A DAY IN THE LIFE OF . . . me.

A DAY IN THE LIFE OF . . . me

I wrote this because the folks I’d been working with for several years wanted me to write an article for their Crimewatch newsletter about a “typical” day in my new position as a Detective in the Sexual Offence Squad (SOS). Well, that got me started, and, as you will see, resulted in a full-fledged rant in spots.

It takes me approximately an hour and a half to have my tea and re-construct myself so that I am—at the very least—recognizable from the previous day - then into my car and off to take my place in the parade of lemmings on their way into the big city.

The trip is usually pretty predictable - until I stop at the red lights located in the heart of city's skid row. I can't avoid checking out the street action in the miserable little world of the drug addict.

Here’s an education everyone should have. Everything that moves in that part of town is twitching. The skid row just keeps getting worse - if that’s possible. It is not difficult to figure out who is in control. It certainly is not the police anymore. It's the swarthy dudes on the corners, in their droopy-drawer pants and bandana-wrapped heads. Everybody wants to look like a gangbanger these days. Gotta be cool. These guys don’t have to play by the rules like the police do. They do what they want, and we let them do it because to try to stop them has become a waste of effort.

The skids are not a nice place to be. Sure, police could get tough and chase them all away - but to where? Do you want all that ugliness moving into your neighbourhood? I don’t think so!

I sure wish I knew all the answers, but I’ve been around long enough to know I don’t.

Police are hamstrung and defeated in their efforts by our impotent justice system - a system that is so caught up in toadying to the costly and seemingly frivolous machinations of lawyers that the Court appears to have no concept of basic “right” and “wrong.” There is no such thing as justice.

Pontificating judges deal out slaps on the hand and sage comment, but rarely demand punishment that is appropriate for the crimes that come before them for judgement. Crimes that have caused absolute devastation in some innocent person’s life - even though maximum punishments are available and clearly set out in the Criminal Code of Canada.

It is all about “rights” now. If you are at all like me, you are probably confused about all the “rights” the wrong people seem to have. Poor Joe and Jane Normal just muddle along, going to work, paying their taxes and trying to keep the antics of their offspring off the front page of the newspaper.

“Rights!” Civil rights, human rights, immigrant’s rights, teenager’s rights, religious rights, ethnic rights. Rights that are turning our way of life and our communities over to the other side - the lawless side that is not required to play by the rules. They have a RIGHT to do as they please and to hell with you and your boring old traditions Joe and Jane!

Okay, okay, so I got that off my chest! I guess I would feel better if I knew someone was minding the store - know what I mean? Like, who is in charge here? Why do we just roll over and let things run amok? Why is our skid row full of foreign drug pushers who have managed to pull the wool over the eyes of our pathetic immigration system and walk into our precious country? Answer: Because they are smart enough to destroy their documents and convince the bored bureaucrat behind the desk that they are poor, helpless refugees that would be in grave danger if we put them back on the boat! HELLOOOO OUT THERE! A LOT OF THESE GUYS ARE CRIMINALS FOLKS! THEY WERE CRIMINALS IN THEIR OWN COUNTRIES AND NOW THEY ARE CRIMINALS IN OURS!

Of course, we Canadians are so “nice”. We open our loving arms to the world. Clean up the streets in your country! Send your criminals and dissidents to Canada! Joe and Jane Normal will house them, feed them and clothe them. No need to concern themselves too much about finding a job. Canada has this marvellous system that will keep them safe and warm . . . as long as Joe and Jane keep paying their taxes that is! Heck, they get themselves into a little trouble with the law over some lousy drug deal or stabbing, or . . . whatever . . . not to worry! We will provide them with the best darn legal advice available. Those clever lawyers of ours will keep their dirty little file just a-spinning on appeal after appeal so that they can continue to feed the addictions of our lost souls with crack and heroin, and whatever else they hide in their hell-filled pockets.

Oh boy, here I go . . . vent, vent, and vent.

You know, it just slays me when I think of all the fine individuals and their families who want to come and live here in Canada and be a productive part of our communities. Try to visualize this concept: They actually want to add something positive and even give something back. Well folks, these people are waiting politely in line for their turn to come in. They have filled out all the forms and signed on the dotted line, but we make them wait.

What is wrong with this picture?

Ah yes, my typical day . . . I digress . . .

. . . I park my car and tiptoe my way carefully through the flotsam and jetsam along the two blocks I have to walk to my office. I scan the garbage filled alley before I cross it, stepping carefully around the spit, vomit, blood, condoms, needles, and sometimes even human excrement. There is the occasional lost soul sleeping in a doorway. Wherever I look I see human shells that once were men and women, reduced to searching and picking in dirty corners, looking frantically for the poison of their choice.

I am fully awake now. Very aware of the body language of anyone who gets near me.

I always seem to be the last one to arrive at my desk. I am convinced the others actually live there. SOS is a busy place. There is no such thing as having nothing to do. It never stops.

The work has no glamour attached to it. There are no car chases or street action. It’s just one ugly story after another. You learn very quickly, that to maintain your perspective, you must shut down your emotional side and concentrate your energy and attention on finding the truth. My workmates and I all seem to be blessed with a silly side and a sense of humour that keeps us balanced (well, sort of).

When the door to the interview room shuts . . . the silliness stops cold.

I have learned a lot since joining SOS. Not a day goes by that I do not think to myself, “I wish I’d known this yesterday.” The more education I get, the more I want. The more investigations I do, the more I ponder what I might have missed over the years, simply because I didn’t know what to look for. Hindsight is such a great thing isn’t it? Always 20-20.

Our section investigates two things: Sexual assault and child abuse. You wanted to know about some of my “successes”. Well, I wrote several vignettes, but I deleted them all. When I start to tell my story, I do not want to sanitize it. Unfortunately, what is left is just too much information to share with "nice" people.

I tried to tell you about the precious three-month-old infant with the spiral fracture to her thighbone. Mom's latest significant other was baby-sitting while Mumsy was out doing her thing. He got annoyed by the child's hunger cries and decided to let her know about his right to peace and quiet. He only had to swing her around a couple of times before the bone snapped.

As you can imagine, it's darn hard getting a statement from a three month old that will hold up in Court.

Then there’s the never-ending parade of once innocent little girls and boys who have finally decided to “tell” what Daddy, or Mommy’s latest boyfriend, or Uncle, or Grandpa does to them when he baby-sits. Statements from this group are not likely to hold up in Court either.

