Tech Time Machine… You’re On A Rocket…

Marty McFly… let’s hop into your DMC DeLorean time machine and juice up the flux capacitor.

OK, set the time back by 30 years to 1990 (if this takes you into prenatal times, please please tell me what that looks like, I want to know the answer to that as much as I’d like to see into my post-life times).

I’m thinking about time travel right now for a reason.

Looking back with today’s eyes, 1990 was a “foreign country” for us all.

Thirty years ago this week, I stood in chilly Okanagan Lake waters at 7 am on a Sunday morning with nearly 1,000 others clad in wetsuits.

Supportive family members and friends came from near and far to give me a cheering boost for an event I had trained so hard for in the year leading up to this day.

My heart was pounding in my throat, both in exhilaration and terror (the good news is that in the lake, you can pee your pants and no one knows better other than the swimmer directly behind you. Sorry… TMI?)

We participants were all ready to dive in at the sound of a booming cannon – the cannon that starts the Ironman Canada triathlon race, a 3.8k swim, followed by a 180k bike, finishing with a 42.2k run. Great way to spend a relaxing Sunday.

But today, I’m not only thinking about the gruelling race, but also about the huge changes to our world in these oh-so-short 30 years.

Here are a few other things that cross my mind.

It’s about our world and technology.

I’m thinking about how many folks pulled out their cellphones and snapped photos of their friends and loved ones jumping into the water that August 1990 morning. How many photos got posted online for the world to see within seconds…

Here, let me answer that for you… pull out my calculator… hmmmm, 960 participants multiplied by an average of 4 or 5 relatives and friends watching from behind the barriers…

… and the answer is???? ZERO. None.

Huh? Why not Larry?

Well, a myriad of stuff has changed for you and me in 30 years… call a taxi… right! Wait until next Tuesday to watch your favourite TV show… hardly! Meet your life partner-to-be at a bar… *cue laughter*….

A few more examples…

1990. No smartphones… a few cellphones (owned by 4% of North Americans in 1990) sure, but pretty much no such thing as a smartphone with a camera embedded. The first early versions were still 12 years in the future.

These days, when I enter even the tiniest running or other athletic race (in non-COVID times)… camera phones are everywhere, all the time.

In 1990, there were no smartphones, no text messages… no Tesla’s or other electric cars… no BlueTooth, no Facebook, no YouTube.

In 1990 you paid your utility bills at the bank or by snail mail with a personal cheque.

Watch a movie in 1990? Just run by your local VHS rental store or Blockbuster and make sure your neighbours aren’t there when you sneak into the “ADULT” section in the back.

In 1990, you answered your landline phone (usually corded) because it was someone you knew calling (although no call display told you who), no telemarketers or scams.

In 1990, when you wanted to find a street address or your way through a strange city, you hauled out something called a map and found the location with your fingertips, not your GOOGLE.

In 1990, people read books. I mean books made of paper and glue and hard and soft covers that had pages you turned and needed a flashlight to read under the covers. No eReaders, no Kindles (first released in 2007), no Kobo’s. Bookstores were popular “social media” gathering spots in 1990.

In 1990, did you drive through your local Starbucks for a Sexagintuple Vanilla Bean Mocha Frappuccino? Of course not. Starbucks had barely 100 stores in 1990, probably none in your area. Just Mary & Joe’s Cuppa Joe House (or Timmy’s for us Canucks) was on your corner in those prehistoric coffee days. Espresso drinks were something Europeans drank.

In 1990, a blog? Is that something stuck in your toilet?

In 1990, when you listened to recorded music, it was usually from a cassette tape, a big step up from 8-track tapes! Your choices were vinyl or cassette. CD or mp3? Huh??

In 1990, a restaurant meal or a plane trip usually involved breathing in someone else’s secondhand smoke. In my province of B.C., smoking was legally allowed in restaurants until 1996. Smoking on flights within Canada was first banned at the beginning of 1990.

Feel free to tell me some other things I’ve missed.

And finally, in 1990, when I crossed the Ironman finish line (below) as the evening sun set and my muscles cried, my kids were 5, 3 and 1 years old. It’s so long ago that I can barely picture them in my head. They were so cute.

Right McFly, bring me back to 2020.

Those little kids are older and smarter than me now. Yes, that’s right, they are older than me… I was 19 years old in 1990 and today I’m still… 19. (I turned off my time machine long ago. That’s new math for you.)

More importantly though, they were healthy then and they are healthy today.

I’m a lucky man to return to 2020 in my older DeLorean body.

OK Boomer…

Unseen Gravity… The Mother HUB

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Every year, Mother’s Day explodes in a flurry of well-intentioned gestures.

But beneath the surface, a more profound truth resides: I call it The HUB.

Mothers are the unseen force that holds most families together, the celestial hub around which our lives orbit. They are the silent gravity that keeps us all in our place, a constant pull towards love, support, and connection.

For a minute here, let’s try thinking of our families as solar systems.

Each member, a planet, hurtles through life on its own trajectory. Fathers, the suns, might offer warmth and guidance (and sure, the occasional angel dad is a “hub”).

But it’s the mother, the veiled central hub, who ensures our orbits remain stable, preventing us from drifting into the cold, desolate reaches of isolation.

Imagine a solar system without this central force. Planets, once connected, begin to wobble in their courses. Without that central gravitational pull, the family unit starts to unravel.

This isn’t to diminish the roles fathers play. But mothers – my wife Maureen is a classic example – possess a unique ability to bridge the gaps between family members.

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They are the tireless communicators, keeping everyone connected through endless phone calls or FaceTimes, and a sixth sense that knows exactly when someone needs a listening ear… the somebody who absorbs the shocks so that children can go happily back to their “sandboxes” and play again.

They are the keepers of traditions, the memory banks that hold onto birthdays, long-forgotten inside jokes, and the family stories that bind generations. They often orchestrate celebrations, big and small, creating a shared language of love and belonging that transcends words.

