Saturday Song: The COLLECTORS "I Must Have Been Blind"

This song is about somebody leaving the country and the simple life and finding that living in the city wasn't where it's at. I'm sure we can all relate to the lyrics.

In a way, I did the same thing. My family lived in a town but I moved to the city of Edmonton when I was a teenager. I lived there for thirty years until the noise and churlish people drove me mad. Then I moved to a tiny hamlet where it's wonderfully quiet.

Listen to The Collectors song here.

Many folks do the same thing spiritually. They're raised as Christians but they wander away as teens. After years of feeling unfulfilled and running into many difficulties, they return to the faith. This time though, they own their own beliefs.

Jesus gave a good example of this in one of his most famous parables. A father's son wanted his share of the estate right away. That prodigal went to a far land and blew all his money on riotous living. When his cash ran out, so did his friends. He finally took a job feeding pigs but nobody fed him. Luke 15:17 (KJV) says, "And when he came to himself, he said, 'How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!'"

We know the rest of the story. And just like that young man, people can return to Christ and be warmly received with open arms. John 6:37 (KJV) quotes Jesus as saying, "All that the Father giveth me shall come to me; and him that cometh to me I will in no wise cast out."

What do you think of this song and what I've written? I hope you'll leave me a comment.

On Monday, I hope to post about if hell is fair.

Saturday Song: The Electric Light Orchestra, "Mr. Radio"

To most people, a radio is just a box which plays music or gives news reports. They have only a vague idea of how it receives signals and converts them into sound waves which our ears can hear.

But for me, my radio was my lifeline to the outside world. In my Deliverance from Jericho memoir, I wrote about how having my own radio made me feel a little less depressed at that institution.

One November afternoon in 1969, I happened to pick up a radio station from Edmonton, Alberta. Since my home town of Fort Saskatchewan was only twenty miles north of that city, I felt like I made contact with home by receiving that station.

The Electric Light Orchestra recorded a song about the comforting presence of a radio on their first album. I readily identified with it because of my experience at the blind school.

Hear this song here.

We Christians are also exiles, even though we've never set foot in heaven. But we do have a home waiting for us there when we die. John 14:2-3 (KJV) reminds us with the words of Jesus, "In my Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would have told you. I go to prepare a place for you. And if I go and prepare a place for you, I will come again, and receive you unto myself; that where I am, there ye may be also."

The Word of God is our lifeline to heaven, as is prayer. Just as I felt a connection to my home through receiving that station, so we have an assurance of better things to come. As the Apostle Paul wrote in Romans 8:18 (KJV), "For I reckon that the sufferings of this present time are not worthy to be compared with the glory which shall be revealed in us."

A day will come when this world will be replaced with a better one. Revelation 21:4 (KJV) tells us this wonderful news. "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying, neither shall there be any more pain: for the former things are passed away."

Just as I left Jericho Hill School and never returned to it, so we won't have to live in captivity anymore. We'll be united with Jesus and all the faithful who followed him.

So, what do you think of what I've written and this song? Please let me know in the box below.

On Monday, I'll post about another Bible verse which people misquote and misapply.

FIFTEEN YEARS OF QUIETUDE

What a blessing quietude is. Being able to sleep at night undisturbed by booming car stereos and flatulent vehicles is becoming a rarity these days. Thanks to the sovereignty of God, I have enjoyed peace in a rural setting for the past fifteen years.

I used to live in Edmonton, the capital city of the province of Alberta. The first twenty-three years weren't too bad but the last seven were miserable. Churlish people moved in next door so after almost three years of their noise, I moved. The condo was even worse so after eight months, I moved to an adult-only high rise. The suites were being converted to condos so there was always the noise of renovations going on. I moved nine months later to the main floor of a house and discovered that the neighbours were running a vehicle towing service out of their home. I endured their idling trucks and parties for almost three years before I moved again.

God providentially answered my prayers in June of 2000. I had received a large pay-out from the government because its clerks had been underpaid. A house in the hamlet of Radway was in the perfect location. As I prayed, it was on the outskirts of town with no close neighbours. At the time, there was a store, a drug store, and the Greyhound bus came through the hamlet daily. By the Lord's providence, everything fell into place.

Apart from those annoying magpies, I've lived in perfect quietude. Though the store and drugstore are gone, I now get rides on the Thorhild County bus with some seniors. The Greyhound bus doesn't come here anymore but I go with the New Horizons Seniors club and the seniors from Newbrook to shop in Londonderry Mall at least once a month. Transportation is still a big problem for me to obtain but I'd rather live out here than back in Edmonton.