A “success story” you say . . . well, I suppose I could call our identifying and ferreting out the two savages who went for a drive with the Bi-polar woman in manic state, a “success” story. In her aggressive state it was easy to entice her into a local park, where they took turns sexually assaulting her, beating her and kicking her until they were confident she was dead—just for fun. Once they had tired themselves out, they threw her broken and battered naked body over the edge of the bank under a bridge and left her to die.

She did not die. A pair of early morning hikers, who thought she was a discarded store mannequin, found her. She still had a pulse. She lived in coma for a long time . . . her brain forever damaged. She is out of hospital now, blessedly devoid of any memory of her destruction.

The two savages—I will never call them men—had their day in Court. I wont bother telling you how much time they spent in jail. They are no longer in there. One was a juvenile, and you already know that we don’t believe in punishing our juveniles . . . after all . . . they’re only kids and have a “right” to be protected.

We meet all the foolish young women who join strangers at the bar for a few drinks and wake up in a bed that is not their own, without any memory of leaving the bar. They wait anxiously for a few days and wonder if they may have been drugged, because they have never lost their memory when drinking before. They worry for a few days and then decide they should go to the hospital to get checked out.

Of course, it is now too late to obtain the evidence police so desperately need to prove a case of sexual assault. As kindly as we can, we remind them how important it is to never leave their drinks unattended when they are out partying. We encourage them to tell their friends too.

Every file is different and every file is filled with pain and sadness.

Sometimes we get lucky and are able to gather enough evidence to go into court with a high probability of conviction. Most of the time the evidence we need is simply not available. Tiny children usually do not have much to say, and all those well-meaning parents and teachers and social workers who talk to them before they are brought into my office have completely corrupted their evidence and the court can't even consider it. Sometimes, even with older victims, all we can do is listen sympathetically to their stories, and tell them as gently as possible that we believe them. Unfortunately, we have no way of proving anything in a courtroom.

It is disheartening when you know that a crime has taken place and there is no way you will ever be able to prove it.

People always say to me, “What an awful job. How do you stand it? Doesn’t it keep you awake at night?” The answer is: No, it doesn’t keep me awake at night. I am able to leave what I know at the office and come home to tranquillity.

Some days are not as easy to wash off me as others; like the day spent interrogating the man who had broken the baby's leg in his fit of rage. We were desperately trying to get enough evidence to put him behind bars. He was a long-time violent criminal. He was used to lying. He’d been lying all his life. He was very tough and exhausting to deal with; but we knew he was guilty as sin.

We couldn't prove it.

That was a bad day. I was burnt out by the time I drove home to my little sanctuary that night. The elderly couple in the parking stall next to me got out of their car as I pulled in beside them. They demanded to know what I was going to do about the oil drops under the courtesy car I was driving while mine was being fixed. I must have stared at them like they were straight from Mars. It was one of "those" moments. Do you know what I mean? One of those moments when you realize that you live in a completely different world than your neighbours. It's that "us" and "them" stuff you hear police refer to in their conversations with each other.

In the neat and tidy little world of my neighbour, drops of oil on a parking lot floor matter! I could not relate! I had to bite my tongue to stop from saying the words I really wanted to say to them.

Nope, some days you don’t want to say things like that to me. Nope, some days it’s best you don’t.

Enough of sad stuff. Let’s face it, the world is full of it. I feel so fortunate to work with the guys and gals I work with. They care about what they are doing. None of us has any illusions about being able to make much of a difference . . . but none of us intends to stop trying either.

I retire in a year. I cannot believe it. My career has gone way too fast. I am still learning every single day. It takes a long time to develop all the skills one needs in this job. Seems like you no sooner get it all together and they tell you it is time to find yourself a rocking chair. Hmm?

I will be looking for a “new” career at this time next year. Keep your ears open for me will you. You know, something that pays really well, has no stress, minimal work involved, perhaps a nice company car, lunches with interesting people in lovely restaurants . . . you know what I mean . . . something in a kinder, gentler world.

It has been a blast folks! Loved working with you – I admire you - don’t ever stop trying to make a difference in your community . . . because you DO make a difference.

Love to all,

MM

ON GOLFING WITH THE BOYS.

ON GOLFING WITH THE BOYS

Dear Eliza:

I received the ultimate invitation. The annual office golf tournament was about to happen and “the boys” graciously wanted to include the newest addition to the squad . . . me.

The invitation, as it was presented to me, was: “Do you like to golf?” So, what was I supposed to say? I love to golf! The fact that I did not know how to golf seemed irrelevant. Anyhow, I was reassured that it was “all for fun . . . not to worry".

Foursomes were organized and off we went, to the biggest, meanest golf course I’ve ever seen.

I've watched golf shows on TV. I had expectations of soft, lush, green grass, undulating beneath enormous shade trees . . . happy golfers meandering along, teasing the ball toward its ultimate goal. Hey! Maybe I’d get lucky and get a hole-in-one! I’d read somewhere that it happens. Wouldn’t that be something to talk about over coffee! My brain said: "You GO girl!"

In reality, there was not a tree over six feet tall anywhere! I suspect the surface of the moon is quite similar in terrain. There were mogul-like sand dunes surrounding the grassy areas—and far more ball-eating-lakes than I felt necessary.

The sky was cloudless. It was the hottest day of the summer. It must have been over 100 degrees. I had cleverly selected a sturdy blue denim long-sleeved shirt and long golf pants as my ensemble for the day . . . topping it off with a (very smart looking) pair of brand-spanking-new-far-too-tight-golf-shoes.

As soon as I got out of my car, I realized I had forgotten both hat and sunscreen. I had been so consumed with worry over my lack of golf prowess—and the potential for making an absolute fool of myself in front of my new colleagues—these rather necessary items had completely slipped my mind.

This was the summer, that for various reasons, I had spent almost entirely indoors. The only exposure I’d had to the sun was the stretch from my car to the front door of Safeway. I knew my skin would burn to a crisp in ten minutes.

As luck would have it, I uncovered an old broken down umbrella while rummaging through the trunk of my car. You know, the gimpy one with two broken arms—that anyone else would have thrown in the garbage—but I keep in the car . . . just in case. As it turned out, this relic of an umbrella would save my neck (and every other exposed part of my person).

The march began. Whenever I wasn’t slashing away at my ball, I was trundling along, pulling my cart, looking like a limping Mary Poppins.

Five years later I still have not heard the end of the "umbrella thing." They will not let it die. The part they most enjoy tormenting me with, was the rather exciting moment during the game, when the wind caught the umbrella. I had left it lying open beside the green whilst putting. Well, off it went, rolling merrily down the fairway at a rapidly increasing rate of speed. Can you visualize the scenario Liza? Middle aged, over-heated woman, running frantically across golf course, desperately trying to overtake escaping umbrella . . . arms a-waving, legs a-churning . . . interfering with . . . God only knows how many golf games!