More importantly, mothers offer a safe harbour in the storms of life. When careers crumble, relationships sour, or self-doubt creeps in, they become the unwavering force, the constant source of unconditional love. Their embrace is the gravity well that pulls us back from the brink, reminding us of who we are and where we belong.

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So, sons, partners, daughters… let’s acknowledge the unseen strength – The HUB – that holds our families together. The tireless efforts, the quiet sacrifices, the unwavering love that mothers offer without fanfare.

Because mothers are more than just the centre of our families; they are the force that keeps us all in our place, a constant pull towards the warmth and love that defines a family.

This Mother’s Day, celebrate the gravity that keeps your family whole, honour the amazing power of the mother who holds you in her orbit.

Can You Say Under “Where”?

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Don’t we all just focus on women’s undergarments a wee bit too much (said NO man ever!)?

We even have a special sexy name for it… lingerie!

Let’s reverse roles and try this on today… you’ve got it, men’s underwear.

It’s a topic that can spark both guffaws and groans (depending on the company, of course). But beneath the layers of boxers, briefs, and, ahem, even the occasional adventurous thong, lies a surprisingly rich history.

Yes, an important history lesson is coming your way…

Buckle up, guys (or don’t, depending on what you’re currently sporting) for a journey through time that will explain how we got from primitive hide coverings to the comfortable (and sometimes questionable) undergarments of today.

Today, I’m a coloured boxer-brief wearer (a hybrid between the 2), but I grew up a tighty whities guy who snickered when I spotted my dad in his bulky boxers. I don’t know if I’m cool or archaic!

Let’s face it, our prehistoric ancestors weren’t exactly rocking Calvin Klein. The earliest form of underwear for men, dating back a mere 7,000 years, was the loincloth.

Imagine a simple piece of cloth – animal skin, perhaps, or woven plant fibers – strategically wrapped around the waist. It wasn’t high fashion, but it offered some much-needed protection from the elements and, well, maybe a curious saber-toothed squirrel.

Fast forward a few millennia, and things get a bit more… elaborate.

Ancient Egyptians donned the schenti, a linen loincloth that draped down to the knees. The Greeks and Romans favoured the subligar, a short kilt-like garment. Imagine toga parties with undergarments – not quite the mental image we had, was it?

Egyptian Schenti

The Middle Ages brought a shift towards looser undergarments. Men traded in the loincloth for braies, essentially knee-length trousers made of linen or wool. These weren’t exactly the most comfortable things ever invented, but they offered some semblance of modesty and warmth (important for those drafty castles, I guess).

This era also saw the rise of the infamous codpiece – a padded flap attached to the front of the braies. While its purpose was supposedly practical (easier bathroom breaks!), it also became a status symbol, with wealthier men sporting increasingly elaborate codpieces that some might argue resembled… well, let’s just say… small, pointy hats for a very specific area.

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As society became more refined in the 18th century, so did underwear.

Knee-length breeches became popular, essentially tailored pants that functioned as both underwear and outerwear. Thankfully, the codpiece fell out of favour. Hallelujah!

However, a new trend emerged: stockings. Yes, men wore silk stockings for a while. Let’s just take a moment to appreciate the breeze boxers provide compared to that.

The 19th century saw a revolution in underwear.

The invention of new fabrics like cotton and the rise of ready-made clothing led to the development of more comfortable and practical undergarments. Union suits, one-piece garments that combined a shirt and long johns, were all the rage for a while. Thankfully, these eventually gave way to separate undershirts and drawers, the precursors to the boxers and briefs we know today.

The 20th Century: The Boxer Rebellion

The 20th century witnessed the rise of the two main contenders in the underwear ring: the boxer and the brief.

Boxers, loose-fitting and comfortable, became a favourite for everyday wear.

Briefs, on the other hand, offered a more streamlined silhouette and were favoured by athletes and guys seeking a more fitted look. The invention of synthetic fibers like nylon and polyester also brought new options, with some interesting – and questionable – trends like the man-thong (let’s just say it wasn’t a universal hit).

And that lands us where we are now… today, men’s underwear is all about comfort and functionality. There’s a huge array of styles and fabrics to choose from, from moisture-wicking materials for athletic pursuits to luxurious microfibers for everyday wear.

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And, if you’re feeling adventurous, there’s always that whole “man-thong”/”banana hammock” thing… but maybe just wear it at home, unless you’re going for a very specific kind of attention.

One thing remains constant: the need for comfortable support (like a woman’s bra) for our most precious… uh… boys.

So friends, that’s the history of men’s underwear in a nutshell!

Although, honestly, I think that the codpiece styles from the Renaissance could have their own superhero movie franchise. “Codpiece Man: Defender of Dignity (and Occasional Embarrassment)” anyone?

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Summerland Spring – A Love Poem

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Spring!

My very favourite season… yellows, reds, pinks… colour bursting in all directions… new buds, new baby birds… temperatures mild enough that I can prune and dig and plant to my heart’s content without dripping buckets of sweat the way I do in summer.

As dawn cracks open the horizon, the sun splatters the eastern canvas with fiery oranges, and blushing pinks.

Early in the morning, I hear the local orchardists rummaging through the rows of fruit trees that stand sentinel, their bare branches pregnant with the promise of blossoming futures. They wander their acres, sometimes on foot, sometimes by tractor, assessing and planning and dreaming of their future harvest in a few months that pass quickly like a dandelion seed adrift in the breeze.

Having written these Man On The Fringe posts for a dozen years, I’ve probably composed a missive about spring at least every second year, such is the specialness it inspires in me.

It’s a front-row seat to the charming dance of nature that unfolds here, year after year, a performance that leaves me breathless, yet overflowing with energy all at the same time.

It’s at this magic moment that an “non-believer” like myself feels the strongest pull towards a transcendant, mystical presence that defies explanation. My sense of spirituality rises to its peak.

The days are longer, the air is sweet.

This is a love poem to an Okanagan spring, to the days that stretch languorously long, and to the blossoming of life in all its plant and animal forms.