Why do I feel this way? Living here is like being on a permanent writing retreat, minus the other writers of course. I can do my work without having my thoughts disturbed by some idiot who figures the entire neighbourhood needs to hear his favourite tunes. Being close to nature also inspires me. Even though the sewage lagoon sometimes stinks up the town when the wind blows from the southeast, I'd rather be here than in Edmonton with its exhaust and barbecue fumes.

I wrote at length about my move to the country in a book called How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. You can read more about it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Powell's Books.

'KEEP THE PEACE AND BE OF GOOD BEHAVIOUR'

Radio shows come and go but some leave a huge gap when they're gone. One of those programs aired on an Edmonton, Alberta radio show from approximately 2003 to 2012. As far as I know, no other radio station had a show quite like it.

Cop Talk was hosted by two actively-serving police officers, Sergeant Aubrey Zalaski and Constable Patrick Tracy. Every Saturday afternoon from 3:00 P.M. to 5:00 P.M., barring preemption by sports or both officers being away, listeners were able to speak directly to the men whose duty it was to serve and protect.

Another excellent aspect of the show was that Aubrey was a young cop whereas Patrick had twenty-plus years of experience. This, and the lively banter between the two officers, gave the show its charm. Additionally, the men ended each broadcast by saying, "Keep The peace and be of good behaviour. You've just listened to Cop Talk on six-thirty CHED."

On many occasions, guests would appear on the show who were experts in some field of policing. Dog handlers and trainers visited during a few shows. A detective also appeared on one broadcast. Even the police chief paid the studio a visit, giving Edmontonians a chance to ask him directly about police matters.

I had the pleasure of calling in quite a few times. Once I even asked a hypothetical question, the answer of which appeared in a short story I wrote. On another occasion, I told the men that I moved away from Edmonton because of noise, obnoxious neighbours, and that the Edmonton Police Service provided me with no satisfactory help to keep my neighbours quiet. I moved to the tiny hamlet of Radway to get away from that sort of nonsense. When Patrick heard my story, he was deeply moved.

It was the retirement of Constable Tracy which brought the show to a close in October of 2012. Having suffered a recent heart attack, he decided to take his justly deserved rest. Aubrey realized that the show just wouldn't be the same with only him hosting it, or with another officer filling in. Therefore, he decided not to continue hosting the program.

Cop Talk was one show I regularly tuned in. While doing housework or yard work, I enjoyed the subjects discussed and the banter. Saturday afternoons weren't quite the same for the show's loyal listeners after the program went off the air. To date, no show hosted by police officers has replaced Cop Talk. The way things are going, I doubt any new program will.

NO TRAINS TO DERAIL MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT

I miss trains. There was a time here in Alberta when every little town was connected by rail. People rode trains to the cities to visit their doctors and get shopping done. Students visited home often on weekends or during college breaks. Trains which passed through the Rocky Mountains had a car with an observation deck so people could appreciate the grandeur of the scenery.

When I lived in Fort Saskatchewan during the early sixties, I rushed to the classroom emergency exit to watch the train go by. These big machines rumbling through town and blowing their whistles fascinated me. My teacher once remarked, "You act as if you haven't seen a train before."

During summer holidays, I stood near the tracks as freight trains rolled past. Diane, my sister and close friend, sometimes joined me. We counted the cars and tried to read what was painted on the sides as the rolling stock rushed past.

Sometimes the train would stop. Fortunately for all concerned, Diane and I heeded Mom's admonition not to crawl between the cars. Her graphic stories of children losing arms, legs, and even their lives acted as a profitable restraint against the foolish urge to try something stupid.

When I moved to Radway, a small hamlet an hour north-northeast of Edmonton in 2000, the train passed through at least once a week.  What memories it evoked each time it happened. Even when the train came in the middle of the night, I still felt nostalgic for those halcyon days of my youth when the passing of trains were a wonderful excuse to stand next to the tracks.

Owing to a grain elevator fire in 2009, the train no longer comes through the town. Even the siding where excess rolling stock was parked now sits abandoned. The once-gleaming rails now are rusting unused.