We golfed 18 holes! It took hours and hours. Have you ever golfed 18 holes on a monster golf course? Lord help us! I now know how prisoners of war felt when the Japanese marched them across the tropics. I was sweating so bad I had a distinct water line four inches above my belt! By the fourth hole my feet were bleeding. Pride would not allow me to give in and go barefoot. I bit my tongue and gritted my teeth, determined not to look like more of an incompetent than I already did.

I was slowly dying of embarrassment and pain . . . hole by hole. It was a contest as to which torment would ultimately do me in . . . my pride or my pain tolerance.

One of my companions—who shall remain nameless—determined that I should find my first golfing experience enjoyable, decided on the third hole that I was taking far too many swings at my ball. So, once I got near to the green he would simply pick up my ball and hand it to me. I found this rather off-putting, but thought it best to say nothing. He seemed to feel pressured by something he perceived was behind us.

This chap was not having a good game. He wanted everyone on the golf course to know that he was not accustomed to golfing so badly, and swore loudly after most every swing. It was apparent to everyone that he had decided my particular presence on the planet was the major cause of his poor performance.

Our foursome was chatting, laughing, and thoroughly enjoying themselves. Without realizing I was about to commit an absolute golfing faux pas, I commented to the fellow about to tee off: “When we go to Mary’s cabin, I’ll bring my Italian Casserole!” The fact that I made this innocent comment just as he was about to swing his driver, can only be described as unfortunate timing. I do believe that is the closest I have ever seen him come to complete apoplexy.

As we ended the first nine and the clubhouse came into view, my spirits began to lift. I was so relieved that at last we would relax over hors d'oeuvres, a light lunch and cold beer . . . before pressing onward for the second nine.

WRONG!!! Do you know they bloody well walk the ENTIRE 18 holes before they eat!

I thought I would die! The pain in my feet was incredible . . . perfectly symmetrical blisters had formed on the heels and toes of both feet.

Not only was I on the verge of drowning in my own sweat—and seriously wishing I had worn cotton underwear—but I was golfing like an absolute JERK! I could not have put on a more vivid display of ineptitude if I had planned my every move. I could do nothing right! Single-handedly I was putting the women's movement back thirty years.

At this point, my chances of being included in the next office golf tournament ranked somewhere between zero and none.

What a loser! My self-esteem was taking a terrible beating.

At the 10th hole I began a countdown 10, 11, 12 . . . only 6 more to go!

I cannot begin to express to you the surge of joy that I experienced when I saw the 18th hole on the horizon. I could see the lights from the clubhouse twinkling in the background. I can best relate it to the time I was lost on the Mojave dessert for 25 days without food and water—and suddenly—there before me was a . . . mirage (OK, so maybe this part is a bit of an exaggeration)!

It was truly a spiritual moment.

I literally stumbled to my car. With my last ounce of strength, I carefully peeled off my soaked and bloodied socks. I tentatively examined what remained of my dear little feet. It was a sad vista Liza. I had blisters on my blisters. I cried . . . I really did.

I have now made up a personal list of golf rules that I shall encourage all of my girlfriends to study:

1. NEVER attempt to walk 18 holes in new golf shoes unless you are carrying morphine.

2. ONLY golf on a big course IF you have a golf cart with a motor that is guaranteed not to fail.

3. Hide an old pair of sneakers in your golf bag and never be too proud to put them on.

4. Only golf on cool, cloudy days when you can wear long pants and there is absolutely no chance of breaking into a sweat.

5. Take many, many golf lessons from a caring, attentive, patient, SENSITIVE, professional golfer who will hug you after every lesson.

6. Only golf with people who love you.

Love,

MM

"INVITATION TO A RIOT" - The Stanley Cup Riot 1994

I tripped over this video on the internet recently. I hadn't thought about the riot for a long time - and watching the video recorded by Darrell Patton brought back a rush of memories.

Police officers will tell you that we are paid for what we might have to do rather than what we do during our ten or twelve hour shift. We might spend ten or twelve hours just driving in circles, looking for drunk drivers and taking break and enter reports. We might get assigned to investigate a sexual assault or a bank robbery in progress. In our job there is no such thing as routine. We never know what challenge we are going to be faced with when we answer the next radio call - or drive down a dark alley.

Have you ever wondered what it would be like to be a police officer in the middle of a riot? Well, grab a coffee, turn up the sound and watch the video. You will see how fast a mob develops into a nightmare.

It was Stanley Cup playoffs. The Vancouver Canucks had made it to the final game. The city was in major party mode.

I had been re-assigned from my regular duties that day. I was to be part of the arrest team for the Crowd Control Unit (CCU). CCU is the team that wears the riot gear. They are the front line when there is potential for a crowd to become unruly. We were the handful of officers in the line behind the CCU. Our job was to arrest and hold anyone who was trying to incite a riot or committing a criminal offence.

Our squad were the few lucky officers issued gas masks and helmets at the beginning of our tour of duty. I don't think any of us thought those masks would be anything more than a nuisance to carry around when we set out that night. Wrong!

Our first assignment was to attend the local fair grounds to assess the crowd. We arrived just as a car was being flipped over onto its roof. I think at that point every one of us realized it was going to be a rough shift.

We returned to the heart of downtown Vancouver. We were ordered to stay out of site underground, until we were called out for back up. It wasn't many minutes before it was apparent that all hell was breaking loose up above - and we were at a dead run up the stairs and out onto the street, smack into the middle of the fray.

As soon as our squad hit the street we realized gas had been deployed and we dodged into doorways to get into those (nuisance) gas masks. Boy were we glad we had them! The smoke from the gas was making it impossible to see each other and we soon found ourselves completely separated from the squad and on our own. We could hear police officers yelling into their radios for backup. It sounded like shots being fired and we were convinced the police were being overwhelmed and taken down by the mob. We didn't know where the shouts for assistance were coming from, and we couldn't get to them. It was quite terrifying.

We eventually caught up with the CCU and took up our position behind their line. The remainder of the night was spent trying to avoid being hit with chunks of cement, bottles, rocks and hubcaps that were being thrown at us from every angle. The officer next to me collapsed when "something" that was thrown by some idiot on the sidelines smashed into her knee. Eventually an ambulance was able to get through the mob and take her to Emergency.

In my 25 years working the streets of Vancouver it was the only time I ever thought I might not make it home. I will never forget the absolute madness in the collective faces of that mob. I have never felt so small and insignificant.

