I’m almost ninety two years old ya know.

Oh, I knew. Less than six weeks away and she’d be ninety two. Born during the depression, she never had much.

When I grew up the doctor was almost an hour away by car - if there was one. And to call him, you had to use one of the two telephones in the community.

Healthcare was pretty brutal, almost non existent based on the stories she’d share about the nasty nurse waiting to give my Nanny’s mom pain killers as she died. No matter how much my great grandmother screamed and wailed the officious nurse didn’t dole out a bit of relief until the second it was permitted. I have so many reasons for hating the officious rule following humans, this is but one.

There wasn’t a store. You couldn’t just drive to the store for stuff. You had to make it yourself.

My Nanny had been to the store. She was flustered telling me that she wasn’t allowed to drive anymore. Regardless of that, she whipped up a great snack for us - spam mixed with pickles and extra pickle juice for good measure. We ate it on top of saltines. Served with red rose tea? I couldn’t be happier.

I’m not going to live forever

Her face grew serious. No one wants that.

I don’t want to be like them ones up at the Birches - they don’t know who they are, they can’t even speak.

Her face was growing red.

It’s better to be dead than like that. I’d rather be dead.

Shaken, red eyed and upset, she started to compose herself.

I would like to talk about something else now.

Shaken, red eyed and upset, I started to compose myself.

Your great granddaughter L? She’s majestic. She rides horses. She teaches little girls how to ride. I don’t think a more lovely and wonderful creature has ever walked the earth.

My eyes teared up more. I showed her videos of L riding Hobo. My Nanny beamed.

And your great grandson? He’s sensitive. He’s kind. He’s a really caring boy. I’m so proud of both of them. Thank you.

It’s funny that I thanked her. She didn’t have much of a hand in raising them. She has had a huge hand in raising me. The summer after my Granddad died, I moved in with her. I did the same the next summer. In our months of living together, we really connected. Over the years, through her, I was able to see and relate to my parents differently.

That’s one great thing grandparents can do. They can help children see their parents more humanly and more humanely. My Nanny is a gift and a treasure to the world. She’s afraid of being a burden.

Gifts and burdens are all relational judgements of ourselves. We rely on each other to make meaning, to define our existence. My Nanny adds so much value to my life. She’s a clear and direct connection to the past. She’s a walking talking testament to how the world and life is getting better. My Nanny shows me ever moment of every day that the world is becoming a better place.

People are living longer.

Fewer are starving.

If my wife lived where and when my Nanny did, childbirth would have killed her each time she had a baby.

So,

If you feel pessimistic from watching the news, please imagine my nanny at the end of a road, overlooking a lake, sitting in her rocker waiting with a delicious treat of tea, spam and pickles to share.

She isn't in that rocker anymore. The road at the end of the lake is quieter now. When someone lives to be nearly a century, they don't just pass away; an entire archive of human history closes with them. They serve as the bridge between a time when life hung by a thread and a time when our children can safely look toward a better world.

Someone has to remember what it took to cross that distance.

That's my job now. I'm just the storyteller taking notes.

I’m back!

Welcome to this collection of dispatches, written from the best part of the best part of the world where the saltwater air mingles with the faint, comforting scent of woodsmoke drifting over from the Dartmouth side.

For a long time, I have been obsessed with the “Remarkable Fool.” To the professional world, being a fool is a mark of shame—an awkward blemish to be hidden behind a crisp suit or a technical manual.

This dispatch is a labour of love, curated to reflect the heart and quirkiness of life in Nova Scotia.

The new schedule?

Weekly dispatches.

And these are a tribute to the resilience of the human spirit, found in the small moments like mending a leaky boot or laughing at the vet’s office when the air smells of fear and wet fur.

We find our power not in perfection, but in the courage to show up, participate, and beginning again, anew.

Book a tour

What follows is a consolidated history of a life lived in the “best part of the best part of the world.” It is an invitation to find the others, to embrace your own “weird wiring,” and to realize that a life more fulfilling often begins with a remarkably foolish choice.

Whether we are navigating the tides of the Halifax Harbour or simply enjoying a Pirate cookie with Nanny, we are all just characters in the same absurd, miraculous play.

I’m Jimmy from Dartmouth. I’ll see you on the ferry.

Today, was the day.

I wrote this post as a draft on October first of last year.

On Saturday, we made a choice.

In ten minutes the vet is arriving and my first dog will be no more.

It’s so strange. He’s failing quickly now. He’s little more than skin and bones.

Even so, his tail goes up and despite the pain, the little guy just wants to live.

He just wants to please us and to do his job.

He’s a good boy and always will be.

It’s an odd responsibility, knowing when to let go, knowing when keeping an animal alive is more for us than for him.

But?

