos to the dossier, and pulled out another. This one was even more recent, of me standing near the Weltzeituhr, snapping photographs. No doubt, my Minolta was now in his possession, his subordinates processing the film. “This is you,” he said, dryly. “Who are the others?”

“What others? I was alone.” I knew what was coming next but knew to keep to my story.

Another photo was held in front of me. It was of a man, in his thirties, dressed identically to me. The photo was held for only a few seconds before it was returned and another photo was shown to me. Another man, wearing the same clothes. Another photo, another man: same outfit. And another. And another.

A sixth man was shown, and I recognized him as the man I saw as I exited the taxi. I remained expressionless as all the others that were shown to me. I shifted my eyes to my interrogator, who was staring into my eyes, looking for something that would betray me. I wasn’t going to give him anything.

“How do you explain this?” he asked.

“I don’t have to,” I said. “I don’t know these men.”

“You just happened to arrive within a block of each other, at the same time, dressed the same?”

“What can I say? There was a sale at Marks and Spencer.”

This time, his eyes betrayed him. I could see the rage building up in him. He took a slow, deep breath to maintain control. He placed the photo in the folder and drew another one. A man, in his mid to late fifties, his hair a thin white and the pale skin on his face shrunken, as though he was ill. He was outside the Alexanderplatz Station, walking along Dirksenstrasse. Walking a few feet to the side of him but not looking like they were together was Charles. This man, once again, was dressed like me and the others. In the background of the photo, walking about 10 feet or more behind, was one of the other men I had been shown. With the camera’s short depth of field, this man was out of focus but there was no mistaking the outfit.

“Do you know either of these men?”

My eyes turned up from the photo and met his. “No.” I sat back in my chair and stared straight ahead, my gaze looking through my interrogator. I had already betrayed my training in speaking in the first place. Maybe that was a good thing. If I truly was a Canadian tourist who was picked up and held in a cell, would I remain quiet? I took a deep breath and let my lower lip tremble. I did it as an act, but deep down, I was afraid. “You can’t keep me like this. I’m a Canadian citizen. I have rights. I want a lawyer.”

The man closed the dossier and smiled, his eyes maintaining their icy coldness. He then turned on his heels and went to the door. Two quick knocks and the door was opened. Before he stepped through, he said, without looking back, “This is East Germany, Herr Axam. Here, you have no rights.”

The door echoed as it closed me in the cold, empty room.

Hunkering Down

We have enough food to last us a couple of weeks. Enough water and beverages, too.

We have enough toilet paper and tissues to survive the Apocalypse.

DW and I are fortunate enough that we can work from home. I actually started feeling a head cold coming on, Tuesday morning, and so I left the office and worked the rest of the afternoon from my basement study area.

Coronavirus illustration: 3D4Medical

On Wednesday, my throat was sore and my upper sinuses were blocked, so again, I stayed home. As the news of COVID-19's spread grew over media, I listened closely but didn't panic. I had no fever, was not feeling lethargic. It was a head cold, I told myself.

On Thursday, my head felt as though it weighed twice as much as normal, and all I wanted to do was sleep. I contacted the office to let them know that I was taking a sick day, let some friends know that I wouldn't be able to meet that evening for dinner, and went back to bed.

Later that afternoon, still feeling awful, I checked work e-mail and learned that my company was issuing an order for all employees who could work from home to do so. DW's company sent her a similar message but she was already at home: she was beginning to feel similar symptoms to mine.

By Thursday evening, though, I had rallied. My head was clearing and I had more energy. My throat was no longer sore. Seasonal allergies, I told myself: that's all I had. Allergy meds confirmed it.

On Friday morning, I was back to myself, and even ventured outside (though stayed close to home, only taking a walk around the neighbourhood). I felt relieved, as that evening I had tickets to a Sarah Slean and Hawksley Workman performance, and I didn't want to miss it.

Unfortunately, DW was feeling ill and didn't want to be in any crowded theatre. But it was moot: by mid-afternoon, the concert was postponed as public venues were shutting down around the city.

I've filled up the gas tank in both vehicles. With no work to drive to, libraries, gyms, and swimming pools closed, and advisories to stay home mounting, the tanks should go a long way.

We're hunkering down. We'll go out only when we have to or to get some fresh air, away from crowds. Please listen to government and medical officials and follow their recommendations.

How are you faring in these early days? Are you prepared to stay at home? Do you have to go into work? Are you able to practice social distancing?

Are you stranded anywhere? Let me know how you're doing by leaving a comment.