When it was over the streets looked like a war zone. We were exhausted and so ashamed that people who are privileged to live in our beautiful city could behave in such an insane way.

To watch the video just click here and it will open. Crank your sound up so you get an idea of the noise associated. The video is long, so you'll want to enjoy that hot coffee while you get a bird's eye view of one day on the job where we really earned that paycheque.

LASKA, a story of survival.

LASKA - A TALE OF SURVIVAL

The volunteer in the Citizens Crime Watch vehicle tapped the licence plate numbers into his laptop computer. Every time he hit the SEND key he mentally crossed his fingers, hoping for a "hit." Tap, tap, tap . . .

BEEP!!!

It's a hit!
"Unit five to seven Delta thirty one."
"Seven delta thirty one. Go ahead".
"We've got a hit on RYW 554. Confirm."

I typed the plate number into the police computer in my car. My screen confirmed the first stolen auto recovered for the shift. I headed toward their location to do the investigation.

A single line of information jumped out at me as I glanced at my screen a second time:

"Owner’s dog in vehicle at time of theft.”

Wait a minute! I'd heard about this stolen vehicle. It had made the papers back on February 6th. This was February 23rd! The volunteers had found the vehicle that belonged to an out of town schoolteacher. "Laska," his Golden Retriever, had been locked in his travel kennel in the back of the truck when it was stolen. The guy was frantic with worry. Everyone was talking about it.

I started doing the math in my head. The number I was coming up with was too large to make me feel good about this recovery. I could only hope that whoever stole the car had had the decency to release the dog when he finished his joyride.

I approached the pickup with a nervous, queasy feeling in my stomach.

An incredible stench exploded into my face as I opened the unlocked door of the cab. This wasn't going to be nice.

I walked to the rear of the truck. With great trepidation, I aimed my flashlight beam through the canopy window, squinting my eyes to blur my vision. I didn’t want to see what I knew I was going to find.

The brilliant beam from the mag light illuminated the filth encrusted, motionless back of “Laska,” the no longer golden retriever.

She was facing away from me, completely still . . . just as I expected her to be. As I started to turn, I caught the slightest movement out of the corner of my eye. She was lifting her head . . . ever so slowly. I couldn’t believe what I was seeing! It was impossible. She was alive!

The canopy was locked tight. I couldn't get to the dog.

My “professional” persona disappeared. The starch was gone, replaced by big, fat tears that refused to stay put. I can handle pretty much anything to do with people in crisis. To be witness to the indescribable agony that once magnificent animal was suffering, was beyond my tolerance. I was mush. Yep, “mush” is what I was.

I grabbed my police radio and started yelling into the mike, "Find me a vet, and get a tow truck up here, FAST!"

Almost before I put my microphone down, one of my fellow officers screeched to a stop beside me. In what seemed like the blink of an eye, he'd ripped the canopy door open with his bare hands (my hero)!

In seconds he was inside the truck and calling for a knife to cut the kennel away from its nylon safety strapping. The Crime Watch volunteers helped the officer gently load the kennel into their pickup truck. They tore off to the twenty-four hour emergency animal clinic, apparently mindless of the almost adhesive fumes surrounding them. Their single thought was of their fragile cargo—so desperately clinging to life.

Those of us left behind stood on the sidewalk, exhausted from the sudden onset of emotion that had consumed us during those few minutes of drama.

Later that evening, we dropped by the clinic to see how she was doing. Oh what a sorry site she was. Her fetid, emaciated body had been bathed and she was lying on a table, wrapped up in a fluffy, yellow blanket. With apparent difficulty, she lifted her head to acknowledge us as we stood there making a valiant but failed attempt at the stiff-upper-lip-thing. She trembled violently as the vet attendant hugged her and tried to warm her up. She looked pathetic, and so very frail. It was truly a heart wrenching experience for all of us. One would have to be awfully hard-hearted to remain dry-eyed while looking at that tortured animal.

The vet expressed grave concern for Laska’s survival and said that the next three days would be touch and go. We drove off into the night with our fingers and toes crossed, hoping for a bit of a miracle.

Officers notifying the owner of the recovery, described his reaction to the news as “over the moon!” He had sobbed into the phone, blessing us all, and so relieved to have his nightmare over.

This was a responsible dog owner. Rather than leaving his dog loose in the back of his truck—where she could injure herself, or get into mischief—she was safe and sound in a secured crate, specifically designed for transporting a dog of that size. She was only going to be confined for a short period of time. Just long enough for a nice nap.

Next to the locked kennel was a big plastic container of dog kibble. For many long days and nights, Laska would only be able to smell it, as she slowly starved to death.

After four days of intensive care, Laska was discharged home with her grateful owner. Hard to believe it was the same dog, perched up on the front seat, wagging her tail and anxious to be on her way.

It crossed my mind—as I'm sure is has yours—that somewhere out there is a crummy little car thief who probably doesn't even know, or care about the horrific saga he created. After all, he had a good time on his little joyriding expedition. From his loser perspective, what happened to Laska was just bad luck . . . I suppose.

*The Golden Retriever portrait at the beginning of my story is not "Laska." It is a portrait of "Mel," painted by artist Debbie Stonebraker. If you would like to see more of her beautiful paintings please visit her website www.stonebrakerart.com.

Note: For four years I was Coordinator for the highly acclaimed Citizens' Crime Watch Program. My partner and I trained, managed and supervised civilian volunteers who took part in mobile patrols throughout a large Canadian city. This experience was one of the most valuable learning experiences of my 25 year career. I developed a good understanding and respect for volunteers and their motivations.

MOM - Our Mary

June 6, 1911 - January 22, 2007

Our family has lost its greatest treasure. Mary will be remembered with loving thoughts by all who have been touched by the light and love she left along her path.

MEMORIES OF CHRISTMAS EVE 2006

I was delighted to discover I'd captured several really sweet photographs of Mom as she showered her great grandchildren with affection. She loves to have the opportunity to cuddle. She is going to be 96 on her next birthday. Each year that she is able to join her family for the Christmas celebration is a gift for all of us. She's such a frail little soul now ... it amazed us how well she was able to handle the wee ones.



This was baby Sean's(my brother's first grandchild)first Christmas celebration. I'd say he enjoyed himself wouldn't you?




Harrison is not likely to sit still for long now that he's walking.



Alyssa did a great job of baby-sitting for all the younger ones. She's going to be 6 years old in January. Can't believe it. She's growing up soooo fast!



The Christmas Eve celebration was all over and she was one sleepy girl. I'll bet there were visions of sugarplums dancing in her head as she waited for Santa's sleigh to arrive!

