Cathy Gulkin

There was this girl - no, a lady -no, a vision to my teenaged eyes -Yes, who seemed to walk on her own cloud. She was in her own world.

I would see her float by our house, her long coat, long long hair swaying in the breeze, her mind in thought or deep concentration, books held up to her chest.

"Wow. There goes Cathy!"

Sometimes I would run out of the house and catch up to her and try to think of something amusing to say. She would put up with me too. That's how gracious she was. She never let one down with a crash, just a lovely smile.

Later, I got to know her thoughts a little more in Cegep. We were all so sophisticated young men and women back then, discovering who and what we were -and were not, -by knocking our heads on things that life dished out.

Today she is in Toronto, a business woman, Editor of Motion Picture, Video and Telelvision,- Gemini Award winner no less.

She has maintained her focus, taken it to the next level, propels her ideals through the internet and her network and puts them forward, knowing that the six degrees of separation can be used to good and substantive ends.

Today Cathy is a person I am very pleased and proud to be associated with on a number of levels. She has been a good friend for more than 40 years. She is a model worth emulating.

Idle Subjective Conclusions on the Nature of Human Existence

And so.

Another round has been completed.
Another 365 days, multiplied by so many minutes and seconds.

And so -what?

Time does not pass in fact.
It goes through us.
We ingest it; consume it.

In the digesting of life 'time' through our being, we imbue it with meaning.
That is our true function, to give the universe multiple reflections and nano bursts of recognition of it's varied, refracted and wondrous kaleidoscopic being.

We are mere bubbles of limited existence gifted with the mirror of consciousness to be able to reflect back to the universe that time experience which is and has been ingested.

Our function is to appreciate each bite and moment, in short, be 'aware' or better yet - awake whether in life or dream. For all too soon we join back with the universal 'all', having had our turn to experience - Love, Pain -Life.

So, in the passing of the moments do not stop being sensitive to this function, this responsibility. Do not take experience for granted.

And remember, by honoring wife, husband, daughter, son, brother, sister, mother and father, friend or stranger - you honor the force, that is life.
And in our death, no matter how soon or late in the eternal day, the universe completes itself in it's cycle of conscious being once again.

Remember to be kind, compassionate.
Remember that no matter what you own or have, it is temporary and must be returned one way or another.

And so.

In this existence know that the highest form is to live consciously -in awareness- of the 'all' and and to act through appreciation and enjoyment of this; to be kind, that is, to shine the colour and light of our inner bit of the 'all' on others through dignity and respect of their same 'right' to miraculous existence.
There is no past, there is no future coming for us. There is only the eternal now, the tip of our own burning fuse of life, the length of which we cannot determine or know.

So make it count. Do not waste it.

And so.

A Special Day

Every day is a special day - I know.

Last week the exisitence of the special-ness of each moment became even more pronounced when my car slid off the road and into a rather steep and deep irrigation ditch. Yes. I was still in the car as it swerved and slid sideways, down, down, down... pushing through the soft topping of powder snow, to settle and sink beneath into the deep dark liquid mire.

I was on the diver's side, which became bottom. The passenger side stuck out above me. How very strange to be face to face with dark water, bubbles and loam peering aquarium-like, down through the side window in a quiet place, and be aware of the tricle in from the back seat area.

With the help of a man who climbed down onto the passenger side and hauled open the door upward, I was able to climb out. Tough choice though - do I leave behind my coffee still sealed tight, car keys, or business brief case. After all I only had two hands. It was time to reach one out to grab the hand of the man stooping precariously down to help me.

I live my life acutely aware of three sharp lines or planes that converge. One is the moment to moment 'woken' reality during the day; then, 'dream/symbolic' reality in sleep and finally 'sparkling moment' realities. These latter times are akin to finding a special shell on the beach, or looking into the eyes of my wife, son or daughter, or reading a poem that touches the soul, or singing with someone and encountering a harmony. They are otherwise called 'numinous' experiences since they have a transcendant element that channels your 'inner being' with the universal 'outer'. These occasions are kind of, sprinkled into the other two realities.