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SUMMERLAND SPRING

In Okanagan’s cradle, sloping mountains hold the sky,
Spring pirouettes, a vision, with a mischievous eye.
A crown of apple blossoms adorns her windswept hair,
As sunlight paints the valley, a canvas sweet and fair.

She waltzes through the orchards, where branches sway in time,
A chorus of pear and cherry trees, in a sweet, melodic chime.
Her laughter, a sunny gentle breeze, whispers secrets in the leaves,
A promise of harvest bounty, the valley’s heart believes.

With each twirl, a vibrant petal paints the waking ground,
A tapestry of colour, where dreams come to surround.
Honeybees, her busy troupe, flit on joyful wings,
Carrying stories on the wind, of the life that Springtime brings.

Vineyards stretch forth, green arms to greet the sun,
Awakening from slumber, the dance that’s just begun.
And grapes, like emeralds nestled, swell in clusters tight,
Transformed by summer’s touch, to wines of pure delight.

By the lake, a mirrored canvas, reflect cerulean blue,
The symphony of Spring unfolds, a masterpiece anew.
From mountain peaks to valleys, a vibrant, verdant stage,
Where life awakens, reborn, on history’s weathered page.

We call this hamlet Summerland, where hope and beauty meet,
And celebrate the dancer’s grace, with springtime at her feet.
For in this valley’s embrace, where magic takes its flight,
Spring’s adventurous rhythm dances sweetly to the light.

Sizzle and Seduction… A Man’s Guide to Culinary Charm

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I love cooking.

Does this make me less “manly”? I think not!

Remember the days when the kitchen was considered a forbidden fortress for men? Try watching a rerun of Mad Men for a review.

OK, I get it… in some households, this vestige still, sadly, remains.

Honestly though, those days are as outdated as a rotary phone or a jellied aspic (YUCK!).

A man’s need to eat is as great as a woman or a child… if masturbation is a solo activity for the pleasure and needs of one, why isn’t cooking a necessary one-man attribute? Gotcha, let’s leave that analogy behind.

In the past 50 years, the culinary landscape has transformed faster than Gordon Ramsay’s temper during a cooking competition.

Let’s take a deep dish dive into the evolution of men transitioning from burnt-toast warriors to culinary maestros.

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The Emergence of the Apron Hero

Once upon a time…

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Scene: A man stands in the kitchen, apron tied tightly around his waist, sweat dripping down his forehead. His mission? To make scrambled eggs without setting off the smoke alarm.

Narrator (in a dramatic voice): “In a world where men feared the spatula, one brave soul dared to whisk. His name? Sauté Samurai. Armed with a wooden spoon and a secret recipe, he battled raw chicken and overcooked pasta. His motto? ‘Real men sauté kale.’”

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Fast-forward to today…

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Scene: The same man, now seasoned (pun intended), effortlessly flips a pancake while musing on the latest episode of “Top Chef.”

Narrator (with a wink): “Sauté Samurai has evolved. He’s no longer afraid to admit that he binge-watches cooking shows. His superpower? Umami Uprising. He combines Sriracha with maple syrup and calls it ‘Srirachle Syrup.’ It’s a hit at brunch!”

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The Rise of the Spice Warriors

Back in the day…

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Scene: A man gingerly sprinkles salt on his boiled potatoes. His wife raises an eyebrow.

Man: “I’m adding flavour, dear.”

Wife: “That’s not flavour, that’s a cry for help.”

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Today’s spice warriors…

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Scene: A group of men huddle around the grill, armed with exotic spices and marinades.

Spice Warrior #1: “Behold, my secret weapon: smoked paprika!”

Spice Warrior #2: “I’ve got chipotle powder. It’s like a flavour explosion in your mouth!”

Spice Warrior #3 (whispers): “I smuggled saffron from the Middle East. Don’t tell the neighbours.”

Narrator: “These men don’t just season; they orchestrate symphonies of taste. Their BBQ rubs could make a masseuse weep.”

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The Kitchen Gadgets Revolution

Back then…

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Scene: A man struggles with a manual can opener. Sweat drips into the tin of beans.

Man: “I’ll conquer this can if it’s the last thing I do!”

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Nowadays…

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Scene: The same man, now surrounded by high-tech gadgets, operates a sous-vide machine.

Man (with a James Bond accent): “Shaken, not stirred. My steak, that is.”

Narrator: “Men have embraced kitchen tech like a long-lost sibling. From air fryers to Instant Pots, they’re like kids in a candy store. And yes, they still play with their food.”

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The Macho Menu

Back in the Stone Age…

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Scene: A man grunts as he gnaws on a raw mammoth leg.

Man: “Meat good. Fire hot.”

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Today’s macho menu…

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Scene: A man plates a delicate quinoa salad with edible flowers.

Man (wiping away a tear): “This kale is life-changing. And the microgreens? They whisper sweet nothings to my soul.”

Narrator: “Gone are the days of caveman grunts. Today’s men discuss umami, plating techniques, and whether cilantro tastes like soap. They’re the true food philosophers.”

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The New Recipe for Masculinity

So, let’s raise our spatulas to the modern man in the kitchen. He’s not just flipping pancakes or BBQ burgers; he’s flipping stereotypes.

Whether a grill guru, a spice sorcerer, or a gadget geek, he’s rewriting the recipe for masculinity… one laugh, one sautéed kale leaf at a time.

And remember, guys, real men don’t cry over spilled milk… they turn it into a béchamel sauce.

Bon appétit!

That’s Why God Created Handymen

Welcome to another fun guest post by our favourite Canadian who lives “down under” in the good ole USA, Jim Ferguson.

Today, Jim takes off his trusty and comfortable lab coat and regretfully slides into a contraption perplexingly called “Verktygsmästare Bälte”—a sturdy and efficient tool belt designed for today’s modern handyman. Comes with pockets for hammers, Allen wrenches, and even a tiny meatball compartment to keep Jim nourished and resistant to losing his cool.