HE CAN'T GET ANY CUTER!

PASS THE CHOCOLATES PLEASE!

PASS THE CHOCOLATES PLEASE!

The beautifully wrapped parcels looked so tempting sitting under the tree. The Christmas decorations, twinkling lights and heavenly aroma of pine, made us feel downright festive as we left the house to share some Christmas cheer with our neighbours.

Unbeknown to us there was someone else in our house equally intrigued by the gifts under the tree and the fabulous aromas wafting through the house. However, it wasn't the aroma of pine that was tempting him—it was something far more interesting, and deadly.

EDWARD, THE WORLDS' MOST ADORABLE WELSH CORGI, alone in his house, decided to throw caution to the wind and venture into forbidden territory—the living room! He approached the sparkling tree that seemed to have become such a focal point for the rest of the family, and delicately selected the two gifts that he felt certain had his name on them.

After opening both foil wrapped parcels with great care, he proceeded to ingest the contents of the boxes—exactly TWO POUNDS of a rather tasty assortment of my favourite English milk chocolate. He managed his task leaving only three tiny crumbs on the living room carpet.

When we arrived home several hours later, our attention was instantly drawn to the rather large pool of dark "mystery matter" in the centre of the family room carpet. Alas, poor Edward had tossed his cookies. "COOKIES? THOSE AREN'T COOKIES! THOSE ARE CHOCOLATES!" I shrieked. He had also done equal "tossing" on the master bedroom carpet. We were not amused. It was apparent by the original chocolate shapes we were observing, that the little beast had not even bothered to chew his delectable find. He just went into vacuum mode and inhaled it!

Three things instantly flashed through my mind:

1. It is 8:30 p.m., Sunday night. There wont be a carpet cleaner on this planet who will answer the phone.
2. Chocolate will NOT come out of the rug tomorrow, and I will have to re-carpet TWO rooms of my house . . . and . . .
3. Chocolate is poisonous to dogs.

OH COME ON! Don’t assume you already know me well enough to guess which one was the priority in my mind at that precise moment.

I instructed my husband to "CALL THE VET!"

I hit the Yellow Pages with a vengeance spurred on by total panic.

We both yelled at EDWARD—no longer THE WORLDS' MOST ADORABLE WELSH CORGI—and ordered him out onto the snow covered patio, where he sat very quietly, staring back at us through the sliding glass door.

God must have been watching the commotion below, considered the dreadful price of carpeting today, and taken pity on our predicament. The very first number I dialled produced a jolly sounding fellow named "Gordon." The man advised he had "just sat down with a nice tall gin and tonic," but said he would come out and try to rescue our carpets.

Our vet was just a few blocks away. There was no answer. We made contact with the 24 hour Animal Emergency Clinic twenty miles from home. The attendant who answered the phone said that because Edward had likely emptied his tummy of the chocolate, he was “probably okay.” To avoid aggravating the situation we were instructed not to let him have too much water. We were to expect him to be agitated during the night.

This diagnosis and lack of aggressive treatment concerned us somewhat, but we decided to do what we were told and wait and watch.

Gordon arrived, appropriately wreathed in Christmas cheer. He worked diligently on our carpets with a multitude of different potions. After a great deal of effort he succeeded in removing the majority of the huge stains. Spot removal was $75.00, and my ever-generous husband happily handed him a $25.00 tip. Off he went—home to his waiting gin and tonic.

Ten minutes later Edward upchucked on the family room carpet again! Without a moments hesitation I became mentally unstable. I announced, "THAT'S IT! I can't cope with this,” and stomped back to the neighbour’s to seek a sympathetic ear for my tale of woe, leaving my poor bewildered husband to face Gordon.

Once again, Edward found himself sitting on the snowy side of the sliding glass door.

Gordon returned.

The situation became even less amusing as the hours passed. Edward, now banished to the laundry room, had become very agitated. He was crying, and it was becoming obvious he was mad with thirst. I decided that I was not about to accept this non-treatment situation and called the vet again.

I got a new person on the phone who wasted no time at all telling me that my dog was suffering from "Theobromine toxicity" and only a very aggressive form of treatment would save him . . . and . . . that it would cost at the very least, $450.00 to cross their threshold.

We were off—EAGER to spend more money. Merry Christmas, ho ho ho!

By the time we reached the vet, Edward had lost bowel and bladder control and was so hyper he was actually trying to claw his way up the walls of the clinic. The severe dehydration concerned the veterinarians. The potential for seizures and heart attack was now very high.

We left the clinic in tears, wondering if we would ever see our beloved dog again.

We had a hard time sleeping that night. A phone call from the vet in the wee small hours of the morning woke us with a start. She told us they were having a very difficult time placing the IV catheters into Edward. In his frenzy he had managed to tear out five. Just to add to the drama and our worries, she announced the dog was losing an "unusual" amount of blood and was developing severe bruising. She felt he might have a clotting disorder known to affect Corgis, called von Willebrand's disease, and she wanted permission to take blood samples to send away for testing. They were now intubating via his jugular vein. He had stomach tubes to pump activated charcoal into him and catheters to replace the lost fluids. They could not give him enough sedation to settle him down without increasing the risk of heart attack. The prognosis was not good.

The following afternoon at one o'clock the drugs took effect and he began to relax. It was touch and go for three days.

It was a rather subdued, ragged little fellow that we took home. Large, shaved, sore looking patches on his legs and neck were a reminder of all the tubes. He was pathetic, but he was alive!

We paid the bills totalling $1,000.00, and fleetingly wondered how a less fortunate family, perhaps with little children and BIG Christmas bills, could ever manage to deal with this kind of a situation. The thought did not conjure up a story with a happy ending.

The Festive Season came and went. I am delighted to be able to report that Edward returned quickly to his old energetic self. We discovered, when telling our friends about our near disaster, that people do not realise that chocolate is toxic to dogs.

If you have a dog that means as much to your family as Edward means to us, beware! If you are thinking of giving a friend who is a dog owner a box of their favourite chocolate—don't keep it a secret, tell them to put the parcel up high, well out of reach of inquisitive canine noses, not under the tree!

By the way, if you think for one minute EDWARD, THE WORLDS' MOST ADORABLE WELSH CORGI has learned anything from this, he has . . . he has learned that he absolutely LOVES chocolate and he is now searching for it constantly!

MM

THE RESCUERS

THE RESCUERS

Police Officers spend countless hours not in car chases and shootouts. Sometimes things happen on a shift that are kind of cute, and my fingers fairly itch to connect with my keyboard so that I can share my experience.