If you would like a very pure example of music that reminds me of this state, I would ask you to find some quiet time in order to listen to (HEAR/FEEL) the sound of Sweetfield Music by Sonja Ball and Roger Sarazin - their own music, not covers of other performers/artists... -
at WWW.myspace.com/sweetfieldmusic.

You will not be disappointed. Keep in mind that this place is where you would listen once to a song and decide if you might like to buy it. The first listen is free. My personal favorite is the song 'Sweetfield'.

Hold On I'm Commin'.mp4

Sonja Ball & Chain - Roger Sarazin and Sonja with their band last night at Burbon Street West Club doing covers -very nicely... but the best is yet to come. Soon they will be issuing their own cd with -if I am not mistaken, their own creations.

Circles and Wonder.mp4

Ladies & Gentlemen -Sonja Ball & Chain

A Shadow Known

I'm sitting on the stone benches between McClennen and Redpath Libraries at McGill, scribbling notes.

I glance up.

Coming from the Leacock Building is a familiar figure. Not the same but familiar. He is walking between two buddies, intent, as if a decision must be made. To be or not to be.

I recognise him now. He has lost much of his body weight, resembling more his brother Barry, lanky and tall; now older with two day growth on his face.

"He was always the darker of the two" I think to myself coversationally.

He passes by.
I stand and peer at his back.

I say out loud, " I remeber you."
There is a pause in his movement.

" I do know who you are."
He stops at this.

"I remember the pool."
He turns now and looks at me, unsure I am talking to him.
Perhaps I don't look the same. Surely I have grown so much older. After all I was only fourteen back then.

" You remember too, the days in the sun, and how you cut dolphin-like, in and out of the crystal flicker of the afternoon water, the momentum beats of your flutter kick, propelling you up and out ward, your browned bicepts slicing back down to complete a cycle of the butterfly."

He steps toward me now, unsure but with a look of wonder.

"Just fantastic you were to behold, muscles ripped in sunscreened definition, beads of water falling away as you gripped the diving board rail in prepartion. So golden in your moment of Speedo splendered contour."

He moved closer to me but now eyes closing, feeling the vision.

" Your mom and dad watched with pride, in their whites, over by Claire and Ken P. Your sister Sandra standing with her friends all watched you. Even your brother Barry had to pay attention. You were the epicentre of a summer life moment.

He held his hand to his brow. He was there living it now.

I walked to him, put my arm over his boney shoulder like a long lost pal.

" I know you recall the days horsing around with Chuck B., both of you chasing Linda P., the variety show nights - Hello Mudda, Hello Fawda, her I am in Camp Ranata, and the movies across the pool."

We walked and I spun the story of his memory through the eyes of little boy watching his bad-boy-devil- may-care hero from afar.

"And here you are- alive! You fooled them all! And they all said you died. But you are very much alive- in me you always will be.

The whole time he had not said a thing, but just held on to himself,
straining to ...
remember.

It was still dark.

Instinctively, I tried to swim back through the void, back to the world I had just been pulled from by my clock radio into this realm of darkness before the dawn.

There was a little groan at the foot of my bed. Elfin, one of the cats warned me in her own way not to disturb. I wondered for a bit if it was Saturday. No such luck. Ah yes - I recalled through the fog, the reason for waking so early- get to the city by 7:30 a.m.

How bloody uncivilized.

Proceeding from shower, shave and dressing, padding my way down the hall past empty bedrooms which used to house our children, loafers suspended by two fingers, ninja business dude still struggled to wake up, yet endeavouring to allow Jane and cats to continue sleeping.

Glancing at the mirror in the hall, everything seemed to be in order, hair in place -neither too long n'or too short, a dash of gray on the sides now, brown corduroy jacket reminiscent of grade seven, but on the man in the mirror, somewhat academic, not quite the financial advisor, but what the hell- I was off to a 'roadshow' not to see a client.

Today was to be TD Bank's turn at Place du Commerce in Old Montreal.

At least there were no patches on my elbows as some of my professors of thirty-five years ago- McGill U.

It seemed back then, irrespitive of the wear and tear of a given jacket, one had to have the required look offered up by patches on the elbows, somehow offsetting the mustaches, sideburns, long V Motown collars, wide leather belt and buckle with the 'just so'
worn-in desert boots emerging from stove-pipe Levi jeans. Ah- but that was then and this is now.