It's still early days. I'll check on you as cabin fever starts to sink in.

Be safe.

Photo Friday the 13th

The fact that Watson's Mill is haunted doesn't quite have as much impact as COVID-19 and everything shutting down around us.

The real fear will be when we all run out of toilet paper.

Wherever you are and however you're doing, stay safe.

Happy Friday the 13^th!

Time Travel

Ugh...

I can't believe I'm still at it, still banging out pages for my next novel, which I had promised myself that I would finish by the end of summer, 2018 (it was already years in the making). I then told myself I would get it done by the end of that same year, and then again by the time I was ready to head back to Korea, in May of 2019 (which was more than 20 years after I returned from living there, from 1997 to 1999).

When I was in Korea, last year, I decided to take Gyeosunim in a different direction, and started writing it again (for the third time). I already had two timelines in the latest version, and after returning from Korea this time, I had a third timeline.

If you've read my first book, Songsaengnim: A Korea Diary, you'll know that it takes place from March, 1997, to January, 1998, and for the most part follows my experiences during my first year of teaching English in Chŏnju, South Korea. But the main character, Roland Axam, is a different person from me and his back story is total fiction. There are flashbacks to 1995 and 1996, with some childhood and teenage memories thrown in for good measure.

But for the most part, there is one timeline.

In my new story, as I've tipped my hat in sharing some excerpts, the sequel to Songsaengnim takes place in 1998 to 1999, and in 2019. But for the past few months, as I've started once again to bang out this book, I've added a third timeline: 1988.

As I had written a while back, Roland Axam is a character that I created in my late teens and I had originally created to be a spy. For those of you who have not read Songsaengnim, here's a spoiler alert: as Roland is vacationing on Cheju Island with his friends, he reveals that he used to work for the Canadian Security Intelligence Service (CSIS). We only get a bit of information, as Roland tells his friend that he can't talk about what he did.

In Gyeosunim, I talk about what he did in 1988.

I have also blogged about how I had written a spy trilogy more than 30 years ago but had lost the manuscripts over the years. There was no way that I could rewrite those books but I started thinking that I could take the best parts, as I remember them, and work them into this new novel, where Roland, retired from CSIS, recovering from a life-altering loss, finds himself in his second year of teaching English in South Korea.

I'm trying to make these three timelines work for this book, and that's what's taking me so long. So for those of you who have read my first novel and are waiting for the sequel, please have patience. I hope to be done soon.

But don't hold your breath.

Getting Out of Hand

Photo credit: Gillian Flaccus, via AP

Maybe, in the age of COVID-19, this is not such a bad thing. After all, the best way to avoid catching a bug from somebody is to remove any point of contact.

And besides, all of the toilet paper and disinfectant wipes and gels are gone.

(Ugh... people are stupid.)

I've never liked shopping, have tried to avoid it at all cost. I especially hate shopping with family members, who seem to take a twisted delight at dragging me from store to store. For me, ordering online and having a package delivered to my doorstep is a stroke of genius.

For more than a year, DW and I have been subscribing to Amazon Prime. At first, it seemed like an extravagance that we didn't really need. We rarely ordered anything online, save the occasional book or CD. When streaming or downloading music became the norm, and when DW relied more on her e-book, we almost thought that our online shopping would dry up.

We started with a free, 30-day trial of Prime. We didn't think we'd use it, so we would stockpile items that we'd want, order them all through the trial period, and then cancel.

After all, if we found we needed something else in a couple of months, we could always sign up for the trial period, again.

It was the TV shows that finally hooked us. Bosch, The Marvelous Mrs. Maisel, Jack Ryan. We had recently cut our ties with our TV cable and were exclusively streaming through an unlimited Internet package. The monthly fee was far less than what we had been paying for cable, so we were still ahead of the curve.

That's when the shopping accelerated.

DW wanted loose-leaf tea. But instead of going to the grocery store, we ordered it online. It came to our door the next day, cheaper than our local store and with free shipping.

I bought my 360-degree video camera directly from the manufacturer but ordered all of my accessories online.

On a recent Saturday evening, just before midnight, I wanted a micro USB cable that I could use to connect my smartphone to our new vehicle, so that I could use Android Auto to integrate the two. I already had plenty of cables, but I needed something special.

Because of the tight space in which my phone now rests in the car (where there's also a wireless charging pad for when I don't plug the phone in), I needed a cable that had a 90-degree bend where the plug connects to my phone. And because the USB port for the car is only a couple of inches away, I wanted a short cord. Fifteen centimetres aught to do it.