I mentioned the train passing through Radway in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. This engaging memoir of God's awesome providence is available through Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

PRIDE GOES BEFORE DESTRUCTION

What a foolishly confident city Edmonton was before 1987. "We never get tornados here," people often boasted. Small twisters had torn up farmers' fields and buildings from time to time but Edmonton had never had a tornado. All that changed on July 31, 1987.

Throughout July, we had thunder storms and muggy weather each evening. The temperature was unusually warm as well. To me, the gathering storm clouds on the last day of the month seemed like the herald of just another thunder storm.

The office staff and I began to realize this was no ordinary weather when the thunder kept rolling without a break. Usually, we would hear a thunder clap and than the rain for half a minute before the next lightning bolt hit. On that day, there were no breaks in the rumble of thunder. One lady, who emigrated from Hong Kong, said it reminded her of the typhoon weather she experienced as a child.

Somebody ran into our office at about three o'clock and announced that the industrial park had been struck by a tornado. We all thought it was just an overgrown dust devil until we heard reports of the damage.

Though we were allowed to go home early, I spent two hours trying to get home on the bus. The trip usually took ten minutes. I immediately turned on the radio when I arrived at my rented suite to get news of the tornado. It had torn up a trailer park by that time and an unspecified number of people had died.

The mood of Edmontonians the next morning was as grim as the overcast sky. The reality check of a category five tornado hitting the city had now sunk in. People suddenly realized that we weren't immune to tornados after all.

Pride makes us do all sorts of stupid things. I know because it kept me in a rogue house church for fifteen years. I wrote the compelling testimony of how God rescued me in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. Read more about it at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

FOURTEEN YEARS OF PARADISE

Today marks the fourteenth anniversary of my moving away from the noise and lousy neighbours of Edmonton. After much prayer, I put a bid on a house in Radway. By God's grace, I've had more than just a quiet place to live. This home has been my sanctuary from the dread of what inconsiderate neighbours would do next.

Back in 1993, a family of churlish people moved next door to the house I had bought in Edmonton. Whenever I complained about their dogs and their sun inviting noisy kids over, they became increasingly hostile. Because of the two years of constant tension and worry of what stupid stunt they'd pull next, I decided to sell my bungalow and move to a condominium. From what I heard, they had strict rules about dogs and noise.

Was I ever in for a rude awakening. The cars in the parking lot were close to each unit and their noise as they warmed up drove me mad each morning. The rumble of traffic from two main thoroughfares also grated on my nerves. Even the furnace bothered me. When it ran, it sent a loud hum through the entire unit.

One of the condo owners was an amateur mechanic. I often had to listen to him revving car engines as I tried to concentrate on my freelance writing. This man became hostile when I suggested he stop repairing cars and turn down their radios as he worked. The condo board president was of little help in convincing him to stop too.

I thought going back to renting would be a good idea as apartments for adults have strict rules against noise. I was horribly mistaken. The high rise apartment building  vibrated like a tuning fork with every car which drove past it. Furthermore, the apartments were being sold as condos. This meant that the new owners were renovating their new homes day in and day out.

Moving to the main floor of a rental house didn't help me find a quiet place to write either. The next door neighbours ran a tow truck company from their home. Large diesel vehicles often vibrated the house from one end to another as their owners ate supper or lounged around at home. Those tow truck owners became huffy when I asked them to turn down the loud music in their backyard and when I complained to the bylaw officer about their monstrously-big flat bed truck.

What a wonderful change it was for me when I moved to Radway. This house I bought is on the edge of town and I have no close neighbours. I'm across the tracks from the hamlet and there's a farmer's field behind me. Apart from magpies in the warmer weather, I'm not bothered by much anymore. Writing is so much more pleasant now that I have the solitude and the peaceful surroundings to inspire me.

I wrote in more detail about this wondrous gift of God to me in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. It's for sale at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

A SACRED PLACE CALLED MILL CREEK

An article in the March edition of The Writer magazine got me thinking about "sacred spaces" in my past. After considerable thought, forests seem to be the places where I feel closest to God. There's something about being among tall trees, singing birds, and scurrying animals living out their lives that inspires a sense of awe in me.

As a child, I often played alone at Rose Creek, located east of the city of Fort Saskatchewan. Since neighbourhood children threw stones at me and called me "blindie" because of my thick eye glasses, I often explored the forest by the creek. Even today, the smell of the mud and the foliage evokes those long-ago memories.