A 'roadshow'-. The word has always brought to mind a carney act; the snake-oil salesman mounts the steps, at the back of his wagon, extolling the vibrant virtue of a bottles blue glass elixir, held up delicately between digits, capturing the gleam of the sun, one dash melted shoe polish, to generous measure of spit and vinager, said to be sourced from a lost tomb beyond the veil of Isis, that of Queen Nephretiti herself.

But in today's financial industry, the 'road-show' is where manufacturer/suppliers of financial products from ETFs, Mutual Funds, Flow Through Shares, IPOs, and Insurance products gather advisors, planners, brokers -otherwise known as 'retailers' in one place, with the lure of a free breakfast or lunch offering their latest take on the markets while hinting at new and improved products in hopes that we will serve them up to our individual end user clients...people like you.

I let myself out into the cool November darkness, slipped into the welcoming embrace of heated leather seats. Do I listen to radio news and road conditions, or blast myself into consiousness via 'Brown Sugar' on the CD, or simply cruise along and try not to compete with the idiots vying for sumpemacy of the road? What shall it be? Accept the challenge of the 4 cylendar twits and zoom another twenty feet in traffic on the hybrid V6 magic carpet. Why spend more money on gas?

"Pace yourself, " I say out loud. "Don't even turn on the phone.- Cool. Let the fools go. You don't have to prove anything."

Ok. There's the underground parking . Pay the $15 and find a spot, ticket left on the dash. Leave the coat in the car, up the escalator to register, receive my plactic name tag and today's agenda. Ah! A deserted table. (I am a rock, I am an Island sing Simon & Garfunkle in my stereophonic mind...and an island never crys...good song) Sit -coffee -eggs- no bacon thanks, I'm off the meat and hopefully off the Lipitor.

And it begins - blah blah blah, the economy this, the market that, the fund managers -who I agree have done a damn fine job this past year, more coffee, good we're almost done, time to go...

Oh oh..someone approaching in peripheral range on my right, lift my head, adjust my glasses, it's ..WHOA!

"Don't she look good man!" exclaims my pre-ten o'clock investment adled mind.

Well, I had to wake up sometime.

Quick! Who is that- you know her.. my memory zaps back - way back.. to 'The Pit' just behind the family compounds near the lake at Ville de Lery. A thin attractive girl and her handsome sister watching me teach YMCA skiing as they rest elbows on their own ski poles.

"Well good morning Les - forgotten me already?"

Ah! Gail Goodfellow.

Look at her -little girl grown up, neat, trim form and quite professional - grown ever so effortlessly Fifth Form and charm into a natural grace and light. That smile, the eyes. Her mom and dad would have been so proud.

What a way to start the day.

This is one of the benefits of having stayed in Montreal.
One is always bumping into one's mirage montage past.

Summer at Thirteen
When I was 13, summer was crazy. I would wake up, wash, brush my teeth, get my white shorts and t-shirt on, slip downstairs for my white tennis shoes, grab a banana and head out. Dad would have already been up and gone to work at CN.

I would get on my bike and go - two or three miles off to the Heights from Seigniory Park to take my tennis lessons. Herbie Hart and Blair Watson were the teachers. Man, were they sleek in their style and grace.

I would compete with Tommy Gilbert. We were fairly even , but I knew inside he had more control, discipline and was somehow more able to hide his frustration and anger at his own mistakes. Tennis seems for the most part to be about one's own mistakes, similar to golf. While you play and compete against someone else, the real opponant is yourself.

I was older than Tommy by a couple of years; infact probably just a little shy of his sister's age. She played organ and piano at our church. She was pretty hot back then with her nubile presence, strawberry blond hair and that smile which curled just in time to highlight the twinkle in her eye. Their parents were pretty cool too. They played in the Sunshine Singers or somesuch band with Mrs. Kemp.

Two days a week I would spend late afternoons at Mrs. Kemp's house in the Terrace learning guitar..."3/4 beat, Down In The Valley , ...the vally so low, hang your head over, hear the wind blow.." C- G7- C-G7-C..." She was a lovely lady and wore her soul on her sleeve as many did in that church, Mr.Longley and others. Church...hmmm...never seemed much to do with transcendance. Ah well the music was nice.