I could have searched my local Best Buy, The Source, or Staples, but because it was almost midnight, I would have to wait until later, on Sunday, after my family went out for brunch with my parents and sister.

Instead, I placed my order on Amazon before I turned off the light and went to bed. The next morning, as I was enjoying brunch, I received an e-mail message that my package would be arriving at my doorstep within the next few hours. By the time brunch was done and my family and I drove home, the cable (which is perfect!), was awaiting me.

So far, this week, I've had a package arrive on Sunday, Monday, and Tuesday. I'm expecting another delivery next Monday. If I think of something else that I need, I'll pick up my smartphone, which holds Amazon's app, and tap a few buttons.

My family and I are the death of retail stores.

Over the weekend, DW and I went shopping for a mirrorless camera for her. She wants something small and light for our upcoming trip to Europe. She and I researched the various brands and levels of camera, watching reviews on YouTube, before we settled on a particular camera.

I'm loyal to Henry's, my local camera store. That's where I've bought three D-SLRs, all of my lenses, flashes, tripods, and other accessories. I wanted to give them our business, so DW and I paid them a visit on Sunday. When we arrived, I asked them if they price-matched from Amazon.

They did, which saved us $50, and DW was glad that she could hold the camera before making her final decision, and we wouldn't have to wait to have the camera delivered. In and out of the store in under 30 minutes.

Henry's didn't have a case that DW liked. They didn't have the extra lens that she wanted, and we learned that it was on back-order.

No worries: as soon as we got to our car, I found the lens on Amazon with a guaranteed delivery date. I also found a good deal on extra batteries and SD cards. After a couple of taps, we had everything that we needed for DW's new purchase.

We're getting out of hand. It's too easy to shop online, and it's making us really lazy. We're killing the brick-and-mortar shops.

On the other hand, in light of COVID-19, I tell myself that, in an effort to reduce the spread of germs, am I best to avoid crowded stores? I have no fear that I or anyone else in my family is going to catch the Coronavirus, but it is the flu season and I've just caught a head cold. Online shopping certainly ensures that I don't spread my bug or catch anything else.

It's a balancing act. There are some things that I simply wouldn't buy without seeing up close, without getting my hands on: a camera, a car, some articles of clothing. I would never order fresh produce online (though, last week, DW ordered groceries online and drove to the store to pick them up: her canned goods and household products were brought to her as she sat in the parking lot) but have no problem ordering a meal for delivery.

How about you? Do you order online? What sort of items do you order? What do you refuse to order online? Is Amazon a bridge too far for you? Share your thoughts.

That's What I'm Here For

I would have never called my folks.

Don't get me wrong: I have great parents who did an excellent job of raising me and my siblings. But when we did things that we weren't supposed to do, they weren't always great at the lectures that they devised for such occasions.

Lectures do nothing.

Besides, I would never have lectured my kid about underage drinking. I wouldn't be one to talk. I did the same thing when I was a teen. I did it at an even earlier age.

There were times, when they were younger, when I told them that they would reach an age when they would want to try things with their friends, and that was okay, as long as they were in a safe place. I told them about how, when I was in my teens, my friends and I would find somebody who would be able to get us alcohol, and we would smuggle it into someone's basement, where we would crank tunes and get drunk.

We did it, often, at a friend's house where his parents kind of knew what we were up to, but wouldn't say anything. They would check on us, every so often, to make sure we were okay.

I wanted to be one of those kinds of parent.

I told my kids that if they wanted to experiment with alcohol, I didn't want them to do it in some hidden place. If they had wanted to drink with their friends, they could do it at our house. I wanted them to know that they always had a safe space with family.

The one thing that I instilled in them more than anything else, though, was that they were never to get into a car with anyone who had been drinking or taking drugs. They could call me, no matter the hour, no matter how far away they were. I would come, without judgement, without questions.

I had been young, once, too, I told them.

My oldest daughter isn't much of a drinker. She doesn't like beer, doesn't like red wine, isn't into hard stuff. Because she suffers from asthma, I've never had to worry that she would take up smoking or vaping.

She visited Amsterdam, last summer, had the chance to eat space muffins, and passed on the offer.

She's a great kid.

Last week, during reading week, her best friend returned home from university, and a bunch of her friends decided to get together and have a party at another friends house. One friend was old enough to buy alcohol, so they purchased some wine and cider.

Another friend, also of legal age, bought some weed.

