Strangers in the Family

I should have learned by now but I walked right into it.

(This post might jump around a bit, so buckle up.)

My folks raised no fools. We're all pretty careful when we interact with strangers. We are cautious without being afraid. We think before we act.

And in the Internet age, particularly with social media, I feel I have to be particularly vigilant. Sure, I share a lot of information but I do so knowing that someone could store that information and try to use it against me, to use it for their own gain, and so I'm skeptical when someone out of the blue seems to know anything about me.

I've had interactions with catfish, fully suspecting, from the start, that they aren't who they claim to be. Let's face it: when a beautiful, young woman reaches out of the blue and wants to be friends with someone like me, wants to get to know me better, I'm immediately suspicious.

I've had two such people contact me in what I can only surmise was a pig-butchering exercise, and both times I was on to them from the start. I wrote about one of them on my blog and that evening, the person cut off all ties with me.

Thanks for reading, scammer!

The other person would also chat with me every day, ask me to come to Toronto, and told me about their lavish lifestyle, all because of smart crypto investments. I pretended I was interested and even told them that I had installed their recommended app on my phone and had created an account.

I had done neither.

I should share that story but I'll save it for another time.

The text came as I was driving. I got a ping on my phone, which was hooked up to the car. The first line of the message appeared at the top of my Android Auto display. Because I was driving, I didn't read the message, and because I was just turning onto my street and would be home within seconds, I didn't press the button that would read the text message to me.

But when the text notification appeared on screen, my eyes quickly read, "Hi, Ross, it's your cousin, T—..."

I didn't recognize the name so I instantly thought it could be a scam. I figured that when I got in the house, I'd read the message and then delete it, blocking the sender at the same time. I've had a lot of bogus text messages over the years.

Inside, I read the message:

Hello, Ross, this is your cousin, T—. <Her husband> and I will be coming to Ottawa for a convention this summer, in July (dates given). I have a plaque that belongs to your dad. I was hoping to see you and pass it along. Maybe we could go out for supper at a restaurant together on Friday or Saturday evening. If (my sister) could join us also that would be great.

I couldn't remember who T— is, except I was fairly certain that it wasn't a cousin from my mom's side of the family. I know most of them. I called my mother, who knows almost all of my relatives on my dad's side of the family, but not all.

My dad came from a family of 14 children: him, being lucky child number 13. Because most of his siblings were old enough to be his parents and they had moved on and started families of their own when dad was a kid, I never really knew this side of the family.

And dad was a bit of a dick when it came to his siblings, once telling my sisters and me, "I have no use for them." I barely knew aunts and uncles, let alone cousins.

Decades ago, years before DW and I moved to South Korea, one of my uncles, Don (sibling number 14, who lives in Ottawa and was one of the few people that my dad kept close with), and my Aunt Flora, held a Brown family reunion in their backyard as part of a mortgage-burning party. At this gathering, I met aunts, uncles, and cousins for the first time. Until then, Uncle Don and Aunt Flora were pretty much the only relatives that I had really known.

I later told my dad that all of my aunts, uncles, and cousins that attended the reunion were the salt of the Earth, were really good people, and that he was the black sheep of the family. But after the reunion, I didn't hear from most of these kin.

I did get somewhat closer to one of my aunts (Pat) and uncles (Jim) after the reunion. But these relatives, who lived near Port Hope, kept in touch with me, and DW and I would sometimes pay them a visit when we were traveling between home and Toronto. We also kept in touch when DW and I were living in South Korea.

When Aunt Pat passed away, I was unable to attend her funeral but I sent my condolences to Uncle Jim, and we continued to keep in touch. And when my uncle also passed away, a few years later, one of his daughters, Cathy, contacted my mom to give her the news.

Uncle Jim had two memorial services: one, at his local church, where he was a minister; another, in Montreal, where we had more family (we Browns are originally from Montreal). At the first service, I was reunited with more family, including a cousin, Philip, who I knew when I was younger, who visited my family for several days, many years ago.

Even though my parents had split when I was only about five, Philip remembered my mom's kindness toward him and had wanted to keep in touch.

Also at this service was Cathy and another cousin that I may have previously met at Don and Flora's reunion, but I had forgotten. And I'm sad to say that at this service, I remember meeting her but had since forgotten her name and how she fit in to our family.

Is this cousin T—?

My first thought, when I received T—'s text message, was how did she get my cell number? Because I didn't remember her, and my mom didn't recognize the name, I wrote back to her, apologizing for not remembering who she is. I said that the plaque wouldn't have any meaning for me, and suspected that my sister also wouldn't want it; like me, she is trying to reduce the amount of unnecessary things from her house.