First of all I must tell you: I hate graveyard shift! There is no doubt in my mind that when the good Lord created darkness, he did it so that folks would lie down and close their eyes.

Alone in the women’s locker room at the police station, I struggled to cinch up my heavy gun belt over that second helping of dessert.

WHY didn’t I take the whole night off? Might have known the party wouldn’t really get going until it was time for me to leave for work. Oh well, there are probably lots of people out there—well, maybe five, or . . . three, who would love to switch places with me. I suppose there are worse ways to make a living than driving a police car in aimless circles in the pouring rain waiting for disaster to hit somewhere.

My partner had been patrolling alone for three hours. I could hear him calling my name as I grabbed my night-stick and slammed my locker door shut.

"Hurry up! he shouted, I've been waiting for you; we’re going on a mission!"

"Great,” I replied, picking up my briefcase and jamming the portable radio into its carrier at my waist. “The busier we are the faster the night will go. What have we got?"

Beaming with anticipation he asked, “How do you like birds?"

"Usually roasted in melted butter with a little salt and pepper and a touch of garlic," I answered glibly.

"No! I mean the flying kind."

"Well . . . I don't like them flying in small circles around my head."

He ignored my attempt at humour and announced: "We have to go on sort of a rescue-type-mission."

The plot was thickening. I started to envision swarms of fluttering, frenzied birds getting tangled in my hair. My stress level was rising. Unlike my partner, I am not into intimate contact with nature. I prefer looking at it in pictures.

"If you think I'm climbing up onto anything high to rescue some bloody bird—forget it! Call the fire department. They probably aren't even in bed yet!"

"No," he shouted, his anxiety starting to show, "It's not like that. It’s fallen down the storm sewer in an alley, and it wont be able to get out! It's still alive . . . and it's only a baby!"

"And you think I'm going to crawl into some filthy storm sewer, in the middle of the night, in the rain . . . to fish out a stupid bird? ARE YOU OUT OF YOUR MIND?!! Do you realize that thing is probably a bloody Starling—they're a pest! People pay good money to exterminators to come and get rid of them!"

His smile faded. I felt like Hitler.

"You don't like animals do you," he asked sadly?

"Yes I do. I like animals fine. Come on,” I mumbled, “show me the damn bird."

"By the way," he chirped, "There were two birds, I've got one already! It's in a box in my car. Caroline can take it to kindergarten tomorrow."

I tried to look pleased for him . . . and for Caroline.

On the way to our destination, my partner relayed details of the saga that had brought us on this rapidly developing sortie:

"I was just cruising up and down the alleys, waiting for you, when I saw two little brown bumps on the road. I didn't know what they were and I almost ran over them. I stopped to take a closer look and realized they were baby birds that must have fallen out of their nest. I went back to the station and got a box. I scooped one up, but the second one started fluttering around. It flipped over on its back and fell through the grate into the storm sewer."

Ever the pessimist, I declared, "It'll have drowned by now, forget it!"

"No, there's mud at the bottom . . . I looked with my flashlight. It’s just sitting down there . . . I can't just leave it to die!"

We arrived at the scene. He wanted me to look. I don't like looking down storm sewers in the daytime—let alone in the middle of the night when it's raining. Everybody knows there are "things" down there that can grab you and pull you in!

We flooded the area with light. Sitting amidst the muck, nine feet below, is a tiny creature. It was not a pretty picture. It wasn’t a nice place to be.

"Well?” he said, looking at me with anticipation.

"Well what?" I replied, giving him my ever-patient-mother-dealing-with-over-stimulated-child look.

"We've gotta get it out!"

"Just how are we going to get the grate off?" I inquired . . . stalling for time.

"We’ll call out the City Works guys."

“Oh sure, they’ll be really pleased . . . I might as well say farewell to my ‘Wonderwoman’ reputation!”

"Nah, he replied confidently, I'll just lift it off myself."

"So . . . you gonna jump in . . . or what?" I challenged, knowing that I wasn’t going down there for anything.

"We need tools!" announced the nature lover.

Into the car and off we drove to pilfer the City Works yard.

Fifteen minutes later we returned to the scene with our cache of rescue equipment: A street cleaners' broom, a shovel and a cardboard box.

Greatly amused and eager to share my adventure with the police radio operator, I began to document the saga by typing the details into the computer terminal in the car. Far from the expected guffaws, I discovered yet another nature lover. She promptly launched a telephone search for a wildlife facility that would take our waifs off our hands—should the rescue prove successful.

Off came the grate, on went the floodlights. "Cheep Cheep." It was still alive!

The city's finest went into action. Everything was lowered down into the sewer . . . broom, shovel and cardboard box. My partner, ever resourceful, cut a hole in the box with his trusty pocket knife and pushed the broom handle through it. He was now holding a giant scoop.

Relegated to holding the flashlight, I pondered how unusual this procedure must appear to the local insomniacs.

The bird—now presented with the option of climbing into the box or being crushed to death by it—opted for the former. Inch by inch, shovel, broom and box scraped up the slimy side of the sewer, until the rescue was completed!

Returning to the warmth of the car I discovered that the interest in our saga had broadened. The computer screen displayed a . . . less than sensitive message from the Communications Sergeant. “Don’t shoot ‘em, drive over them, it’s quieter!” I determined he too was a person of somewhat restrained compassion, and chose not to share his rather graphic suggestions with my partner.

"The Rescuer,” was now flushed with success, filthy and sweating from the exertion of replacing the heavy storm sewer grate by himself.

Our mission was accomplished when the radio operator finally made contact with a local bird hospital.

We proudly delivered our feathery survivors to a sleepy looking veterinary attendant. Rather than presenting us with a medal for courage above and beyond the call of duty, she admonished us to "leave nature alone next time."

Back in our patrol car, we drove off into the blackness of the night, ready to slay dragons, or . . . whatever.

MM

IS IT JUST ME?

GOES AROUND, COMES AROUND ...

Is it just me? Do you stand in the checkout line at the grocery store, with your brain somewhere out there on the third ring of Saturn - for what usually seems like forever - and then, when it's finally your turn to pay up - you start the mad rummage through every single pocket of your purse, trying to find your cash or the plastic you will need before you can get out of there with your groceries? I do it pretty much every time I go to the grocery store. You'd think I'd have it figured out by now. I mean . . . it's a fairly simple concept.

Anyhow, I digress. I got into conversation with the cashier as I was doing my usual last minute rummage. She told me a little story that I thought I'd like to share:

She'd had a customer the day before who - like me - was frantically trying to find her bank card at the last possible second. She couldn't find it. She was very flustered and embarrassed at holding up the line, and asked if she could put the groceries aside while she ran home to search for her bank card.