Do you remember Gordie Kemp? That was her son. She had some daughters too (Karen & Brenda?). My sister Gaye hung out with one of them. Poor Mrs. Kemp. She died a year or so later.

That summer people from our highschool also died at the dam.
Death.
Life can be one long death or you go suddenly. People and things change.

But summer for a thirteen year old boy back then was crazy.
I discovered a girl who loved to laugh at 'the club', (The Seigniory Park Country Club) - where after tennis every day, I would consign myself to the sun, sparkling water and diving boards. We'd watch the antics of the older teenagers, Blake and Barry Jennings, Linda Perry, Anne Farmer, Sandie Mustill, Heather Bedard or the life guards. Leslie and Lynne Butler were always interesting to behold. But everyone had to watch out for the frolics of Chuck Baronovski. One just never knew what he was up to until it was too late, but impishly funny.

Of course there'd be can-opener competitions off the high board by the likes of Norman Larue, his brother Michel, Barry Kaye, Dave Poirier, Robin Hewitt and others, many of whom chose early morning race team training with Cameron Grout rather than doing the tennis thing. Ah yes- afternoons of Red, Green or striped Speedos and tans. To see Blake Jennings doing the butterfly pulsating through the lengths of the olympic pool was a treat. 'Like Young' TV show on Saturday was broadcast live over the TV back then. Jimmy Tapp of TV 12 could be found with his wife tending their child in the baby pool. The club was just where it was all happening that summer - Heather Bedard and David Cooney doing the shimmie! Wow! Things were just becoming HIP! The Haunted even played live 1-2-5, Jurgen Peters and gang.

I think my mind in the mornings at tennis was beginning to wander prematurely into afternoon delight...watching all those tanned bikini bodies striding by. No wonder Tommy had more discipline. His mind was on the game. I think my mind was drifting into another game. I would be humming a song called the 'Sugar Shack', thinking about how this girl minus her sister might like to join me in my tree house down Maple, in the Heights, in the field beside the Sumacs which divided the old farmer's field from the cemetary. She had such an infectious laugh which brimmed into a giggle, just fulll of character and life. I think she owns a fishing boat now. Out Rupert way? I wonder if she still has that giggle? Love is more attraction at 13. Love is more being captured by another's light. She had light. Such is memory.

Summer was crazy when I was 13.

Tout Va Bien

The night is lit by a phospherescent moon.

The ashphalt presses, imprinting my thin soled moccasins, soft and pliable worn treadless, perfect for tracking in the mid places between wood and field where the animals hold court. I hunt secret moments there, perfecting the slowest of silent motion.

This evening we make our way down Ashmore, still, after some 25 years, always towards the river at the end of the street. I think ever since Prince Rupert by the Skeena, I've been hooked on life by the water. Or, perhaps it's just been that way since Sea Scouts at St.Andrews in the Heights?

It's August and the levels are down. The warm stink of algae, exposed rock bed and dead sunfish waft along Rue de Salabery past the football field at St.Francis. But it's not bad, no it's even charming. Well, perhaps not so much charm, but dependable, as an old welcoming blanket of familiarity.

In the faster parts where the Heron stands guard studying runes delicately etched in ancient polished stone beneath the surface, seeking signs, omens, of that which has passed before and will never pass again, the flow of things known and unknown trickle and whisper, the secret just on the tip of the tongue. Still, so very still, he stands, calm, listening, -hearing the river's mantram, at one with the flow where his eternal present melts a visible future into eternal escaping distant past, memory- an illusion to allow some peace before certain end.

The song by Beau Domage plays in my mind - 'Harmonie Du Soir A Chateauguay', Les pieds pendants au bout du quai,...La riviere joue l'harmonica, Les mouches a feu font des folies...', what a lovely tune, the soul of Chateauguay.

If you ever have a chance to come back to Quebec, Montreal, to really explore, not as a tourist, but as a cultural voyeur, go to Rue St.Denis and sit in a cafe, not in front, but find one with an interior court yard and yearn to recall the words left behind in faded books, the code that opens the door to that other solitude within our cultural looking glass. You might hear strains of 'Ginette' -the song of a young quiet man whose soul is opended to the maigic of the night by a dancer "...avec tes seins pis tes souliers a talons hauts...".