So… build us a blog Jim (no instructions included)…

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Are you as sick and tired of do-it-yourself furniture assembly as I am?

Are you a fan, or have you, like me, come to loathe the arrival of such kits at your doorstep?

Have you developed some backbone and said to your spouse, SO, “You ordered it, you assemble it?”

If I NEVER see another “some assembly required” notice I will be a happy camper. I am sick, sick, sick of ordering home assembly furniture from IKEA, Wayfair, or whatever company is selling home assembly, do-it-yourself furniture kits.

I’m ready to go to Sweden and organize a sit in at the IKEA home office and tell them that if they EVER receive another order from Deborah Ferguson in Port Huron, Michigan, to immediately file it in the “circular file” and pretend they’ve never heard of the Fergusons. 

Ok… let’s unpack this little phobia I have.

The other day I received two heavy boxes both containing office desks for our home office. My wife, Deb, was so excited that the desks finally arrived. Meanwhile, I am sitting there thinking to myself, “If I call now, just maybe I could get a colonoscopy followed by a couple of teeth pulled this afternoon” so I could avoid the hassle of putting one of these desks together.

Well… the colonoscopy and dental extraction plan failed so there I was reaching for the box. Maybe it wouldn’t be too bad. Right! After all… it’s just a desk. How hard could it be? 

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I carefully open the box and begin to remove part after part after part of the desk followed by the hardware including those useless Allen wrenches that rip my hands to shreds and cause more knuckle bruises and scrapes than I care to discuss.

Then… there is the instruction MANUAL. As soon as I saw that this was not a “one sheeter” with simple instructions but rather a manual… I knew I was in for it!

Twenty languages later, I finally find the English section of the manual and my heart starts pounding harder, my chest feels a bit heavy, my respirations become rapid and shallow, I become slightly nauseated, my hands are a little sweaty and I am thinking “ok… a heart attack could get me out of this assembly project”, but alas my symptoms quickly subside, and I realize there is no way out of my dilemma. I am stuck with this project…like it or not.

I go down the “I am a medical provider not a frickin handyman” pathway but to no avail. I reason that if the desk had a pair of lungs, a heart, a prostate, a sprain, or strain, I just might be able to deal with it. I remind myself that God created handymen for a reason so why not rely on one to assemble the desk.

Deb lovingly looks my way and states, “Come on honey. You are my own Bob Vila! I know you can do it.” Anyways… after a few minutes of faulty reasoning I give in and begin the daunting task.

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One thing I know for sure: I am no Bob Vila when it comes to handyman talents.

I knew I was in trouble when I noticed that there were no written instructions… only drawings possibly done by a 2nd grader.

I am looking at the drawings trying to figure out what side the screws are supposed to fit in. And then there were those screw-in posts with the locking pieces that are supposed to grab the posts and bring the wood pieces together and lock them tight. Each desk piece is labeled in the diagram with a letter but the actual pieces of wood in the box are NOT lettered.

I will have to assemble this desk using good old Canadian ingenuity. I will look at the pieces and meditate for a while listening to some calming Lakota flute or Tibetan Sound Bowl music and then see which ones intuitively fit together. I got this! I may suck at following iffy directions, but I am a whiz at looking at a puzzle and intuiting how the pieces go together…😊 FOUR HOURS LATER the desk is constructed.

I look at my masterpiece and suddenly a wave of nausea sweeps over me as I notice one piece of wood upside down.

I had erred installing one smaller piece but by the time I realized my mistake I was like “There is NO WAY I’m taking this desk apart to flip that one piece of wood the other way!” Maybe Deb won’t notice it.

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Guess what! As soon as Deb saw the desk her eyes are drawn immediately to that one piece of wood and she states, “Hmmm… I think that piece isn’t in right.”

After convincing her that it is not a vital piece of the desk we agree that we’ll leave it as is and by this time Deb is so desperate to have a functioning desk, she wants this first “trial run” edition.

Note to self: when I construct my desk, probably sometime in 2026 as it will take me a year or two to recover from this harrowing experience and muster up the nerve to try it again, make sure NOT to install that one piece of wood in reverse…😊

Red Green up at Possum Lodge would be so disappointed in me.

His favourite saying is, “Well…if the women don’t find you handsome, at least let them find you handy.” Now don’t get me wrong…I am about as good looking or better looking as the next guy. Our Supreme Blog-Meister Larry will attest to that.

However, I am definitely lacking in the handyman skill set. It is a gene I simply do not possess.

So, I will continue to look for ways out of future furniture home assembly projects. In fact, Deb is upstairs assembling a bookshelf as I type this MOTF blog contribution, and I am downstairs being as quiet as a church mouse hoping she doesn’t call me up to help.

Actually… she told me I had a “stay of execution” from this project as it is straight forward, and she has completed similar projects before without too much aggravation. Yay!

Well… here’s hoping you have better handyman experiences than I do.

Keep your tool belts tight around your waist and your hammer easily accessible.

Peace,

Jim

Schindler’s List vs. One Life

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This past week, I returned to the movie theatre after a lengthy absence for my requisite popcorn fix… and immersion into the drama of a historical story that could so easily be lost.

Let me take you along on this journey where I compare my probable all-time favourite movie alongside a “newcomer” that sizzles with a similar power to amaze us with what humanity is capable of.

If you had to choose, which one would you watch?

In the vast library of cinema, both of these films tiptoe the balance of unimaginable tragedy and darkness, with immense redemption, compassion, and courage.

Set against the backdrop of World War II, Schindler’s List and One Life illuminate different facets of the Holocaust, one a harrowing descent into the abyss, the other a flicker of hope on a train journey to an uncertain future.

Schindler’s List (1993)

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Steven Spielberg’s Schindler’s List is a masterpiece of stark realism. We enter the narrative alongside Oskar Schindler, a German industrialist initially driven by self-preservation and profit.