When I was exiled to Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind for months at a time, I fell in love with the forest and muddy plain behind the school. My imagination carried me out of the lonely anguish I felt as I envisaged myself being an explorer of the wilderness or an astronaut on an alien world. The frogs and pheasants I heard drew my soul into the animal stories our teachers read to us. How wonderful it would have been, I often thought, if those creatures could talk to me and be my friends.

As an adult, the North Saskatchewan river bank became a place where I could wander amid the trees and wildflowers, losing myself in thought. Once I found out there were paths along both sides of the river, I used my Friday afternoons off from work to explore them. My photo albums are filled with beautiful vistas and close-ups of the greenery there.

Then I discovered Mill Creek. It too has walking trails. Long ago, a mill had been built there and a railway track connected it to the main line. Back in the nineteen-eighties, the tracks were torn up and a cinder path replaced them. Like the river bank trails, I felt a sense of sublime wonder. Walking through the tall pines and poplars felt like being away from Edmonton's noise and haste. Squirrels and birds filled the air with their cries while the creek babbled happily to itself. After walking the trails, I felt reluctant to return to the mundane setting of my home.

Though the forest on my neighbour's land here in Radway is far from grand, the scents and colours of the leaves evoke wonderful memories. Spring is my favourite time of year because the pale green foliage exudes a delightful aroma. Autumn is a sad time, yet the gold of the leaves against the electric blue sky brings back happy memories of Rose Creek. Even so, none of these places holds the charm and wonder for me like Mill Creek.

I wrote about my love for the forests in Deliverance from Jericho: Six Years in a Blind School. I also mentioned the pleasant walks I took through the river valley in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity. Visit Amazon, Barnes & Noble, and Virtual Bookworm Publishers to learn more about how God marvelously led me to freedom from blasphemous teachings.

SOMETIMES, A BROTHER JUST NEEDS CHEERRING UP

Have you ever done a good deed without realizing it at the time? I've had the blessing of being a blessing to somebody else quite a few times. One of those "divine appointments" happened on a Greyhound bus traveling from North Battleford, Saskatchewan to Edmonton, Alberta.

I had been visiting my sister whose husband worked in North Battleford. As I settled in my seat on that gloomy November day, a young man sat down next to me. Though I would have rather listened to my radio, we made small talk as the bus headed west.

"If you were to die tonight, where would you go?" he asked. Being a Christian myself, I recognized his question and what he had in mind in asking it.

He smiled when I told him that I was a believer. Throughout the rest of that five-hour trip, we spoke of how we came to Christ and where we attended church. We became so wrapped up in our conversation that the hours flew by.

As the bus entered the outskirts of Edmonton, my new friend said, "I feel so much better now that we talked. I was in a car accident so I had to take the Greyhound back home. Talking with you really cheered me up."

I felt astonished that I helped this dear brother in Christ. People throughout my life gave me the distinct impression that I wasn't much good at doing anything. I'm sure the Lord led me and this man to sit beside each other for the very purpose of building us up spiritually.

I wrote about the many times when church people discouraged me in How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity/i>. Read how God led me out of that toxic church at Amazon, Barnes & Noble, or Virtual Bookworm Publishers.

The day PRIDE WENT BEFOR DESTRUCTION.

"We never get tornados here." That was the proud boast of Edmontonians before July 31, 1987. On that Friday, a category five twister ravaged an industrial area of the city before demolishing a trailer park in the northeast.

Though I wasn't an eye witness to the tornado, I clearly remember the events of that day. Like previous mornings, the weather was warm and sunny. As I sat on a park bench in the Legislature grounds at noon with my bag of sandwiches, The sky grew cloudy. Throughout July, we had thunderstorms roll through every afternoon. I assumed this would be just another storm.

I was wrong. The thunder rolled continuously for twenty minutes at the height of the storm. I had never heard that sort of continuous rumbling before but a woman from Hong Kong had. She said that it was like that during typhoons.

At three o'clock, a man from another government department rushed into our office and announced, "There's a tornado in the south side. I just heard it on the radio." We listened in stunned silence as the newscaster described the destruction.

A half hour later, the senior supervisor of Transport Canada's Airports department announced that we should all go home. The streets were so congested that my ten-minute bus ride home lasted for ninety minutes. The rain fell so hard that it was like being in a shower.

