There are 60 stairs to Tante Eva’s third-floor apartment on Friedrichsruher. I reach them after walking from my hotel for 5 km, walking to see this city of my birth, flowers in hand. Earlier, Eva, 91 and living on her own, navigated these stairs, boarded, by herself, a bus, travelled to a
I would be a Leafs fan, I suppose, but when I was seven years old someone put a woolly Montreal Canadiens sweater on me, with the rest of my hockey gear, skates and all, before snapping a Polaroid of me standing in the living room. My allegiance was somehow set. Paul, my best friend, was a Leafs fan. His mother made sandwiches and cookies
He’s a painter, a tradesman, who never went to university because he started painting early in life and it made no sense to stop. He had steady money while his friends, after graduating from schools of higher learning, struggled as much as they saw any benefits of their money spent. He told me about it recently.
There’s something holy about motherhood. My father’s tears remind me. My wife’s steadiness reminds me. Even my mother, in her long absence, reminds me.There we are sitting in a meadow in Berlin. A large book is on my lap. My mother is teaching me to read. We’re enjoying each other. She tickles me.My pant suspenders – I always laugh when
So I’m in the middle of Africa dining with a colleague and he declares, “That’s great news about Jean. Congratulations!”
Out comes his phone and all the details and I’m in the dark and feeling rather sheepish about it. My bride, the children’s mother, in her natural humility, hadn’t told me of her recent recognition as a Canadian