As she said this, the lady in line behind her said, "Never mind dear, I'll pay for your groceries."

The lady peeled off several bills which she handed the cashier.

The customer was shell-shocked and asked the lady for her name and address so that she could return the money.

"Oh that wont be necessary dear, I don't want any money. I'm happy to be able to help you out. In my experience, what goes around comes around."

Now I don't know about you, but I was pretty impressed by that tale. How many people do you know that do things like that ... just because?

I have a feeling that woman gets back ten fold over what she gives out.

MM

P.S. I'd like to acknowledge artist Dennis Cox and thank him for his drawing of "a lady of a certain age." Take a look at his website at http://www.djart.com

FINE DINING WITH "MR. DROOLY."

I have discovered my camera has video! No sound unfortunately. So, with one hand holding the camera and one hand holding the yoghurt - we had a really fun dining experience! I took several 20 second clips and then discovered Jumpcut - and became a movie producer!

POTLUCK WITH THE FAMILY

The family got together to celebrate Mom's 95th birthday. Mom just lights up when she has one of the babies in her arms.




This is my "favourite" niece and her grandmother.




Mom and Harry have a cuddle.





Hello cousin!





Brand new nephew!




Well cousin, what do you have to say?




Mom holds her newest great-grandchild while uncle looks on.

"MR. DROOLY" HAS STOLEN MY HEART

June 2006.

I am so in love! I know. I know. I say that every time my kids present me with another perfectly fabulous grandchild. When the next one comes along - I'll be right back at it. I can't help it! There is something about babies that reduces me to a blithering, babbling idiot. I can almost visualize the deep sighs and rolling eyes of those in my address book when they see an email coming in from me. Does she really think we want to see twenty more pictures of that kid?!!!

This little guy - our "Mr. Drooly" right now - is just THE most adorable child. That little face just melts me. I've got so many wonderful pictures of him - I want to put all of them on my website. I mean, heck, it IS my website - right? I can do anything I want with it . . . right?

Anyhoo - this is just a teeny, tiny sampling of the recent photos I've taken of him. He's creeping now - a mile a minute! He is going to be walking before we know it (sniffle). They all grow up way too fast for me.



He is truly a photographer's dream. I mean ... will you just look at that face!





I've never seen a baby concentrate the way he does when something grabs his attention. He is 100% on task. I hope he's the same way with his schoolwork!





I see a tiny bit of a resemblance to his daddy in this picture - don't you? Actually, he's the image of his Mom as a baby. I'm always fascinated by sudden glimpses of other family members that will flash across a baby's face.

DETOUR!!! Grandparents only.

Just between me and thee ... I'm not really old enough to be anyone's grandmother! But, there you have it ... three tiny people are now calling me "Nana," so I guess you could say I've arrived!


She had a twinkle in her eye from day one.


And in the blink of an eye, she was two years old!



Christmas Eve, and was she excited!


Nana's first cuddle with Billy.


What more could I ask for?


Two grandmothers refresh their collective memory on child care. What a fun day! So many memories of our own babies. We actually had to tap a real mother on the shoulder and get her to show us how to work the stroller!


Up, up and away!!!


Who can jump the highest? Tom-Tom or Alyssa?


Billy's turn.


A preview of what's to come.


Hey Baby, wanna ride?


Time to call it a day.


Speaking of calling it a day!


Our very ownn Playboy bunny.


Yum!


Trick or Treat!


Such a doll. I love this snapshot.


A study in learning the concept of standing in line.


Get a load of the pout! Boy was she mad!


A cuddle with Tom-Tom.


Party dresses and pirouettes!


A budding artist perhaps?

CANADA - a new government, new promises. Will they be kept ... this time?

I'm a retired police officer. When I hear speeches like this one from our shiny new Prime Minister - so full of promise for a better world - I can't help feeling a tiny twinge of hope. Just maybe this time we have a politician at the top of the pile who will make changes that matter . . . just maybe?

I've just listened to two individuals on an open line show, giving their thoughts on Harper's speech. One, a judge with 28 years experience, the other a police spokesman. It was quite apparent that the judge thought the speech was not realistic, nor would Harper's promises make any difference to the status quo. The judge's attitude sounded rather condescending. I found his comment that the speech was directed at the "fringe" folks who buy into the media's claims that crime and violence are on the rise, and don't have any facts to back up their fears, rather off-putting. I am one of those! He apparently believes crime and violence levels have dropped off - and the speech was much ado about nothing. The police officer, on the other hand, agreed with Harper and is hopeful that he will be able to make the changes he talked about.

FEDERAL GOVERNMENT PLANS TO FIGHT CRIME IN CANADA

April 3, 2006
Ottawa, Ontario

The Right Honourable Stephen Harper

Speech for delivery at the Executive Board Meeting & Legislative Conference of the Canadian Professional Police Association

"Thank you for the opportunity to be here today. It is an honour for me to be in the company of the professional men and women who are dedicated to keeping our streets and our neighbourhoods safe for families right across this country.

As national representatives of police officers in Canada, you are the first to see the dire consequences of increased crime involving guns, gangs and drugs.

As you know, Canada is a great country. And one of the things that has made it a great country is our traditionally low rates of crime. In fact, our peaceful, law-abiding communities are part of Canada’s traditional identity and values. But times are changing. Our cities are changing. And the safe streets and safe neighbourhoods that Canadians have come to expect as part of our way of life are threatened by rising levels of crime. Drug crime is on the rise. Gang crime is on the rise. And the homicide rate is on the rise as well.

In the last few months and years, we have witnessed growing media reports of drug, gun and gang violence, especially in the city of Toronto. These incidents appear no longer limited to supposedly “bad neighbourhoods”, but have occurred in downtown centres frequented by families, workers, students and tourists. Clearly this cannot go on.

If we are to protect our Canadian way of life, we need to crack down on gun, gang and drug crime. Canadians are tired of talk. They want action, and they want it now. And that’s what Canada’s new Government is going to do – take action.

First of all, we’ll hold criminals to account. We’ll set mandatory minimum sentences for serious, violent and repeat crimes. This means making sure sentences match the severity of crimes – and getting violent criminals off the streets so they can’t re-offend. This Government will send a strong message to criminals. If you do a serious crime, you’re going to do serious time. That’s why, during our mandate, we will take the following actions:

We’ll introduce mandatory minimum prison sentences for drug traffickers, weapons offences, repeat offenders and crimes committed while on parole; We’ll end conditional sentences for serious crimes; We’ll repeal the “Faint Hope Clause”; And we’ll replace statutory release with earned parole. Parole will no longer be granted automatically – as it often is today. Parole is a privilege – and it has to be earned.