Ah! Surely I will die an old man in this Province, smiling as the sun tries in vain to kiss the moon.

Musing on Influences

Monday July 5. 2010

Well it must be about 37 degrees out today.

I have taken to doing my work at home lately since the summer has begun and fortunately I have a heat-pump. Nice and cool inside, especially in the basement where I have an office.

Fifteen years ago I left the downtown 'corporate executive' world after some 18 years, to become an independant financial advisor, spending (or should I say 'investing') another six years with a big name brand to find out how to run an independant Investment business compliant with the government and all the regulations to protect clients from fraud. Then I spent another 9 years on my own perfecting systems and reducing costs while increasing yields for investors.

The plan was to find an activity where I could put my training and experience to use, still make money, but on my own terms; where whether retired or not, I could still enjoy being functional, plus a financial benefit to others and educating those who need it, in the world of Investment- where words like 'risk', 'loss', or 'gain' don't necesaarily mean what we think, but actually have a range of opportunity values if one is able to see and use them.

I am not rich, but I do have the ability to use my time as I see fit, so I guess you can say I have independance. But then if a client calls, I do have to be on top of the portfolio strategy...and I am.

So right now I write on the blog from the back yard in the Gazebo enjoying the heat wave while I wait for Jimmy to arrive.

Do you remeber Jimmy Williams from HSB?

Talk about independant. He was independant with a capital I and a ton of gusto back in grade nine. If I recall correctly, he was thrown out of school (for attitude towards authority) and then quickly taken back in becuase he was great on the high bars and the team needed him for the competition.

These days my old buddy is a Colour Analyst in motion pictures, working for a private production facility across from Disney Studios in Burbank and Hollywood.

Jimmy is still a Peter Pan, doing things more or less in his own time, yet knowing where his limits are now that he is past the age of 50. He knows what he's good at, which is quite a lot -gymnastics, music, cinema colour technology, gym equipment specialist (working with well known US DVD Exercise Gurus) and traveller.

J & Mary
(Left)

J & Robin Moody (Right)

It was because of Jimmy to some extent, (if I connect the dots) that I have ended up in the world of investment today. You see, back in grade ten Jimmy and Steven Vella had summer jobs at the Montreal Stock Exchange. - (Do you remeber Steven Vella? God, I have not seen him since 1971.) Anyway, they had jobs at the Montreal Stock Exchange. The job was great - page boys on 'the floor'. They got me in.

We had to be at work in the changing room by 9:30a.m., then out on the floor in our uniforms, positionned on 'the line' by 9:58 a.m. before the trading bell went off starting the day's trades. Of course that was well before the TSX took over. Now the Bourse de Montreal is only controlling the options market in Canada.

In the "Options" market, the words most people call 'loss and gain' are looked upon as wonderful opportunites for those who can handle 'puts and calls'. ( Sorry -don't want to bore you, but you might want to read about that world a bit ... who knows you could make some money, or then again lose some too.) (Old acquaintence Mark from HSB who worked at RIM at least knows the value of one kind of option.)

We'd get an hour for lunch and then be finished our day by 4:00pm when the floor closed. One of us would be called upon to take the ticker results over to the Montreal Gazette for publication in the next morning paper.

What a world that was! The action was incredible, but then sometimes it could become listless with inactivty, no one buying or selling. For us page boys, that was when we had to watch out as the floor traders would start pulling pranks on us. "Hey Boy! the Gundy trader would call, "Come here and take this order. Buy me 100 shares of WBC from the trader across the floor at Ames." Then I'd run over to the Ames trader all out of breath, "Sir - I have an order to buy 100 WBC" I'd squeak. "WBC? WBC? What the hell is WBC?" loud enough for all to hear on the quiet floor. So off I'd run back to Gundy. "Uh, Sir, uh ...what is WBC"?

Now all eyes were on me, there was no activity, too calm, the girls on the data input islands at mid floor were in blush tones knowing what was coming. "What's this? Shouted the Gundy trader. You want to know what WBC is? I nodded waiting for my doom. "Wireless Bird Cages you idiot! -boom and pandemonium, wripped tickets flew as if the bull had stepped out of the bear pen. Laughter all round. " You wanna buy some? How 'bout some UGR - Under Grund Rail while your at it? HAAAA HAAA! Ah yes initiation to The Floor. We all went through it.