Liam Neeson’s portrayal is chillingly real, his transformation from opportunist to reluctant saviour etched on his face. We see it flicker in his stolen glances at the girl in the red coat – a vibrant splash of colour amidst the crushing monochrome world of Nazi-occupied Krakow.

Janusz Kamiński’s cinematography is a masterclass in creating atmosphere. The Krakow ghetto is painted in shades of grey, the snow falling like ash, clinging to the threadbare coats of those whose lives hang in the balance. The camera lingers on the haunting beauty of a young girl skipping through the snow, oblivious to the horror that unfolds around her.

Then, with a brutal shift, we witness the liquidation of the ghetto, the methodical cruelty of the Nazis stripping humanity from their victims. The silence is broken only by the heart-wrenching cries and the rhythmic crunch of boots on frozen ground.

The performances in Schindler’s List are nothing short of extraordinary. Ralph Fiennes embodies the sadistic SS officer, Amon Göeth… perched on his balcony, rifle in hand, casually picking off Jews in the ghetto like crows. With eyes devoid of empathy, his chilling presence hangs heavy over every scene, a constant reminder of the monstrous capacity for evil that lurks within humanity.

Ben Kingsley’s portrayal of Itzhak Stern, the quiet orchestrator behind Schindler’s list, is a blueprint in understated power. Their scenes crackle with tension over the desperate negotiations and moral compromises made in the face of annihilation.

Yet, amidst the bleakness, a flicker of hope remains. Schindler’s transformation is a testament to the power of empathy. We see it in his growing horror at the unfolding atrocities, in his defiance against Göeth, and in his unwavering determination to save as many lives as possible.

The film ends on a haunting note, Schindler collapsing in tears as he and his wife leave the ghetto for the last time.

We are left with a profound question: in the face of such overwhelming evil, would we have found the courage to do the same?

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One Life (2024)

One Life introduces us to Nicholas Winton, a London stockbroker who becomes an unlikely hero. Anthony Hopkins portrays the elderly Winton with quiet resolve, his eyes reflecting the sorrow of a world teetering on the brink. Johnny Flynn is the younger version of Hopkins who refuses to give up in his lifesaving quest.

Unlike Schindler, Winton is not a larger-than-life figure. He’s an ordinary man thrust into extraordinary circumstances, a man who chooses to act when faced with the systematic degradation and starvation of Jewish children in Czechoslovakia.

Zac Nicholson’s cinematography creates a sense of intimacy, drawing us into Winton’s world. We see the worry etched on his face as he grapples with the weight of his mission. The camera lingers on his hands meticulously scribbling names on a list, each stroke a testament to his unwavering determination.

Helena Bonham Carter delivers a powerful performance as Winton’s mother, Babi. Her quiet strength and unwavering love provide a steady source of support amidst the chaos.

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One Life doesn’t shy away from the emotional toll Winton’s actions take. We see the sleepless nights, the gnawing fear of discovery, the frustration of knowing he can’t save everyone. But it also captures the quiet moments of triumph – the look of relief on a child’s face as they board the train, the flicker of hope for a new life.

The film winds down with powerful images – the train doors closing, carrying the children to an uncertain, unknown future as the Nazis invade Czechoslovakia.

And in his elder years, we see Winton’s face reflecting a mix of exhaustion, relief… and finally… the profound knowledge that his actions have changed countless lives.

We are left wondering, what small act of kindness could we initiate today, to ripple outwards and make a difference?

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Schindler’s List and One Life are not competing narratives, but rather complementary pieces of a larger story.

Schindler’s List confronts us with the depths of human cruelty, forcing us to wonder about the darkness that resides within us all.

One Life offers a glimmer of hope, reminding us of the power of ordinary people to choose compassion in the face of overwhelming odds.

Why watch one and not the other? I’d hate to choose; perhaps because Schindler’s List immerses us in the abyss, while One Life offers a glimmer of light.

But both are vital. One screams of humanity’s capacity for cruelty; the other whispers of its capacity for compassion. Watch them side by side, and you’ll understand—the shadows and the light are woven from the same cloth.

So choose your path. Dive into the monochrome abyss or follow the train tracks to hope.

Either way, you’ll leave the theatre disturbed and changed—a witness to history at its ugliest, and through compassion and courage, perhaps its finest as well.

In these films, you’ll find not just celluloid but fragments of your own soul.

And so, the reels spin, weaving tales of courage and frailty, of darkness and dawn.

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AFTERTHOUGHTS… there are parallels with these films in today’s world… we only need look at Gaza, Ukraine, Sudan, Yemen, Syria.

Here’s a current Canadian story… there is a 9 year-old boy named Yahya in Gaza, whose parents, sister, and two brothers were killed when a rocket flattened the home where they’d been sheltering in early February.   

The youngster barely survived, buried under crushed brick and concrete, shattering several bones in his arms and legs.

Even though he’s cleared the huge hurdle of being able to leave, other major obstacles remain.  

In his case, it’s the huge cost of his medical bills, which would have to be borne by his Canadian sponsor, his uncle in Montreal.

“His full medical costs will not be covered by the [Canadian] government but by me,” said the uncle, Hamad. “Medical costs in Canada are not cheap.” 

In an earlier interview, the family estimated they needed to find $40,000 to cover the boy’s treatment and recovery. So far, a GoFundMe page set up by supporters has raised $4,170.

To help just One Life, here is the link to Yahya’s GoFundMe page: https://www.gofundme.com/f/yahya-the-sole-survivor

* The 8 Commandments of Compounding

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If I were a rich man… *sing the rest in your own head*

On one hand, I’m not a rich man, at least not in the traditional financial sense.

On the other hand… I do have lots of non-monetary riches in my life, and financially, well… I’m OK.

The reason I’m OK? COMPOUNDING!

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Yes, welcome to the amazing world of compounding—the magic that turns pennies into palaces, dreams into reality, and ordinary folks into financial Bezos’ and Buffett’s.

And as Tevye says: “And may the Lord smite me with that curse!”