I switched on my portable amateur radio transceiver as soon as I arrived at my rented suite. Hams relayed emergency messages between the Red Cross and concerned loved ones. They also assisted in relaying messages between medical personnel, the police, and hospitals. As in other emergency situations, the phone system became overloaded with frantic callers from other parts of the province and beyond as they tried to contact their loved ones. Radio stations also broadcast warnings to citizens not to use the phone unless it was an emergency.

By six o'clock, the brunt of the storm had passed. As rain continued to fall, I watched the news reports of the devastation in shocked silence. Industrial sites and the trailer park looked like they had been bombed. I can't recall off hand how many people died and were injured but everybody felt stunned at the carnage. This had never happened to the city before.

According to Environment Canada, the province of Alberta has 350 to 400 tornados in an average summer. Almost all of these touch down in rural areas. Edmonton's Black Friday twister occurred as a result of the wetter-than-usual July and a cold front that pushed its way into the area from the northwest. As a result of that twister, Environment Canada now announces tornado watches and warnings whenever conditions are right for possible severe weather. It's a shame that people had to die and others lost their homes before these measures were implemented. The pride of Edmontonians was crushed that day and the citizens learned a painful lesson from that traumatic experience.

A ROOM OF MY OWN

I feel sad whenever I hear about today's teenagers having to either share an apartment or stay at home with their parents. Property speculation has raised rents to where they are totally unaffordable for almost all young adults starting out on their own. Forty years ago, rooms were inexpensive and plentiful.

When I was sixteen, I attended a high school in Edmonton, Alberta, twenty miles from my home in Fort Saskatchewan. Special counsellors were tasked to help us blind and visually-impaired students with long reading assignments and filling in test papers.

One disadvantage of this arrangement for out-of-town students was having to rent a room. Normally, this would be of little consequence. In my particular case, I discovered that the landlady had some sort of fixation regarding me and my poor sight. Relations between us became strained to the point where I begged my mom to find me a new room to live in.

"There's a housekeeping room only a block from your school," she informed me as we ate supper one Friday evening. "It's only thirty-five dollars a month too. I'll come to the city and show you where it is."

"I'm glad to hear that," I said. "I'm getting so fed up with that stupid landlady coming in my room while I'm gone and even barging in when I'm there. She complains I'm too noisy, but her and her boyfriend shout and argue past eleven o'clock."

"Well, you won't have to worry about that, or her watching you through the window either."

"Yeah, she even listens at my door. I opened it once and found her standing there."

"That reminds me, where did that large carving knife I gave you go, huh? You didn't go and give it away, did you?"

"No, of course I didn't."

"Well, who took it then?"

"I don't know. The landlady was the only one who came into my place."

"Did you lock the door, huh? You didn't leave it open all the time so people could come in and steal stuff, did you?"

"Of course I locked it. The only person who came in there was the landlady."

"Oh, I just bet she stole that knife. It was such a nice one too."

"I think she might have taken that knife too," I thought as I ate. "She did con Mom out of the twenty-five dollar damage deposit because she cleaned the place for me."

The new furnished room that Mom found for me was cosy but what gave me the most happiness was that my new landlord and landlady never barged in or spied on me. If I muttered to myself or listened to music at a decent volume, nobody knocked on my door demanding answers.

In my upcoming How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity memoir, I wrote about other authority figures who didn't respect my personal boundaries. To a lesser extent, I mentioned similar incidents in my two previous books. You're welcome to contact me directly for more information about them.

"HANDING TICKETS OUT FOR GOD."

Whenever I hear "Tiny Dancer" by Elton John, I'm reminded of the days when I handed out tracts on the streets of Edmonton. This fad was commonly practiced among evangelical Christians during the early seventies. This wasn't solely a Christian practice as other religious groups also handed out their handbills.

In my upcoming memoir called How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity, I wrote about my introduction to this style of outreach ministry. Here's how it went.

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Though Thee Church had no overt evangelical mission program, some members encouraged me to share my faith through handing out tracts. my first experience of this practice happened late one January afternoon when Linda and I rode the bus downtown.

"Here's some tracts," she instructed. "Just walk down the street and hand people one," she instructed. "I'll be close by if you need any help with questions."

"I've never done this before," I said as I nervously fingered the slips of paper. "Is that all I have to do?"

"Yes. If the Spirit lays something on your heart, say whatever he tells you. Don't be afraid. Remember that Christ promised never to forsake us."

Most people I approached ignored my proffered slip of paper. When I held up one with the words "NOT TOO SHORT" on it, a sour-voiced old man said, "Not too short of money, I'll bet."

