Thoughts on this Day

We are fortunate to live in this place and time. I’m thankful for friends and the history we share. I’m thankful for the spirit we muster in the face of malignant evil and ignorance at home and abroad. I’m thankful for the peace we have enjoyed, as fraught and fragile as it is. I’m thankful for the food on our tables, yet I am acutely aware of how lucky we are to have it. That luck can never be taken for granted: the best “luck” is the product of the goodwill we engineer collectively. To the world, happy Canadian Thanksgiving.

Inspired by the calendar. Image by Georgi Kisyov.

Forgotten Lessons

I recently trod the battlefields of World War One, where hundreds of thousands died horrible deaths. Thousands more bore wounds, visible and invisible, for the rest of their shortened lives. War is hell. Today those battlefields are peaceful, the land is productive, and the fallen, the thousands of fallen, are remembered. Yet the lessons from their deaths are not. 

      Clausewitz called war the continuation of politics by other means. We learned after 1945 to extend politics and avoid war with diplomacy, multilateralism, and rules-based institutions. That consensus is now crumbling. War is hell, and we are drifting inexorably towards it.

Inspired by Already Committed. Photo by the author of the Belgian grave of an unknown soldier, nationality unknown.

Already Committed

Dad volunteered for the RCAF in 1940, but they made him wait. Impatient, he joined the army. He landed in Normandy in July 1944 and was deployed to the front. The Allies had a German army encircled near Falaise; the enemy was intent on breaking out. In the fog of war, Allied aircraft mistook the advancing Canadians for Germans and bombed them. It’s called “friendly fire” these days. Shortly afterwards, during a lull in the fighting, a much-forwarded letter arrived for Dad from Canada. The RCAF had finally accepted him. Years later, he related this story with a rueful shrug.

Inspired by a battlefield visit and battles past. Image from the Warfare History Network.

Ungilded

Walking past the US Consulate in Toronto recently, I spotted a plaque in a bed of greenery. It celebrated a unique friendship that was forged over many years through many painful challenges. 

     Dear America, we’re honoured you deemed us the “best neighbours any nation ever had.” (Ask yourself if that applies to you.) 

     “Neither terrorism nor any adversity will conquer free peoples.” (That sounds ironic now.) Yes, we were with you in your then-darkest hour. (Who knew it could get darker?)

     The plaque (bronze, not gilded) was almost overgrown. Perhaps that’s a metaphor. Perhaps it will soon be taken down.

Inspired by domineering belligerence, imperial grandiosity, and a stunning ignorance of history, economics, and geopolitics, which culminated in the imposition of yet more punitive US tariffs on Canada on August 21. Photo by the author.

Just Weather

“But temperatures are rising…”

     “It’s summer. It’s supposed to be hot.”

     “But I mean, we’re setting records. In Europe, this year’s all-time hottest temperature is 2° higher than last year’s, which was 2° hotter than—”

     “Yeah, Europe. Who cares about Europe?”

     “Glaciers are disappearing. Rivers are running dry. There’s drought everywhere. Hundreds of wildfires are burning out west right now. Up north, too. The air’s poisonous.”

     “There've always been fires in summer. When I was a tadpole—”

     “It’s raining ashes in Michigan today.”

     “There. You see? The rain will put out the fire. Really, kid. It’s just weather.”

Inspired by A Little Bit of Magical Thinking. AI image created by Angus Peterson.

Potentially Useful Stuff

Henry would never move, because he’d have to get rid of things: furniture, personal effects, his salvage trove. His wife belittled the latter as junk. 

      This rankled him. There was virtue in thrift. When something broke, he fixed it—yes, perhaps imperfectly, but it worked (sort of). Before discarding anything, he stripped it of parts and fasteners that might prove useful, storing them in bins in the basement. “Why buy a hundred screws,” he told Margaret, “when a single repurposed bolt works fine?”

      She called him a hoarder. 

      “No,” he rejoined stubbornly. “I am the custodian of potentially useful stuff.”

Inspired by My True Nemesis. Image by cheetahlip on Reddit

Proof of Life

Roy knows I hate missing deadlines. Maybe that’s from years of client work (I don’t miss that), or my Navy days (I do miss them), but I’m never late to post. The “tell” for Roy is that I pre-post a draft the day before deadline, and schedule it to publish at 0830 on Due Day. So, this week, there's no draft from me at all, and Roy texts, tongue-in-cheek, “I need some proof of life.”

     I can’t imagine a better proof of life than a hike in the woods. So here's my proof, and my excuse for almost missing deadline. 