Like the snowball that gathers momentum and size as it rumbles down a hillside, compounding of money is a powerful and useful force that almost anyone can take advantage of… me and you included.

I’ve never achieved the heights of income earning. I made a respectable salary during my lab career but nothing that would catapult me into the high-flying atmosphere of the 1%! Compounding has been my bosom buddy for many years…

See yourself standing at the edge of a vast financial landscape, the sun casting golden rays on your eager face. The air crackles with possibility, and the wind whispers secrets of abundance.

Compounding isn’t just a financial concept; it’s a cosmic force—an invisible hand that nudges your money toward greatness. (CAVEAT: yonder taxman is also a cosmic force!)

It’s the reason why your spare change can evolve into a treasure chest. So, brethren, grab your compass (or smartphone, because it’s 2024), and let’s traipse this terrain together.

I bequeath to you 8 Commandments of Compounding (no mountain climbing required):

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1. Thou Shalt Begin Early and Stay Consistent

Imagine compounding as thy loyal friend who loves to party. The earlier you invite it to the fiesta, the wilder the celebration becomes. So, throw the financial confetti into the air and start investing today. Whether you’re 22, 42, even 62… the magic of compounding works best when it has time to groove.

Action Step: Set up monthly automatic contributions to thine investment accounts. Even if it’s just a modest amount, consistency is the key to unlocking compounding’s full potential.

2. Thou Shalt Honour the Rule of 72: Doubling Delight

Whisper the sacred number- 72. It’s like a secret handshake among savvy investors. Here’s how it works: Divide 72 by thine annual interest rate return (in percentage), and voilà! You get the approximate number of years it takes for your money to double. A penny doubled over 27 times gives you a $1,000,000.

Example: If you’re earning 8% annually, your money will double in approximately 9 years (72 ÷ 8 = 9).

Action Step: Find your favourite calculator (or just Google it) and play around with different interest rates. Witness the magic unfold, even while you’re asleep.

3. Thou Shalt Frequent the Cosmic Dance Floor: The Compounding Frequency Dance

Picture this: Thy money is throwing a dance party, and the DJ is spinning records labeled “Daily,” “Monthly,” and “Annually.” The more frequent the beats drop, the crazier the dance floor gets. Choose investments that compound frequently (monthly or daily) for maximum groove.

Action Step: Explore investment options with high-frequency compounding. Thy money will be doing the cha-cha while others are still waltzing.

4. Thou Shalt Reinvest Dividends Like a Boss

Dividends are like little love notes from thine investments. Instead of cashing them out, whisper encouragement ie. reinvest them. Think of it as giving your money to a pet rabbit: “Hey, buddy, go forth and make more babies and multiply!” In a few months you have a field of bunnies.

Action Step: Set up dividend reinvestment plans (DRIPs) wherever possible. Your future self will thank thee with a virtual high-five.

5. Thou Shalt Cultivate Bonsai Patience

Compounding is like growing a bonsai tree. It starts small, but with time, it becomes a masterpiece. Don’t panic during market downturns; they’re just plot twists in thy financial novel. Stay patient, water thy investments, and watch them flourish.

Action Step: When the market throws a tantrum, resist the urge to panic-sell. Instead, sip some green tea, breathe, and trust the process.

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6. Thou Shalt Diversify Like a Gourmet Buffet

Imagine thine investment portfolio as a gourmet buffet. You’ve got stocks, bonds, real estate, and maybe a sprinkle of crypto (if you, unlike me, understand what the heck that is?!), a feast of flavours. Diversification ensures you don’t end up with a plate full of croutons. Mix it up, my friend!

Action Step: Review your portfolio. Are you missing any delicious investment enrichments? Spice things up by adding a pinch of international stocks or a dash of alternative assets.

7. Thou Shalt Celebrate Milestones (With Real Cake)

Every financial milestone deserves a celebration. When thine investments hit a significant number—whether it’s $10,000, $100,000, or a bajillion dollars—throw a mini party. Buy yourself a cupcake or dance in thy living room. You’ve earned it!

Action Step: Set specific financial goals and celebrate each one. Remember, life is too short to skip cake (or ice cream, or chocolate).

8. Thou Shalt Leave a Legacy of Generosity

And last, but maybe most important… remember, compounding isn’t just about accumulating wealth for thyself; it’s about creating a ripple effect.

When thy financial tree bears fruit, share it with others. Whether it’s supporting a cause you believe in, helping a friend start their investment journey, or leaving a charitable legacy, generosity amplifies the magic of compounding. Sharing like this does wonders for your mental health… that’s a big bonus!

Action Step: Set aside a portion of thy gains for giving back. Your wealth isn’t only measured in dollars; it’s measured in impact.

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So fellow seeker, go forth! Let these commandments guide thy steps.

May compounding be thy compass, leading thee toward abundance and joy.

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FADING SCENES- The Song

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Something that’s beginning to dawn on me as I paddle my way through my 60’s is that I might be entering a period of “aging out”.

I remember in years past listening to my elders “whine” that movies and music weren’t being made anymore with their age group in mind. Everything was directed at the dominant baby boomers… Elvis this… Harry and Sally that…

I laughed, I scoffed, I dismissed.

Maybe, just maybe… the last laugh is on me… we baby boomers are on the decline… Vive Les Millennials!

When I look over my local movie theatre’s listings these days (online of course), I’m getting this eerie, deja vu feeling that I’m stepping into my own Twilight Zone where superhero flicks and wildly explosive CGI-laden films are filling ALL the silver screens. Is the popcorn buffet worth all these hours of pyrotechnics?

Adding to my disconnect, the music world has been turned upside down by “streaming” and digital recording (Full disclosure: I’ve benefitted greatly with the use of digital recording software and computers). The need to pluck a string or blow a horn is slip sliding away.

And so today I wonder if I’m slowly fading away into oblivion and irrelevance.

The song lyric below is inspired by my own slight sense of foreignness- perhaps aging out – from the current world, a similar foreignness that generations behind me have felt, and ones to follow me will no doubt experience in even a more meteoric way.