And so the party began.

As the evening drew on, I texted my daughter to find out what time she was planning to be home. For me, it was a work night, and being a dad, I can't go to bed until I know either when my kids will be home or where they plan to stay for the night.

My daughter returned my text with a message that earned my full attention: she was drunk and wanted me to get her. She was at a friend's house that was just around the corner from us, was less than a five-minute walk.

My response was only four words: I'm on my way.

There were only five of them. They've all been friends for many years. A couple of them have known each other since elementary school. A couple of them shared a joint but because they knew of my daughter's asthma, they smoked it outside.

My daughter told me that she consumed half of a bottle of rosé wine and a pint of apple cider. She was dizzy but otherwise fine.

She's a chatty drunk, talking about the games she and her friends played, who drank or smoked what, asking me if she was going to be sick (I didn't know but suspected not), letting me know that she's never felt like this before, and wondering if she was going to be all right.

She was going to be fine.

I suggested to her that when we got home that she drink a big glass of water, and to have another one, with an Advil, before she went to bed. That she get a good night's rest.

The next day, I texted her from work, to see how she felt. She said that when she woke up, she drank another glass of water and made herself a full breakfast. She felt fine.

I said, "Good. Let this be the baseline for future parties. You know that you can drink this much and not feel sick, but you felt the buzz of the booze. Don't risk feeling bad."

That was as far as I went with the fatherly advice.

When I returned home, she met me at the door. I remembered the days gone by, when my return had her running to the door, squealing, "Daddy's home! Daddy's home!" This time, she didn't say a word: she just held out her arms for a warm hug.

I'm glad that my daughter knows that she can call me, no matter what. She knows that there will be no condemnation, no lectures. She knows that I will come for her, no matter the hour, no matter how far away.

That's what I'm here for.

New Routine

Even though I'm not a morning person, I will still drag myself out of bed in the wee hours so that I can hit the road, get into work before the masses, and get my day finished with enough time to enjoy the rest of the afternoon and evening.

For years, I've been getting out of bed at 5:30. I'd shower, dress, and head out the door between 6:15 and 6:30, reaching the office no later than 7. By 3:00, my work day would be done and I'd be a free man until the next morning, when it would start all over again.

For the past few months, my morning routine has been interrupted after DW fell down our basement stairs, badly breaking her right foot. Fortunately, that was the extent of the damage but because it was her right foot, she has been unable to drive.

That meant that I had to help her get ready in the mornings, get her into the car, and drive her to work. I was happy to be able to help her but it also meant that my morning routine was out the window.

It was fine. It meant that I could slow down in the morning: make us breakfast, put the coffee on, pack a decent lunch. Over the months, I have perfected a fruit smoothie that even my kids love. With our Ford Focus on the fritz, it also meant that I could drive our other vehicle, the CR-V, and I had company on my commute.

Last week, DW's doctor finally gave her the green light to walk on her foot without the Aircast. She was also allowed to drive, which meant that I was back to my early morning routine in the Focus—for a few days, anyway.

I drove my Focus to work the Monday and Tuesday of last week, and worked from home, as per usual, on Wednesday. Later that day, I was supposed to pick up our new car but because we had a severe winter storm warning, which was scheduled to hit Ottawa around the time that I was to take delivery, the dealer and I postponed until Friday.

The winter storm had kept me home on that Thursday, and a sore back and shoulders from shovelling made me want to remain home on the Friday, before I headed to get our Kia Niro.

With DW healed and a new, fuel-efficient vehicle at my disposal, you'd think that my work commute would return to normal.

It hasn't.

In an effort to be even more environmentally considerate in our commute, DW and I have decided to reduce the time where we have two vehicles on the road. We commute, together, in our hybrid on Mondays and Tuesdays.

Warming up the Niro, early on a swim morning.

On Wednesdays, I continue to work from home and DW now takes the hybrid to the office. On Thursdays, DW works from home and I drive the new car to work, resuming my early morning routine.

Friday is the only day when DW drives the CR-V, as she used to, while I leave early, in the Niro.

So, for me, my old routine only continues on Thursdays and Fridays. I still like to leave the office early—especially, on Fridays—so only the car is new to my commute.

DW has agreed to get up early on Mondays and Tuesdays, though we don't leave the house before 7 on Mondays and we go swimming, at 6:30, on Tuesday mornings.

I'll still make those smoothies on Mondays and Wednesdays. Those smoothies will remain a part of our new routine.

We'll see how it goes...