Recent Columns

Lately I’ve been thinking about being a billionaire. Billionaires sometimes jump off tall buildings after cutting their kids from the will. Read John Grisham’s novel “The Testament” for more on this. No, the billionaire life isn’t for everyone. When it comes to money and work and these

One day early this summer my teenage son asked to host a party. Friends from camp lived far away, so they’d stay overnight, he explained. How many for the party? “Not many,” he told me. “About 30.” “Uhuh,” I said. “And the overnight? “Not many,” my dear boy repeated. “About 15.”

Today let’s talk about friendship. And hobbits. You know hobbits. Short. Stout. Big, hairy feet. Colourfully-dressed, fun-loving, pipe-smoking lovers of food and drink. Living in the shire in homes with round doors. And courageous, they are, beyond measure. Consider Frodo Baggins and his dangerous journey.

There are few things as enjoyable to me as a good photograph, especially in summer. My eldest recently brought back a fine photo from Paris. She was visiting a childhood friend, a British girl she knew while growing up in Uganda. So there he is, this photographed gentleman, an older

It was a national daily, a letter-to-the-editor, and it said this. Canadians, all of us coast-to-coast, need the Oilers to win the Cup to feel better about ourselves, so we don’t have to stick our sorry Canadian heads in the oven, or the toilet, or some other humiliating place because this is now the hopeless state of things.

In a way we’re all homeless vagabonds, it seems to me, running from one fear or another. In my case, when younger, I ran from home because of issues, and because any young man or woman, even from a fine home, needs to leave

It’s some years ago and my father-in-law, Gerry, is on a train somewhere between St. Thomas and Port Stanley, a Saturday touristy ride for nostalgia as much as anything. There’s a conductor and they laugh and I take a photo. It’s really something, in hindsight, considering that

I once read that if you’re a mother then you have no more claim on humanity than anyone else. I think there’s something to it. Otherwise we’d just idealize motherhood or idolize mothers. I’m also not one of those people who sees a miracle around every corner. But I believe

It was one of those inviting spring days and I said, “Welcome to another day in paradise,” to a carpenter friend who was working out front while the sun shone and while we both knew full-well that paradise will be something else entirely. But, you know, on Earth we take what we can get.

I’m no expert, but I’ve been thinking about problems lately. And children. And their stories. You know, there’s that loveable bear, Pooh, exploring the Hundred Acre Wood. And Peter, the boy who never grew up but learned to fly. Or that tiny spider, Charlotte, determined to save her dear

Today, for Easter, it’s a good day to consider Pontius Pilate. History tells us that 2000 years ago, under Tiberius Caesar, Pilate was Rome’s fifth governor in Judea, in ancient Israel, the Roman official who sent Christ to his crucifixion. Somewhere nearby was Pilate’s wife who, after a troubling dream, reportedly warned her

Here’s a story to get us thinking about health and happiness. Boy has serious stomach pain. Mom brings to clinic. Boy checks out fine, but routine mental health screening asks him these questions. “In the last few weeks have you wished you were dead? Have you thought you or your family

An American I know once told me that if your house is on fire then you don’t care much about a firefighter’s faults. You only care that they’ve arrived to put the fire out. Then she explained how Donald Trump was the only firefighter in town who could save America from the fire of itself. I wonder what Francis of Assisi would say.

I know an African, a long-time family friend from Uganda, named Q. He was born in a house with a dirt floor in a closet normally storing things like suitcases. He told me while we drove to Entebbe’s airport. “Mother didn’t want to get other parts of the house dirty,” he said.

There’s a red dirt road in front of the university guest house where I sometimes sit, in the doorway, barefooted. I watch the African sunrise. And the monkeys. I listen to the birds. Or watch children pass by. They remind me of Hannah, our youngest. “Hello,” several said