When he had lepto 8 years ago, Dr. Bev told us we’d be lucky to get five years out of him.

We’ve been lucky.

And so has he.

Farewell Ronin, our bravest little warrior.

Go chase bunnies in the forest just beyond the edge of what we can see.

I always wanted a dog.

As a young boy, I loved them.

When my dad’s mom - big Nanny Too was gifted Alice - a miniature Schnauzer, I fell in love.

My Aunt and Uncle Jane and Ross always had dogs.

Whenever I fell in love with someone, she typically had a dog.

Laura was no different. When we first met, her dog was a great big Great Pyrenees named Hoss. Hoss would follow Laura’s bunnies and eat rabbit turds off the floor as soon as they came out. The bunnies were filled with earthy bounty that was always hot n’ ready.

Given my constant love of and desire to have a dog, it’s difficult to say why it took until I was 41 to finally have a dog of my own.

Even then, I resisted.

Even then I blamed Laura and her friend with a brain tumour.

I’m dying and I want dogs. All he thinks about is the future. Mine is now.

It was a pretty fucking convincing argument eh?

That day I was on Kijiji searching for puppies.

I found one that I fell in love with instantly.

He was white and fluffy.

A mix of poodle, jack russell, Pomeranian and shitz you with all of the worst qualities of each.

His name?

Ronin.

He’s an odd beast.

Long noodle legs and a skinny, skinny body.

He just turned eleven.

He will not make it to be twelve.

In fact, I’m looking at my calendar for a day off - or even a half day to drive down to the cottage to dig a hole.

Work is busy.

That’s great. I love the work.

And?

It’s so busy now that I won’t be able to take the day to be around when Ronin goes.

Eight years ago he had Lepto.

We spent a LOT of money keeping him alive.

But over the last eighteen months, he hasn’t really been pooping.

More just bleeding from his asshole.

That and we can feel a mass in his belly.

I walked him last night. It was late and he was struggling.

His time is almost up.

As we got home I told him that he was a good boy and that his job was done.

He kept each of us alive with his love in some way shape or form.

He’s fierce in his love for us.

But this Ronin, this warrior puppy?

His strides are getting short, his curly tail is hanging low.

He’s less a puppy and now an old dog.

All I ever wanted was a dog to love.

And he was my first.

Now?

Now I know why I put of having a dog so long.

The little fucker.

That little fucker who puked on the bed and has shat on the floor and caused every calamity that his nine pounds could cause?

That little fucker stole my heart.

And now?

Now he’s going to break it.

It might not be today.

It might not be tomorrow.

But time runs out for all of us.

And Ronin?

He’s going soon.

Not likely tomorrow but his time here is short.

I’m grateful that I had the chance to share time here with him.

I was looking into his eyes tonight, crying and I can’t help but wonder if he knows or if he’s afraid.

It was thirty five years ago today that my granddad left us, my nanny’s husband.

Did he know?

Was he afraid?

(edit - now that Nanny’s past, was she afraid?)

As much as dogs are here to teach us about love and loss and grief, there’s one thing they can’t teach us - it’s how to die.

But I guess that’s asking a lot from a little white ball of fluff.

Git boy! Git! Go chase those rabbits in the sky!

I’ve not been able to write.

The next piece had to come out first.

Here’s the text from my Nanny’s eulogy that I delivered yesterday in the little white church on the hill in the best part of the best part of the world:

I’m Jimmy - Ruby’s oldest grandson.

Ruby?

Nanny.

She took that name when she was still young.

I was born when she was only 42.

She said, I’m too young to be called ‘granny’. Call me ‘nanny’.

That name stuck for decades, until Mya arrived.

Ruby was born a Russell in family home at the end of the Russell Road in Clam Harbour.

She was a special woman, a gem really.

In a lot of ways he life is like her namesake: precious, brilliant and timeless.

Her life is a bridge to a different time.

Or as she put it, “It was a different world back then.”

As a youngster, she grew up poor.

Her summers were spent running around barefoot.

They couldn’t afford to waste money on summer shoes in those days.

Ruby no shoes - as no one ever called her, helped her mother around the house with chores and eventually collected and delivered mail for a nickel a week.

Most summers, she’d travel with her mother to visit her mother’s family in Upper Lakeville.

They’d pile into one of the three cars in the whole community - likely the cab driven by old Bob Cook.

Nanny would say: ”You could walk darn near faster than he’d drive”.

It was a different world.

Electricity never arrived at the family home until she was nine.

She spoke with a wide eyed wonder at the miracle of getting an electric pump in the house.

“Before then, the boys would have to put a stone in the bucket to break the ice out of the well in the winter”.

To use her words, and join in if you know them - the cow was in the barn, the pig was in the pen and the chickens were in the henhouse.