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FADING SCENES

by Larry Green

(Verse 1)
Streetlights paint the marquee a sickly green,
Flickering promises of heroes unseen.
Shuffling closer, my eyes scan the fading frame,
No Bogart shadows, no Bergman flame.

(Chorus)
Gone are the tales whispered in smoke-filled air,
Replaced by battles fought with CGI glare.
Tossed are the wit, tears, the human embrace
Only thunderous booms and a digitized face. Am I aging away?

(Verse 2)
My fingers search for the feel of a vinyl sleeve,
Liner notes unfolding, a verse to believe.
The song is a vapour, a click and a stream,
No crackle of warmth, just a digitized dream.

(Chorus)
Gone are the melodies writ by human hand,
Replaced by a beat I find hard to understand.
Where’s the soul, the verse, the bittersweet sting?
Just a synthesized chorus, no pull on heartstring. Am I aging away?

(Bridge)
Remember the flicker of black and white frames?
Slow burn of dialogue, whispers of names.
The hush in the theatre, a shared kind of sigh.

(Chorus)
Gone are the moments that endure like fine wine,
Replaced by a spectacle, a digital climb.
Where’s the depth, the truth, the lingering ache?
Just a pixelated cutout to shake me awake. Am I aging away?

(Outro)
Fading… fading, a lone figure in neon’s cold gleam,
A keeper of harmonies, a celluloid dream.

I’m a mere silver fox fading away on the screen

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My Unexpected Day That Will Live In Infamy

I’m a Stephen King … groupie? … hmm… maybe more of an acolyte. I was absorbed by the inventive re-take on JFK’s assassination in his imaginative novel 11/22/63.

With that as inspiration, today I’m gonna try out my own “Walter Mitty”-like fictional do-over of that fateful day from my then 6 year-old perspective.

Let’s transport ourselves back to Dallas, Texas some 60+ years ago… where a cavalcade of cars makes its way through busy downtown streets…

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The Texas sun beat down, turning my six-year-old self into a sweaty mess.

We were tourists in Dallas, visiting from Canada for Dad’s work. Today’s excitement crackled in the air – a parade for the President!

Mom hoisted me onto her shoulders, her familiar soapy scent a comforting anchor in the sea of popcorn and hotdog smells. “Look, Larry!” she said, pointing down the road. “There he is!” Shiny black cars crept by,

Everyone was yelling. Not angry yells, more like excited cheers. A long line of polished black cars was inching its way towards us, American flags flapping proudly like oversized butterflies. A band blared something upbeat, the melody swallowed by the roar of the crowd.

“Who’s there, Mommy?” I squinted, trying to see over the grown-ups’ heads.

“The President, honey! President Kennedy!“

President? I vaguely remembered grainy pictures of a handsome man with a funny haircut on our black and white TV news back home in Hamilton. This must be him.

As the first car in the cavalcade came closer, a man with a big smile stood up through the sunroof. People went even wilder, waving flags and homemade signs. I clapped my hands, feeling a thrill shoot through me. It was like a parade, only bigger, louder, and somehow more important.

Then came the open-topped limousine, a 1961 Lincoln Convertible.

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The day had thankfully turned from grey and rainy in the early morning to sunny and warm – almost 70ºF – as the clock ticked past noon. Had the clouds hung on, the bulletproof plexiglass bubble would have likely been placed over the heads of the President and First Lady to keep them dry, but definitely less visible to the cheering throngs who wanted a good view of their President and his Hollywood-stylish wife.

A handsome man in a suit waved from the back seat, a beautiful lady in a stunning raspberry-coloured dress and pillbox hat beside him. In the front, Texas Governor and Mrs. Connally sat turned in their seats, chatting with the President and Mrs. Kennedy and waving happily to the excited crowd.

As the car neared, a commotion erupted further down the street.

A rogue Frisbee, propelled by a mischievous gust of wind, soared high above the cheering crowd. Its bright red colour was a beacon against the blue sky, and it seemed destined to land smack in the middle of the President’s car!

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Panic surged through me. I couldn’t let a stupid Frisbee ruin this moment. With a mighty yell, I climbed free from Mom’s shoulders and sprinted towards the car, weaving through a maze of legs.

Just as the limousine reached our spot, the Frisbee dipped towards the opening where Mr. Kennedy and his wife sat. In a desperate attempt to catch it, I lunged forward, arms outstretched. My fingertips brushed the disc, sending it spinning wildly off course. It thudded harmlessly against a nearby motorcycle policeman’s helmet.

The crowd roared – not with fear, but with surprise at my daring feat. I beamed, momentarily forgetting the chaos I’d caused. Then, a deafening CRACK echoed from a nearby building. People screamed, scrambling for cover.

My heart hammered in my chest. I’d never heard a sound like that before in my short life. Mom ran out from the grassy knoll where we had been watching and scooped me up, her face pale.

Through the pandemonium, I saw chaos erupt in the limousine. Governor Connally slumped forward, a crimson stain blossoming on his suit.

Tears welled up in my eyes. It was all my fault. I’d caused the distraction, the perfect opportunity for some unseen monster to unleash their evil.

But as the dust settled, a different story emerged.

The authorities discovered a lone gunman hidden in the Texas School Book Depository. My Frisbee lunge, while impressive, had happened a split second before the shot. The bullet, aiming for the President in the back seat, flew wide, missing its intended target and striking Governor Connally instead.

The world went wild.

News reports hailed me as the “Frisbee Defender,” the six-year-old Canadian who, in a bizarre twist of fate, saved the President.

Accolades poured in – letters from world leaders, invitations to national talk shows, even a ticker-tape parade down Fifth Avenue in New York City. Back home, I became a national hero. My face adorned everything from cereal boxes to commemorative coins.

Though the initial guilt lingered, it was overshadowed by a profound sense of responsibility. The world saw me as a symbol of hope, a reminder that even the smallest act can have a monumental impact. It forever altered the course of my life.