Inspired by Roy who is our Exquisite Corpse choirmaster. Photo by Jacquie Maund.

At The Pearly Gates

Something had happened below. There was an ungodly crowd at the Gates. A burly man with a red tie pushed to the front. 

     “Table for one.” 

     St. Peter was taken aback. “This isn’t―” 

     “This guy’s low IQ, I can tell you that,” the man told his followers. 

     Peter exchanged glances with the Archangel Michael. “Sir, we aren’t―”

     “Check your list. They’re expecting me.” 

     Michael whispered something to Peter, who nodded. “Ah, yes,” Peter told the man, pointing. “Our golden escalator will take you straight there.” 

     They watched him descend. “‘They’re not sending their best’,” Peter muttered. Michael shrugged.

Inspired by Being Judgey, and the numerous versions of Heaven I've imagined, the first one being on this link. Image by Marjorie at NightCafe.

Devastation

The #20 bus rolls along East Hastings Street like the Mars rover across an alien landscape. We passengers, safely behind glass, are like scientists observing previously unimaginable life forms. We pass shabby storefronts, Edwardian hotels fallen to flophouses, crumbled hoardings, junk-strewn alleys, and on the sidewalk, piles of filthy garments, soiled sleeping bags, broken personal effects, and humans: brothers, daughters, sons. Some are slumped in unconscious disarray. Some stagger or shuffle desultorily, bent at the waist in the fentanyl fold. Others huddle in conversation, a community despite everything. We pass through blocks of devastation, en route to pristine Stanley Park.

Inspired by Now That’s Customer Service and a recent ramble through Vancouver's Downtown Eastside. Photo from r/UrbanHell.

Birds, Bees, Viruses

Sex education was controversial in my small town. Eventually it was decided that we Grade Sixes would receive a single morning of instruction. 

      I awaited that day with breathless anticipation, expecting answers to questions I couldn’t ask, and some pointers so I could, you know, get on with It. Or at least know what It was. 

      I awoke with flu on the morning of the day. But . . . but, I stammered, unable to explain why I couldn’t stay home. When I returned, my classmates were close-mouthed about what they’d learned. Yet everyone seemed so . . . worldly. My life, I knew, was ruined.

Inspired by A Trip Down Memory Lane. Photo by Body Stock.

Anniversary Trip

For my parents’ fiftieth anniversary, we sons banded together to buy them a trip anywhere they wanted to go. They’d already travelled a lot in retirement: Australia, Hawaii, cruises in the Caribbean and through the Panama Canal. Yet there were so many places still unseen: Paris. Vienna, Rome . . . They decided on a coach tour to the Little Bighorn and Nashville, Tennessee.

That’s what they called it: not Nashville, but Nashville, Tennessee. They were unassuming prairie people who enjoyed a good tune. Thinking back, it was not a surprising choice for a couple who’d honeymooned in the Badlands of South Dakota.

Inspired by Freedom of the Road. Image from a post by Keith Case.

The Thirty Second Network Pitch

“Imagine ten men in a cabin on an island. There’s a blizzard. The power goes out. All they have is duct tape, 48 beers, three cans of beans, a flint, a pocket knife. How long will they last? They start a fire. They fix stuff with duct tape. They drink beer, play cribbage, eat beans. Pull fingers. Tell dad jokes. Who will survive? Who’ll end up dead and eaten? Think Yellowjackets meets Ozzie Nelson. Think Red Green wins Survivor. Think . . . Dad Island!” 

      The producers exchanged glances. It had a demographic. It would be cheap. But could they find a sponsor? 

Inspired by You’re Cheating. Image is a still from the 2020 Netflix series Hollywood.

Scrabble Drabble

Amid the ooze of kegs, and boomèd vox, it was a nifty act. A sage heart, the quiet niece (she weds anon), drew useless vowels and blessèd X and Z to cover triple-counted squares and pad her score. Oh, woe to others! Wives, uncles, intendeds, did howl with feline malice, queer amid the jab and rag of play. One sob was heard. What wretched luck! Yet t’was not luck at all. I needs must write the truth. There was yin to the game—ya, and much shrewd wordery: who’s ever heard of “hirer,” and just what the hell is “voile?”

Photo, by the author, of the family game board—December 27, 2025. By my count there are 27 words on this board, and this hundred-word drabble uses all of them.

Subway Encounter

I glanced up and noticed the woman slathering Nivea onto her chin. The seats around her were empty. Next time I looked, she’d worked it in and spread more onto her forehead. Was she okay? Or disturbed? She stood abruptly, lurched towards me in the doorway, and used the window as a 3/4-length mirror to massage Nivea into her hair with her fingertips. She made fleeting eye contact. “It’s really good gel.”