I told T— that I would like to meet with her when she arrived in July and added that I'd reach out to my sister, too.

I felt kind of weird about this seemingly blind encounter. After wondering about it for a couple of hours, I shared my thoughts about this encounter on social media. And I should have realized that I was opening a can of worms. And boy, did I step into it:

"Hard pass," said a few.

"Nope," said many.

"It's a scam," said even more.

There were so many negative reactions that I was surprised.

"What if she pulls a gun on you," said one person (how do you say that you're an American without saying that you're an American?).

I was warned to meet with her in a public space and to have someone with me.

On the other hand, some people (a few) shared stories about how they learned about long-lost family members or family that they didn't know that they had, and they are better for the reunion.

After my response to T—, I received another message that said she was Pat and Jim's daughter. We had met at Uncle Jim's memorial near his home. I dug through piles of photos, remembering that DW had taken a picture of me with my sister, Philip, Cathy, and someone else.

There's no denying that we're all family.

And I vaguely remembered exchanging contact information.

We exchanged more text messages and while I barely remember T—, the information started making sense.

When my dad died, he left his car to his brother, Jim. And when Jim died, his estate went to his kids, including my dad's old car.

The plaque had been found in the car and T— has been hanging on to it all this time. She figured that her upcoming trip to Ottawa would give her the opportunity to not only reunite with my sister and me, but to also pass this plaque onto us.

I keep in touch with so few of my extended family, both on my dad's and on my mom's side of the family, that I feel if someone wants to reach out, I should embrace the opportunity. There are the adages that family is family and blood is thicker than water.

I'm not my dad, and meeting with kin will show just that.

Costs Me Nothing

A photo from my phone.

Yesterday, despite the rain, I grabbed my camera and headed to the Glebe to catch some urban shots. Some buildings, some graffiti, some candid shots. Because it was raining, I wanted to search for and take advantage of puddles.

I don't take advantage of people, but puddles are fair game.

While crossing the street at a controlled intersection (i.e., one with a crosswalk and traffic lights), I noticed a visually impaired man standing at the edge of the road, in front of the crosswalk, with a look on his face as though he was unsure about whether to step out onto the street.

Meanwhile, people shuffled by him without noticing anything but where they wanted to go.

As I approached him, I asked him if he was planning to cross the street. He said that he was but noted that there was no audible cues at this intersection.

"I suppose I've missed this light," he said.

"Well, there are four seconds left so I would say so," was my reply. "Would you like help getting across the next time the light changes?"

"If you don't mind."

I had nowhere to be. I had my camera and no specific destination. I was only going to walk between Fifth Avenue and the Queensway, on whatever side of the street got my attention.

We chatted about the weather, how it wasn't any fun standing in the rain. He noted that at least it was warm outside, seeing the silver lining in an otherwise gloomy day.

When the light was just about to change, I gave the fellow a heads up. With the walking sign lit up, I looked both ways and said, "Here we go."

Without touching him, I guided him around any problematic puddles and notified him when we were about to reach the curb on the opposite side of the street (the side from which I had started). And as soon as he was safely on the sidewalk, I bid him a good day and he thanked me for my assistance.

"Happy to help." And indeed, as I ran back across the street, with only two seconds to spare before the light changed once again, I did feel happy about making a small difference in a stranger's life.

After all, it cost me nothing.

I roamed northward, placing my camera along the length of store windows, capturing the reflection of the traffic on Bank Street. I dipped into alleys to capture some of the images that had been painted on brick walls. I would crouch low, out of the way of other pedestrians, and almost lay my D-SLR in puddles to get more reflections.

I'll share pictures throughout the week.

At one point, as I was low to the ground, I heard a woman's voice say, "Oh, photos!" As I stood up and saw the person who noticed me, I saw a young woman with her boyfriend. "Can you take a picture of us?" she asked.

I saw that she had her smartphone in hand and I extended my own hand, reaching for her phone.

"No, with your camera," she clarified.

I paused while considering her request. I've taken pictures of strangers before so the idea wasn't foreign to me. And when I first got out of my car, with camera in hand, I had considered starting up the new strangers project that I embarked upon last summer, but I had figured that most people wouldn't want to stop in the rain.

"Uh, sure," I said. There was a graffiti-covered building where we were standing so I asked if they wanted to move over and stand in front of it. Unprepared to photograph people, I simply asked them to stand together and I took only one shot.

I'll share it on Friday.

The woman asked if I was on Instagram and I gave her my user name. I also told her she could find me on Threads and gave her the name of my blog. I got her name and her boyfriend's name, wished them a great day, and we parted ways.