Outback, was the outhouse - pretty deluxe for its time - a two seater - the original Eastern Shore side by side.

When the war came, Nanny moved to Eastern Passage. Those were golden years.

She’d say ”There was a rec hall and there were kids everywhere to play with.”

Nanny loved it there. She was none too pleased to move back to Clam Harbour.

It is what it is.

It wasn’t long though before Ruby outgrown that little village.

The school there only went to grade ten. She wanted her grade eleven.

So off she moved to live with Mrs Jennex in Oyster Pond through the week.

Around then when her brother introduced her to a fella a few years her senior.

Ellis was home from serving in Newfoundland and he had himself a car.

He’d frequently drive her from home in Clam Harbour to Mrs. Jennex’s place in Oyster Pond.

I’m not going to speculate what happened on those long car rides.

I’ll leave that to your imagination.

But to light a fire under your imaination, I will say that Granddad had a girlfriend when he first met Nanny.

She didn’t last long after they met though.

They dated for three years then were married.

Six months after the wedding, my mother was born.

When I teased Nanny about her gestational efficiency, she gave me a wink and said: “You don’t think it was your generation that invented parking do ya?”

It is what it is.

Ruby and Ellis moved to town and ran an oil business.

Ellis delivered the oil.

Ruby kept everything running on time.

Supper hit the table every night at five - whether the potatoes were cooked or not.

In town, they lived on Farquarson Street.

At first, they lived in the basement while the rest of the house was built.

Nanny, Grandad, my mom, Al on one side of the basement and Sheila, Percy and the boys living on the other.

Robin seemed to have the good sense to wait until the rest of the house was built before he showed up.

Smart man.

It was a different world.

Nanny loved life in Woodlawn. She made lifelong friends there including the Weeks’.

Bernice was like a sister, Denise and Debbie - she loved you like daughters.

Nanny loved living in town. She even went and got her drivers license all on her own.

That was a big deal back then.

Grandad was not impressed:

”You mean they’re going to let you drive?”

She told this story regularly, bubbling with pride.

Ruby was a woman of fire and an independent spirit.

And that made it even more outrageous when Grandad sold the house out from under her.

“We’re moving home. Building a campground.”

That was that.

Luckily, they led and a lot of their friends from town followed.

Eventually they moved into the big yellow house on the hill.

That’s where I always picture Nanny.

When I spoke to my cousins about this eu goog ley, they talked about the food - the creamed corn in particular.

But mostly?

They describe her as a constant presence.

She’s just always been there in that big yellow house at the end of the road.

Keeping watch,

A silent sentinel peering down from her big bay window.

Her steady presence has always been a comfort.

I lived with her for two summers after Grandad died.

While I flailed with early adulthood, she seemed amused by my antics.

When Laura was sick and no one was sure how long she’d be around, Nanny and I talked about cancer, loss, living, dying and ‘what comes next’.

She seemed to be the only one who could ‘get me’.

Her presence was the ultimate comfort.

And now?

It is what it is.

One thing was always true: She loved her family.

She would always tell me how lucky she was to have such a wonderful family.

Wonderful children, grandchildren and great grandchildren.

With God as my witness, she told me regularly how proud she was of each and every one of us.

Ruby no shoes was a woman with a hell of a soul.

And though she grew up with no shoes, her eldest great granddaughter - Mya - gave her the moniker that I think she loved the most:

Two shoes.

In one of our last conversations, Nanny was expressing doubt.

“What does it matter? What is this all for?”

I told her the truth.

”While Grandad was up the lake drinking whisky, you were the glue that kept everything going. He may of started it, but without you, it have fallen apart.

You made a place of joy that’s touched thousands of lives.

I keep meeting people whose best memories are of the campground.

You have no idea of just how impactful and important you’ve been.”

She may be gone, but her steady, enduring presence continues.

So as we gather here in the best part of the best part of the world to celebrate that gem of a woman - Ruby

Nanny

Mother

Sis

Two shoes

She’s always got eyes on all of us.

She’s looking down from her swing on the porch of the big yellow house in the sky

So remember,

Be good.

And if you can’t be good, be careful.

Thank you.

This is a love letter and a rage letter and touches on some of the most sacred cows of our current society - the sexual revolution.

Interested?

Read on.

Scared?

Close this message meow.

One of the smartest people I know is also one of the bravest people I know.

And I must be pretty damn smart too because I chose to marry this woman.

That’s right - Laura.

Laura has a PhD in Education. She’s run an English department in inner city Toronto Schools.

She’s pretty frickin’ amazing.

And?

She quit. She walked away.

And that was a defiant act of bravery.

Women these days are subjected to more pressure than ever before, so much so that the biggest job, the best job and what I believe the most important job has been replaced with wage earning.

That job?

Being a mom.

That’s right.