      “Wow,” I said. “Amazing. Who knew?”

      “This is me,” I said as we rolled to a stop. 

      “You’re a nice gentleman.”

      “You’re nice too,” I said, and fled.

Inspired by life. AI image by Putra.

Sunday Morning

Inside my skull, every heartbeat strikes like a timpani mallet. Outside, it is blindingly bright. Sunlight pierces my eyeballs with the force of a rapier thrust. I close them in repentance. Whose idea was the tequila? I am shaky, clammy with crapulence. My stomach rumbles, portending rebellion, a traitorous uprising. The dog whimpers, wanting to go out. I breathe in. I breathe out. On the air, there is evidence of canine flatulence. Eyes still shut, I reach for the Tylenol, fingers scrabbling with the child-proof lid. I breathe in. I breathe out. If I remain perfectly still, it doesn’t hurt. 

Inspired by Saturday Afternoon. Photo by And-One.

Game Day Rituals

In pursuit of sporting greatness, I could not rely on talent, of which, the evidence demonstrated, I had little. Luck, then. To attract it, I employed intricately constructed stratagems. Example: I pulled my left skate on, then the right. Then I laced the left one up, then the right. 

      This never led to athletic stardom, but it did leave me with life-long rituals to follow during championship runs—like wearing the team jersey, t-shirt, and fan socks. And never laundering them during a win streak. These necessary measures have led to repeated tensions in the household at otherwise joyous moments. 

Inspired by an epic playoff and World Series run (thank you, Blue Jays). Image posted by the Toronto Blue Jays.

Lifelong Pals

A band of rogues, were they, everything a ribald brag or pun-ish diss. Fact or fiction, it mattered not. Lewd mockery and exaggeration were their tools of discourse. This, they would always be: lusty, with no time for foolish love. They’d never waste time on feelings.

       They married, divorced, retired. Eventually they did discuss feelings—in their knees, backs and hips, which hurt. Harkening back to carnal conquests, Mercutio deemed these “war wounds.” Over beers, they gabbed about their ailments, though never about ED or male pattern baldness. It went entirely unremarked that Benvolio had an impressive set of man-breasts.

Inspired by Let’s Not Talk. Image from Baz Lurhman’s 1996 film, Romeo + Juliet, Act 2 Scene 4.

Such Potential

Roger often thought about the band, and what they could have been, if creative differences hadn’t derailed them. They always argued over everything. Even their name. At the very beginning, Johnny inexplicably insisted on “The Cuddles,” but that sucked for a bad-boy thrash metal band. The other guys came up with some great ideas. One Eyed Snake. The Hairy Reems. Wank. The Wad. Spunk. Spunkwad. Peter and the Pud Pullers. But they just couldn’t decide. If only they’d settled on one, and got on with the music. They peaked one Saturday in ’84, playing air guitar down in Eric’s basement.

Inspired by Star Bright. Image by Virginia Turbett.

The Art of the Bluff

He took another peek. A 7-2 offsuit, a really raw deal. He’d have to bluff on it. He glanced around the table. Emannuel looked smug, but he always did. He was weak. Keir looked like that Muppet, Beaker—he’d cave for sure. So would the Dutchman next to him. The kraut, he wasn’t sure about. His eyes shifted onto Giorgia, who was unfathomable; he’d like to get her alone sometime. “Raise,” he said, pushing his memecoin stack forward. He finally looked across at Volodymyr. 

      “Donald, you haven’t got the cards,” Volodymyr said. “Too bad there's no trump in this game.”

Inspired by Poker Game and this week's gathering of international leaders. Image based on a photo by Elina Manninen, modified by Copilot.

The Gate in the Middle of Nowhere

Off-road, we encountered locked gates, and we had to hand our bikes across to another rider, then climb over ourselves. On one two-metre giant, I clambered onto the narrow top rail, which was strung with barbed wire, swung my legs across, perched gingerly, and jumped. There was a disconcerting tug and rrrrrrip as I let go. Yes. Those barbs; my shorts. For the rest of that day, I rode with a fist-sized tear on both buttocks. But cycling shorts are made of resilient fabric. That night, I sewed them up, salvaging them, and some dignity, for the ride next morning.

Inspired by Rosehill and Dale. Photo by Bob Miller, of a team-assisted, Flag-on-Iwo-Jima-like crossing of a much shorter fence.