Holding criminals to account will require more police. That’s why we’re also going to work with our partners in other levels of government to make sure there are more police officers on the streets. This is of vital importance, because many police forces are currently underfunded and under siege. This situation carries dire consequences for public safety. The lack of police patrols inevitably leads to more crime and more serious crime. Canadians have told us that’s something they can’t live with. So we’re going to act by: Establishing a new cost-shared program with provincial and municipal governments to hire new police officers; Re-investing savings from the long-gun registry into front-line law enforcement;
And investing new federal money into criminal justice priorities – including youth at risk programs.

When it comes to drugs, police officers and parents agree: we don’t need more of them on our streets.
The increase in the production and distribution of hard drugs is well documented - and if we legalize drugs like marijuana, it will make it easier for our children to get hold of it. That is why my government is opposed to legalizing drugs -- especially because of the damage it can do to our cities and our communities because of increased addiction and crime. Instead, we will get drugs off the streets, away from our children and clean up our communities by: Ensuring mandatory minimum prison sentences and large fines are given out to marijuana grow operators and drug dealers; Introducing a national drug strategy, including a nationwide awareness campaign to discourage our youth from getting hooked on drugs in the first place; And not re-introducing the Liberal government’s marijuana decriminalization legislation. Finally, we’ll get tough on sex offenders and those that prey on our children. We’ll get tough on sex offenders by: Creating an effective DNA bank of all convicted sex offenders and dangerous offenders; Raising the age of consent for sexual relations between children and adults from 14 to 16 years old; and establishing a zero tolerance policy for all forms of child pornography.

Conclusion:

Canadians have told us they want our new government to protect the way of life that has made this country such a great place to live. They’ve told us they want to be able to go about their daily lives without having to worry about getting hit by a stray bullet fired by a gang member, or being killed by a street racer losing control of his stolen vehicle. They’ve told us they want to get real on crime. And they want to put an end to gang, gun and drug violence. They want us to walk the walk – not just talk the talk.
Canadians have told us they want action now – not more talk. And that’s what we’re going to do – working with closely with organizations such as yours. By working together we can tackle violent crime and make our streets safer – and we will.

In closing, I want to thank you for your kind attention and, more importantly, for the invaluable and often dangerous work you do on behalf of all of us. I wish you well in your deliberations and I look forward to working with you to make this a stronger and safer country in the years ahead.

Thank you. Thank you very much. Till next time."

THREE YEARS OLD!!!

Happy, healthy kids.

RETIREMENT- boring? You must be kidding!

He is five months old already! Where did all that time go? Why do these treasured moments of infancy have to be so fleeting? Toy trains and Batman cars are right around the corner. Slow down baby!
He has just learned how to flip over from back to tummy and he's quite enjoying the adventure to be found on the other side of his world.
"Wow! These things at the end of my arms are really handy!"

... and then, there's little blond boys with blue eyes and big smiles

MOTHERHOOD ... my observations

... a part of each other ... forever.

CHRISTMAS 2005 with Mrs. Muddled & family.

It is becoming a family tradition for my side of the family get together at my son's on Christmas Eve. This gathering is always guaranteed to be noisy and full of fun. My Mother is 94 and very frail now. We were all delighted that she was able to join in the festivities again this year - she even stood up and gave a little thank you speech. It was very sweet, and so typical of the gracious lady she's always been.

Harrison meets his Great Grandmother.

My "favourite" neice and her smallest cousin.

Gil gets a chance to practice before he becomes a Grandfather in May!

Todd tells Em a tall tale.

My sons and their Grandmother.

No matter how many memories are lost - there are some things a woman never forgets - like the joy of holding a baby in her arms.

A hug.

A "thank you Nana" moment.

Three generations smile for the camera.

Nana, Alyssa & Harrison have a cuddle.

Mom with Sarah, Jason and Philip on Christmas Day.

Christmas Day Mom had a wonderful time with Gil and Karen and family.

BULLHEAD, ARIZONA HERE WE COME!

Off we went to celebrate American Thanksgiving with our pals in Bullhead, Arizona. We borrowed a couple of quads and joined the gang for a wild ride through the desert. It was great fun and we managed to return with all of our original parts.

Do you suppose they'll recognize us?

Don't you just hate it when you finally get there and the bar is closed for renovations?

Who says us ol' broads can't have fun?
Just a couple of dusty desert flowers.

Hey you guys! Where we come from they put up signs ... like "Watch for falling rock!!"

"HAPPY BIRTHDAY NANA!!!"

If you are a grandparent (and you probably are if you've come this far), you will smile and nod your head knowingly when I tell you I was tickled pink when I received a Happy Birthday email with this little movie clip attached.

You'll have to have QuickTime or Irfanview or another program that reads .mov files to view. They are free downloads.

First, turn your sound up,then click on the file below and take a peek. It sometimes takes a few seconds to load.


HappybirthdayNana.mov

SPECIAL DELIVERY ... we've got a new baby!!!

This little fellow arrived around dinnertime on September 11, 2005. He's our third grandchild. Just ask me how proud I am. I'll be happy to tell you all about it!



So many steps this tiny foot will take.


He is 12 days old in this picture. Mommy & Daddy are both doing well.


Saturday night - bath time!

DO BLONDES REALLY HAVE MORE FUN?

Our Annie doesn't let a lack of curls spoil her night out with the gang. Her sister was her "hairdresser" for this occasion - our Beta Sigma Phi "Poor Taste" party.

MM

WHO SAYS BALD ISN'T BEAUTIFUL?

This is a snapshot of my dear friend Ann and her triplet nephews.

Ann has breast cancer.

Ann is one of those women who seems to face every challenge that comes her way with courage and grace. She's had far more than her share of challenges. She treated the news of her diagnosis as though it was little more than a temporary glitch in the big scheme of things. What she appeared to be most concerned about was that we who love her must not worry.

The chemotherapy and radiation is finished. Ann seemed to glide through the whole process. There was no complaining. She'd talk about her pain and her frustration that the morphine was not doing what she expected it to do. Her hands and arms are giving her hell ... perhaps a side effect of the cancer drugs. Hopefully this pain will soon disappear.

All along this route Ann has forged on with her daily routines with rare exception. She is very much a part of an active social life ... ever the gracious hostess.

Sometimes we just get lucky when we pick our friends. I sure did.