Tuesday July 6, 2010 (41 degrees in the shade).
Jimmy and his girlfriend came in today from California.

My place first, then off to see his life long family friend Robin Moody, then on to Lunch at Capiche (owned by Charlie Ghorayeb -best restaurant in our sector of Quebec outside of Old Montreal bar none - great wines, good prices and fantastic foods.)

From there it was on to see Jimmy's cousin Butch (his name nowadays is Spencer). He owns a Harley chopper manufacturing plant and has had some of his products sold to the likes of Prince Rainier and Steve Tylor.

One of the Chopper frames at Spencer's (Butch) shop.

So let's see 3 video clips below (make sure you click on the "full screen feature on the right hand side of the clip box before clicking viewing arrow.)

Things That Don't Work and Things That Do on a Sunday

or...Consumer Corner

I was in the Cdn Tire Store a few months back, browsing around and I came upon the floor cleaning and mop section.

So what -right?

Well, we happen to have a number of cats in the house and it's my job to take care of their 'toilet area'.

I keep their litter boxes in one corner of the unfinished side of our basement where all the utilitarian stuff happens - laundry, storage, christmas lights, golf bags and sports equipment.

Now I'm really quite pleased with that area. It's my domain you see. Cat Litter boxes! OOOOH Les McConnell has come far in life right? I know, but if you're going to have pets, you have to take care of them .

I have laid down a half inch thick industrial rubber inter-linking pad section, covering about twenty square feet. On top of that I put sections of the old newsprint and lay it down.

Well the problem with some cats, is that, as they grow older they become either lazy or sloppy or develop some kind of Alsheimer's and while they 'aim to please, they do not always aim carefully'. And thus one has to take precautions.

Once the newsprint absorbant function has been duly fufilled, I daintily maneuvre the soggy sagger into an old 'Staples' bag (Bureau En Gros in Quebec) and toss it into the trash outside. And since the industrial rubber mat (from Cosco) is out for airing, it's time to get out the mop and Mr. Clean.

First, I take my Bissel Magic Vac (purchased in a driveway sale I think) and suck up the stray little clay imbued pieces of cat litter. Why 'clay imbued'? Well this is that kind of litter that 'clumps' when touched by moisture. Wow! What an innovation! Do I love my clay imbued kitty Litter...especially the 15 liter box of "Compliments' from IGA at $7.00.

So I run the hand held Magic-Vac-on-a-pole over the big rubber square and zap! Into the cup the stray pieces go...all without the need of a broom and dust pan. I can just empty the stuff from the collection cup back into the Kitty Litter box for continued use.

So I was in the Canadian Tire in the mop section checking out the traditional string sloppers, and the more innovative squeeze sponge mops and -hey! What is that! Something new! A red Vileda ultra mop that uses absorbant cloth and has a system in the bucket to enable you to fold the mop sections allegedly without getting your hands wet while inserting it into a fixed squeezer in the bucket.

Sounded like a good idea and I just had to try one, being the innovative consumer that I am.

And guess what... I got my hands wet, and not only that, when I went to wring it out, I had to wrestle the wet plastic holder with my fingers to unsnap it from mopping position to inverted wringing position.

Then when I tried to insert the wet sopping material in the wringer, the cloth slipped off the holder and plops onto the floor! Splat! The cats looked on in amusement and wonder.

I think they were wondering when they could go again, since the box area was now off limits to felines. So my first thought naturally was, "I am doing something wrong".

Ah! The internet! I went on-line and checked out their demonstrations. Well those things are really not complete. No matter what I did, the darn thing just would not conform to the ideal demonstration.

So it was back to the 'tried and true' sponge mop and squeezer. I have a feeling this new mop was geared for people like me. They know I'm not going to bring it back, and know I'll toss it in disgust.

But hey! I do have something that works really well and is great if you have cats. It's called a Litter Locker. Fantastic!