Being a mom and loving and nurturing your offspring is more important than being President, more impactful than leading an HR department and more influential than teaching other peoples children.

And it’s been undervalued since the 1960’s.

These days, the statements above are likely seen as foolish, heretical even.

Because, hell, natural, biological abilities to feed and millennia of hard wired nurturing can easily be disrupted by pills, choice and bra burning.

And for whom?

Instead of loyalty to the family and for the benefit of the tribe, a woman’s super powers get turned away from the family and towards the functioning of the state and for the benefit of the corporations.

Yay progress?

Laura, facing cancer, had the bravery to walk away from the machine and the insurance support to turn her efforts towards supporting her family.

At work?

She was under incredible pressure to care for a nurture a lot of other people - other parents, other teachers and other peoples children. Hundreds of them per year!

And when middle class women walk away from a career that could have / would have /should have led to even more social status and pressure with a university career, they are silently judged and seen as a failure.

She’s had these unawares judgements passed on her for over a decade and a half now.

And?

She has the bravery to ignore and withstand the girl bullying in our culture that pushes women to perfectionism - Lioness at work, mamma bear at home and a minx in the bedroom.

I’m not sure that the revolution of the 60’s made things easier for women.

I hear the ordinary fools clucking in the media all the time

Men need to be better. Men need to do more.

Why?

We did’t ask for this.

We didn’t lead the revolution.

It used to be such that a two income household could get ahead.

These days?

It takes two and a half incomes to keep a family going.

So, with the revolution, who won, men, women, or the corporations who continue to extract more wealth from our efforts?

Family first is the core of community and shouldn’t be seen as a reactionary point of view.

But that’s the machine for ya, it simplifies narratives, creates good and evils in the world and finds someone to blame for the inadequacies of progressive culture

The biggest person Laura had to battle though was herself.

If I’m not there, they’ll miss me. What will happen to ______

We learned quite soon after she quit that she wasn’t missed.

She was disposable.

She was replaced.

Sure for a while they spoke about her.

These days though, there are few teachers at her old school who even remember she was there.

You are disposable.

You don’t matter.

One day you will be gone.

You will be replaced.

You don’t matter to the system nearly as much as you think.

Family first.

I’m back.

It’s been a couple of days.

Have you missed me?

I have too.

I’ve been stuck.

Not stuck with writing, but stuck figuring out what to say.

Things are a bit cold here lately. The heat pump has been broken for weeks.

We’ve been heating the house with our little wood burner in the living room.

In our cold house, I’ve been numb to a lot.

With Nanny now in a home that you generally walk in then roll out feet first, I think I’m blocking a bunch of anticipatory sadness.

People aren’t dying.

Time is just an arsehole.

It’s limited.

And these days, I can see how precious our time together truly is.

My mother in law reminds me of Nanny.

She’s starting to get really old and she lives really far away - for now.

That’s something we’re working on changing.

I hope she’s much closer soon.

I’m noticing more and more how my parents are aging..

They’re getting older.

They love me so much they’ve put up with so much arrogance, rage and just down right flailing on my behalf, that they’ve never given up entirely on me and for that gift, I’m deeply grateful.

I just wish I would have figured this out sooner.

I guess that’s the gift, the sick and twisted gift of being caught between generations.

My own kids are pushing me away.

They’re rejecting both of their parents.

It’s natural, but it hurts.

Now I know how much I had to push and hurt my own folks.

These days, I really appreciate caring for those older than me - my mother in law and likely in the future my parents, while at the same time caring for my children and helping them become adults.

It’s an odd place that I’m in, it’s a kind of holding on and letting go at the same time.

Holding on to who they are and letting go of what they were.

Life lately feels like eating 70% cacao bars at sunset.

It’s bitter sweet, entirely spectacular and all in all, good for the heart.

We have a little white dog. He had lepto about eight years ago. Dr. Bev told us we’d be lucky to keep him alive for five.

i guess we’re really a lot luckier than we think sometimes.

I was going through my drafts here.

One of the posts I wrote nine months ago.

It’s called My dog is dying.

Only, he’s not.

He’s living.

Sure he’s incontinent.

Sure, he shits blood on puppy pads and sometimes on the floor every day.

And?

He’s been kept alive by his sheer desire to love my wife.

When we weren’t sure about her, he was with her.

Now that he’s coming to the end, she and my daughter are with him - carrying him outside to poop and cleaning up when he doesn’t make it.

The vet told us as long as he wags his tail and shows interest in being alive, the inconvenience of his incontinence is the only reason to put him down.

Many people, we’re told, most people would likely do this.

But?

One day I’ll likely shit all over the place and be a big inconvenience for the world.

And I won’t accept being put down because of a few bloody little shits.

When it’s time, we’ll know.