Two strangers, asking me to take their photograph. It cost me nothing. Sure, I'll do a nice job of the photo in post processing but I was going to do that with most of the photos I had captured, anyway.

(I've since edited the photo and it took no more time than helping the visually impaired man across the street.)

Once again, the interaction with these strangers put a smile on my face.

I could have crossed the street and continued on my way. After all, the man got to where he was, that day, without assistance. Surely, he would have found his own way across the intersection.

I could have said no to the couple when they asked me to take their picture. After all, even though I'm not a photographer by profession, I do make a bit of money, from time to time, for taking portraits and for selling some of my 'artsy' photos.

I could have insisted that I take the picture with the woman's camera: after all, we made no agreement that I'd ever send her a copy of the photo. At least by using her smartphone, she'd be walking away with an image.

And I could have simply been polite, agreed to take the photo with my camera, and then deleted it when I got home.

But you know what? That wouldn't have given me joy.

When I finished capturing all of the images of the day, I returned to my car in a very good mood. And not just because I felt I had taken some good pictures on that wet afternoon. I felt good because I had interacted with people.

I had helped someone. I had made a couple happy. And it had cost me nothing but a little bit of time, of which I had plenty and didn't miss the expenditure.

The return on investing in the lives of others pays incredible dividends.

Happy Monday!

Sunset Sign

Yes, it was a clear-blue sky overhead. A perfect, cloudless, clear-blue sky.

But when I started playing around with the white balance, in post-processing, the sky changed from azure to purple, to various shades of pink. And I liked it.

I was going to share this image with Monday's post about Dairy Queen but the image now stood out from all of the other, natural-lighting snapshots that I took of the vacant, old ice-cream shop.

I'm very sad about the loss of a Nepean landmark, a place that brought so many people together on a warm summer evening, but in all honesty, it's probably been at least a decade since I last placed an order at the take-out window. Perhaps I'm sad the same way that I am about other places from my youth are now gone from the Ottawa map.

Perhaps I'm sad that I'll no longer be able to see that DQ and remember the good times I've had there and decide to stop one more time.

I kept this final image, the last shot that I took at the old DQ, the one with which I played around with the white balance, as a single, solitary reminder of what is gone. The purple, pink, and blue pay homage to the colourful memories that I'll keep with me long after this site changes into something else.

Happy Friday!

Rubbed the Right and Wrong Ways

I've been seeing a registered massage therapist for more than 20 years. Not the same RMT but three separate people who I've seen more than once.

Image: lintmachine, via Openly.

I first went to an RMT after I complained to my doctor of constant soreness in my neck and shoulders. It seemed that these areas are where I tend to carry my stress, and working at an office job where I can spend hours on end sitting didn't help. And so, she wrote me a prescription to have a massage.

DW was already seeing an RMT for back pain that she was feeling while pregnant with our first child. She loved this masseuse, Dee^*, and recommended that I make an appointment with her. I did and I saw her for almost 20 years.

The pandemic kept me from visiting Dee and other factors that I deem as fallout from some of the sentiment around the lockdowns made me decide that when I was able to freely see an RMT again, I decided I wanted to go to someone else—someone closer to home.

And so, more than a year ago, I started seeing someone from a chain of massage-therapy clinics. Jay was great, but she was no Dee. And Jay^* likes to talk. A lot. Where Dee and I would exchange pleasant small talk as she was starting, we'd then grow quiet as she did her magic in working out all my pains: not just my neck and shoulders but also my back, my legs (cycling tended to produce knots), my glutes, and anything else that was bothering me at my visit.

I would often fall asleep during a massage, something that Dee accepted as a compliment. I couldn't fall asleep during one of Jay's massages because even if I stopped talking, she would go on about her family, or her favourite TV show, or travel, or anything.

When she worked out a particularly stubborn knot, she would say out loud, "Boy, I'm good."

When Jay left for maternity leave, I sought another RMT elsewhere. I found the clinic where Jay operated to be quite expensive, plus I was prompted to add a tip on top of the high fee. In January, I vowed to cut out tipping for anything other than at restaurants, at barber shops, in taxi services, and the like, as it bothered me so much that I wrote a post about the out-of-control practice.

I had my last massage with Jay just before DW and I left for Costa Rica. Come March, I was due for another massage and my neck was really giving me trouble. It was hard to find a comfortable position in which to lie in bed, and it was taking me a long time to get comfortable and fall asleep. So one night, as I struggled to get comfortable, I picked up my phone and, using Google Maps, searched for a massage therapist close to home.

In addition to the clinic where I had been seeing Jay, I saw a place that was only a seven-minute walk from home. The reviews looked good and the cost of an hour massage was less than what I was paying at the clinic.