Normally, every day when removing the clumps of residual cat stuff out of the litter box with the special shovel, I put it into a biodegradable bag (from Dollar Store), head upstairs, grab my coat and walk outside and to the trash can. Well with this little Kitty Locker parked next the cat boxes, you can drop the stuff in there and leave it until full...and guess what? NO Stink!
I love it. I just have to dispose of the internal stuffed bag once a week -and I have three indoor cats!

Alright. I think the rubber pad should be dry by now. It's time to allow my Financial Post and Montreal Gazette to transacend their lofty existence and assume the absorbant pose. Namaste.

Fifties Party on the on a Saturday Night in Chateauguay.

Brandon Campbell, Orin Loft, their uncle Les McConnell and their Grandfather "grandmac".

If you think the eyes and smile are familiar , you would be right- if you knew Dianne Ranger back at HSB (68-72), this is her daughter. My lucky nephew Brandon has a fine girl friend.

Then I came across a face I thought I knew- but then I realized it could not be... then she told me who her mom was - Carol Broomer. This is her lovely daughter Chelsea Rand -hamming it up with an old- timer .. her mom is up at Fiddler Lake right now at the HSB 2nd Girls Weekend Out. (Like my pennie loafers?) I certainly don't fit my size 28 jeans anymore... oh well size 32 will have to do. Ain't she sweet? Just like her mom, she has the smile, the eyes and the heart.

The Beat of Her Own Drum


I was creating a modest space on my FB page to highlight entrepreneurs so that perhaps students and teachers from HSB might be exposed to stories of those who have gone on to the future world of 'becoming'.


I thought, " Wouldn't it be great if we also used FB to actually highlight what some have become. Students might get the idea that the traditional ideas of Doctor and Lawyer, for a career are not the only thing; that there are other avenues not only to achieve success but better yet independance!

I thought that success is about "spending" - literally spending your life time doing what it is that fufills you, moment by moment -and of course if it pays too - then great!


I thought of Charlie, Norman Perry, Mark Stafford, Dr. Ralf, Bob Houston with his Dr.Gum and A.D. Display, John Saunders, Colleen Hillock and her 'addiction practice' and Lynda Young Chapleau who saw a niche and established a wonderful business; simple model that works and provides an income stream.

All of these people I will highlight here and in FB. But there is someone very special who has been brought to my attention.

I thank Kathie Parsons Harnest for giving me the name of Ruth Douglas. It was only after seeing Ruth's grade 10 picture that I recognized her.




Ruth was one grade ahead of me at HSB.

Ruth has succeeded in grabbing hold of a real business opportunity, by taking the media operator known as "News Canada" off the hands of Venture Capitalists using a management/employee 'buy-out'. Her previous experience with Quebec Or paid off.

As the new President, Ruth went to the various Banks, attained financing and made the parent company an offer they couldn't refuse.

Ruth and her team were ready to spend the time, blood, sweat and tears to kick start this opportunity recognizing media buget cuts were in the air. Having to cut staff, the media outlets still need 'story content' all while governments, institutions, and comercial enterprises need to get their message to target audiences.

An opportunity! Ruth took it; guts in action - she did it!

From $7 hundred thousand in revenues, the team harnessed action and momentum, driving revenues to $7 million. Now that's business!

Their firm has risen from 84th on Canada'a major entrepreneuial listing to number 34. WOW! Has she ever got ...'what it takes'!

Ruth's daughter works in the business when not playing Hockey in the Women's Canadian Hockey League ( I should introduce her to Cathy Gulkin speaking of women's hockey) and her son has his eye on entering the tool and die manufactiring sector- nothing like a challenge...he should learn Madarin while he's at it.

On the side, Ruth supports ceaseless efforts of her older sister (Chateauguay High Grad from 1967) Lois (Douglas) Shaw who for 30 years has been investing her life in Kenya, working with women, enabling them to get ahead against all odds in Nairobi slums, where AIDs has decimated much of the youth leaving people our age as grandparents to look after infants. Lois and her husband teach post graduate studies encouraging students to go back to their communities to make a difference.

Ruth has become the nucleus of a Canadian Women sponsored support group who help with her sister's efforts and with orphanages in Nairobi.

There is much more detail I should and will write about this project.

The point of this writing today is to highlight Ruth and what she has accoplished as a model to others; a woman who has achieved much and is continuing to do more.