Years later, the memory of Dealey Plaza remains vivid.

It’s a reminder that sometimes, even mistakes and coincidences can rewrite history.

And while I may not have been a superhero with superpowers, a well-timed lunge for a Frisbee, on that sunny day in Dallas, became my own little piece of extraordinary.

Now what can my 60+ year-old self do THIS November 2024 to save the world?

Lift Now, Reign Later… 5 Weighty Reasons Why

I don’t know if I’ll live to 100… odds are *start the tears*… NOPE!

Who knows how I’d feel about this same idea when I’m 70, 80, or 90.

But I wanna try for this moonshot and I want to encourage you to try too. If we fail in our attempt, well… chances are we’ll feel better along the route than we would have otherwise, yes?

Remember your childhood dreams of winning Olympic gold?

Dust them off now ‘cuz Peter Attia, a physician and longevity expert, has a vision: the Centenarian Olympics, a slow-speed competition where centenarians (yes, folks in their 100s!) battle it out for athletic glory.

While competing at 100 might sound science fiction’y, research shows that some weight training at a young (or younger) age could be our ticket to this futuristic sporting event.

Let’s think of our bodies like a retirement account. The earlier we start investing in strength, the more muscle mass and bone density we accumulate. Let compounding work in your body’s favour…

This means we’ll be more robust retirees, capable of tackling life’s challenges with the vigour of a much younger us. Forget the fear of becoming a frail shadow of our former selves – weight training empowers us to age on our own terms.

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Here’s why lifting weights, even… especially… in our senior years is the ultimate anti-aging strategy:

1. Building Muscle, Battling Frailty: As we age, we naturally lose muscle mass, a condition called sarcopenia. This translates to decreased strength, balance, and mobility, making everyday tasks like climbing stairs or carrying groceries a struggle. Weight training is a muscle-building machine, helping us combat sarcopenia and preserve our independence well into our elder years. Imagine strutting into the Centenarian Olympics not in a wheelchair, but confident and upright, striding towards the starting line!

2. Strong Bones, Fewer Fumbles: Osteoporosis, a condition that weakens bones and increases the risk of fractures, is another unwelcome guest at the aging party. Weight training acts as a bone-strengthening drug, increasing bone density and reducing our chances of taking a tumble and breaking a hip, or, breaking a hip and taking a tumble. This translates to fewer trips to the doctor and more time to perfect our badminton skills for the Centenarian Games.

Falls are the leading cause of injury-related deaths among older adults in Canada. In 2018, falls accounted for 61% of injury deaths among people aged 65 and older. Let’s try and stay out of that risk category, OK?

3. A Metabolic Powerhouse: Muscle is metabolically active, meaning it burns calories even at rest. By building muscle mass through weight training, we boost our metabolism, helping us maintain a healthy weight and keep those bingo wings at bay. Plus, a higher metabolism translates to more energy for all those activities we love, be it chasing grandkids, playing pickleball, hitting the hiking trails, or dominating the dance floor at the retirement community’s senior prom (yes, that’s a thing!).

4. A Mind as Strong as Our Body: Weight training isn’t just about physical benefits; it also does wonders for our mental well-being. It can reduce stress, improve mood, and boost cognitive function, keeping our brains sharp and ready to strategize our next victory at the Centenarian Olympics. Who knows, you might even develop a taste for competitive chess (or WORDLE) in your later years!

5. Confidence is Key: Let’s face it, feeling strong and capable is just plain empowering. Weight training can do wonders for our self-confidence and body image, making us feel comfortable and confident in our own skin, regardless of age. Imagine strutting into the Centenarian Olympics opening ceremony, head held high, knowing you’ve invested in your health and well-being throughout your life.

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OK, I hear you now, you might be thinking, “Weight training? That sounds daunting!”

Fear not, hefting weights can be hard, but not always… weight training doesn’t have to be an arduous task reserved for gym rats and bodybuilders. In fact, it can be as simple as lifting household items like cans of soup or water bottles, or utilizing resistance bands in the comfort of your living room.

The key is to find activities that you enjoy and that suit your fitness level.

But enough of me lecturing you on the merits of weight training. How about some inspiration and motivation from some real-life centenarians who are living proof of the power of lifting weights? Check out these amazing videos of centenarians doing incredible feats of strength, such as this one of a 100-year-old woman deadlifting 40 kg, or this one of a 102-year-old man setting a world record for the 100-meter dash.

Whether it’s joining a group fitness class, following along with online tutorials, or even dancing around the house with grandchildren as makeshift weights, the options are endless.

By making exercise enjoyable and accessible, seniors can seamlessly integrate strength training into their daily routines, without feeling overwhelmed or intimidated.

Also, it’s important to highlight that weight training is not a one-size-fits-all endeavour. Regardless of age or fitness level, anyone in reasonable health can undertake some form of physical training to increase their lifespan and healthspan.

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From gentle resistance exercises for beginners to more advanced workouts for seasoned lifters, there’s something for everyone on the journey to prolonged health.

Plus, with the guidance of qualified trainers and healthcare professionals, seniors can safely modify exercises to accommodate any existing medical conditions or mobility limitations. Remember, it’s not about perfection; it’s about progress and feeling empowered in your own body.

In a world obsessed with youthfulness, let’s redefine what it means to age gracefully. By prioritizing strength training, seniors can not only extend their lifespan but also enhance their quality of life.

Grab some weights, find a workout buddy (or a robotic personal trainer if technology allows!), and get started on your journey to Centenarian Olympic glory.

Sure, aging is inevitable, but how we age is in our control. Let’s start building our physical and mental strength today, and we could be the ones hoisting the gold medal in 2060! Just be sure to stay humble and kind– after all, you’ll be competing against centenarians who’ve seen it all.

So, heave-ho, let’s go… what are you waiting for?

Grab those dumbbells, channel your inner Schwarzenegger, and let’s climb up that Stairway to Heaven with beefy quads and lips stretched to our ears!