In booking, I saw that this RMT was booked solid for weeks on end, except for a single opening at the start of the day, two days hence. I booked it, counting my lucky stars.

I found out, at the appointment, that the spot I got had been cancelled shortly before I started looking for a booking.

That massage was amazing. Cee^* knew how to find my tight spots and was able to loosen up my neck so that that evening, I didn't have to struggle to find a comfortable position in which to sleep. Cee also worked on my glutes, hips, and quads, which were also bothering me.

Throughout the massage, Cee was silent.

I just visited Cee again, yesterday, and she massaged me from head to toe. We did chat a little, at the beginning of the appointment, but she would never initiate the conversation, and when I fell silent, she stayed silent.

I've referred DW to Cee, and she's also had two appointments with her. After yesterday's appointment, I had what I thought might be an awkward conversation with DW.

"At your first appointment," I said, "did Cee tell you to undress as much as you felt comfortable?"

"Yeah," said DW, "but I've always stripped right down. Even with Dee."

"Really?" I said. "With Dee and with Jay, I was told to strip down to my underwear."

"I only wear my underwear when I need to be treated near my sensitive region. I didn't wear underwear with my first appointment with Cee but I wore panties for the second appointment. And I never keep my bra on."

"At my first appointment, Cee told me to undress as much as I felt comfortable, and so I've kept my underwear on. But for both appointments, when she worked on my glutes, she ended up pulling down my underwear so she could get where she needed to go. She also slid the leg part of my boxer-briefs up and over my cheek when she needed to get there. I'm wondering if I should just take them off for our next appointment, should I need my glutes worked on."

"Whatever makes you comfortable."

"But how does that make me look?" I asked. "I keep my underwear on for two appointments and then at my third, I'm buck-naked?"

"I'm sure she's used to that," said DW. "It might show her that you trust her."

How about you? If you've ever had a massage with an RMT, have you stripped down fully? Should it make a difference if your RMT is the opposite sex?

I mean, I'm almost 60 so I'm done worrying about being naked around someone, especially in a professional setting, such as a doctor's office or on a massage table. But getting naked for a massage is something I've never done before because the other RMTs have told me to keep my undies on.

I'll see how comfortable I feel at my next appointment.

Happy Thursday!

^* not her real name.

Boycott

In all honesty, I rarely go to Loblaws anymore.

When DW and I first moved to Barrhaven, this large Canadian grocery chain was one of the closest stores to us and the prices were reasonable, if not better than other grocery stores in the hood. And shortly after we moved to the neighbourhood, Loblaws built an even bigger store, across the street from the old one, allowing for an Independent grocer to move into the old location.

But then Sobey's got better and moved to a bigger location, and a Farm Boy opened close by. Barrhaven got a Food Basics and a Metro, and eventually, a Costco. And Walmart also started selling groceries.

Our community has a lot of choices when it comes to groceries.

And because we have a lot of choices, you'd think prices would come down to be as competitive as possible. Loblaws used to be one of the least expensive grocery stores: it's now one of the most expensive.

DW and I have a Saturday routine. We get to Costco as early as possible. It officially opens at 9 but sometimes opens as early as 8. We aim to be there at 8:30. We get our groceries and supplies, and head out as quickly as we can, before the bigger crowds arrive.

If we need fresh produce, including meat, we head to Farm Boy, which opened a second location, taking over the space that Sobey's left when they moved out of Barrhaven. If we want name-brand items but don't want to overspend, we go to Food Basics.

And that's pretty much it as far as getting groceries.

I haven't considered Loblaws for a long time, now. Ever since they renovated the giant store, I find it darker and not as inviting. And, of course, things are overpriced.

Many people are upset with Loblaws. During the pandemic, prices were hiked up, citing distribution issues. In 2024, distribution isn't a problem but prices are continuing to climb.

Loblaws even lowered the discounted percentage for perishables that were approaching their best-before date, going from a 50-percent discount to only 30 percent.

So, starting tomorrow, May 1, people have called for a boycott of Loblaws and other affiliated stores. And I support it.

If you have other choices for groceries, consider supporting those stores, instead. If Loblaws is your only option, consider buying only essentials and not comfort foods or treats. Send this giant corporation a strong message that enough is enough.

Shoppers Drug Mart, also owned by Loblaws, should also be avoided. Go to a Rexall or Pharma-Plus, or Jean Coutu.

The price of groceries is not a result of inflation: it's a result of greedy executives.

I saw a great meme on social media and I'd like to share it here: "Poverty exists not because we can't feed the poor, but because we can't satisfy the rich." You don't have to be poor to participate in this boycott but you can send a message to the rich.