There is no such thing as "trying" -only 'doing'.

Ruth continues on, to the beat of her own drum.

Brian McInnis

Favoured with good looks and intelligence,
an appreciation for showing the transparency
of that which is false in our political system,
Suffered Fools with a side order of wit, -if at all,
Used the camera eye to focus,
Loved his friends,
...Ah Brian....
So sad to see you go old friend-
Words seem unworthy containers of our feelings for you...
Now things said and unsaid come into focus...

Always one step ahead of us...
You leave us all here to ponder.
As said by many others..
You will be missed.

Brian has left the building Folks.

Hola Buenos Dias Mis Amigos - Mi Acapulco-Mi Mexico!



How some of the locals fish just before dinner.
What they don't keep, the Pelicans swoop down to snatch before the sardines even hit the water.




























The Infinity Pool

32 degrees in the shade with a cool Pacif breeze and a Marguerita on the side - hey!- that's a drink.

My spot on the beach out in Dan and Barb's back yard just beyond the Infinity Pool. ...where I ..."worked hard at doin'nothin all day".. - well some writing perhaps in between body surfing and boogie boarding the big waves with Bob Houston, Dan and Gino -if they were not out playing golf.
And Bob & Gaby Houston just lived around the corner!

Just a few of the old high school friends down in Paradise -Acapulco!
Kind hosts Dan and Barabra (Tranpf)Zimmerman, with guests Jane (Ashley)and Les McConnell, Debbie (Hopkins) Crawford and her husband, Gord.

...Who ever thought Debbie would get her black belt? There was also something about 'punch buggies'?...ow!

Life in Acapulco certainly has it's moments and magic.

Marian Peacock


If I was asked what I like about having stayed in the old home town, one of my responses would have to be - local weekend shopping. This activity takes on an edge of discovery -the possibility of bumping into someone from Highschool days.

In the baking section of IGA, seeking the right brand of sugar for weekend cooking, I happened to look up to see Marian Peacock. There she was -picture perfect, as if right out of the year book!

Marian is a single mom these days with a son in highschool.


After chatting a bit, I realized once again that we have all come so far in life, not just in age or material well being, but in actual 'becoming'.

We were such kids back then. While 'the kid', is still perhaps just beneath the skin, that persona is not who we are now. Yet when we come into contact with those from the past, we tend to see through the lense of our high school being. Once we have a chance to refocus, we can then rectify the past characature memory with this person standing in front of us.

I had known Marian in the past, not well, but to say hello in passing. She had always been friendly, not 'stand-offish', with her smile, always at the ready.

On this day, I did not want to stop listening, her words and ideas -soft, intelligent and to the point; topics bordering on the philisophic and even theological, while centering on processes of education and their effect on our local youth these days.

We discussed violence in hockey, the focus of religion as it pertains to 'exposure' to youth in schools- a true dialogue; an exchange of ideas, in short, a conversation which transcended the norm.

Sure, we reminisced a little about 'the old days', referenced such names as Robin Hewitt and Dave Poirier when she linked my name to a growing-up location in Chateauguay. We dropped names of people we see these days from the past as well.

We touched on how we have even gone back to the past to re-explore certain glanced over facets and subjects from High School, such as Algebra as an example of one; - not that we spend our time doing equations, but that perhaps these topics were and are for some, wasted early on while later, we have become 'ready' for these interests.

While this blog entry does not delve into personal elements of Marian Peacock, it does give you an impression . I don't think she would really want me to discuss her recent past surgery upon her brain stem, except perhaps to tell you that she has been very lucky and is still fully functionning and with us for quite some time to come, is still working flights (a hostess with Air Canada if I am not mistaken), remains in Chateauguay and is just as lovely as ever.

I remarked on this encounter to my wife Jane when I got back home.

"Oh yes" she said, "I met her years ago when our son was in pre-school. Marian would come to the school looking in on her brother's little girl. She was always an angelic-like presence."

Some things just don't change.

Who

Who are we
when
sleep eclipses 'time' ?

Behind eyes,
synaptic skies,
vison real
yearning within ?

Was that you?
Was that me?
Were we ever
really
here?

Who are we
when
the light
accepts us
back?

LM Jan 19. 2010