Knowing the false reputation among unbelievers of Christians constantly begging for donations, his remark stung. By the time I thought of a civil reply, the man had walked away.

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How I Was Razed is my testimony of how charismatic house church elders misled me for more than fifteen years. After leaving that congregation and turning my back on God for almost a decade, due to the lies that the cult taught about him, the Lord revealed his true nature to me. I now realize how blasphemous that house church's doctrines were.

You're also welcome to contact me directly for more information about my memoirs.

YOU KNOW YOUR DAD IS A CHEAPSKATE WHEN....

When children of middle income families apply for welfare because their parents are too stingy to give them enough to live on, it's disgraceful. Though the Bible does teach that we should honour our parents, it also says that a person who doesn't care for his own is worse than an infidel. At the risk of dishonouring my father, here's why I ended up on the dole.

In October of 1974, I visited the Alberta Social Services office. The woman who interviewed me that afternoon began by asking why I was applying for Social Assistance. I explained that I attended a high school in edmonton that had special counsellors. They were tasked with helping visually-impaired students by reading assignments onto tape and assisting them in filling out test papers. My parents lived in Fort Saskatchewan, twenty miles north of the city. Due to the rapid rise of inflation the previous year, my allowance from my father barely paid the rent or bought enough food to fill me.

I gave her my address but when she asked for my phone number, I admitted that I couldn't afford one. After she sent another woman to visit my tiny furnished room to ensure that I was telling the truth, she gave me food vouchers and a cheque for the next month's rent.

I felt humiliated the first time I purchased groceries with a voucher. People behind me sighed and shuffled their feet impatiently as the cashier filled out the form and had me sign it. In spite of that humiliation, I finally had enough food to satisfy my teenage apatite.

Once I cashed the cheque, I set about to make my life easier. I had a telephone installed, bought an orange cardigan, and began buying fresh produce rather than the cheapest items in the store. No longer did I have to buy mint jelly because it was twenty cents cheaper than a jar of jam. Meat became a regular part of my diet. I could even afford the occasional block of cheese. Though I was dependent on the government, having money for the good things in life cheered me greatly.

In my Deliverance from Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) and my upcoming How I Was Razed: A Journey from Cultism to Christianity memoirs, I mentioned my penury during those high school years. In upcoming blog posts, I'll be writing about topics that I could only hint at due to space limitations in those paperbacks. Read more about these compelling memoirs here. You're welcome to contact me directly for more information about my books.

BRUCE, THE BUNNY-SITTER

Taking care of people's pets can be fun as well as profitable. I learned that lesson when I looked after a friend's dog in June of 1978 while she and her children journeyed across Canada for a month. I also watched their house as well as worked her daughter's news paper and flower routes. Though I worked a full-time job at night as a security guard, I enjoyed all of my responsibilities that month.

Twenty one years later, another friend hired me to take care of her two rabbits while she went on vacation. Loving bunnies as much as I do, I felt overjoyed at the opportunity she offered.

From When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies), Here's how this wonderful job opportunity came my way.

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One June morning in 1999, I was listening to my e-mail when a post caught my ear. A woman in Calgary, Alberta, was looking for a bunny-sitter. Heather owned two rabbits, Otto and Pandora. She was leaving for Europe for two months, so she could travel and see the total eclipse of the sun.

I volunteered to bunny-sit, partly to be of help, but also to have two more bunnies to love.

Heather arrived in Edmonton with her boyfriend Jason. She had brought two cages, pellets and other supplies along with her bunnies.

"Let's put them in the kitchen," I suggested. "I haven't properly rabbit-proofed the living room yet."

Heather agreed and we put Pandora's condo, a Neat Idea Cube or NIC, between the fridge and Gideon's cage. Otto was placed in a white cage with doors on the top. It was not the best kind of housing for a bunny, but it had to do.

"You can keep that cage if you want," Heather offered.

I thanked her, even though the PetBunny folks said such a cage wasn't the best for rabbits.

After Heather gave me the feeding instructions, she kissed her bunnies goodbye and then the three of us humans went for supper at Capital Pizza. Not only was the food good, but I enjoyed chatting with folks who actually thought of rabbits like companions instead of livestock.

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When a Man Loves a Rabbit contains many more fascinating the hilarious. Click here to read more about this book and to order it. You may also e-mail me directly if the comment form doesn't work.

LEARN FROM MY FAMILY'S TRAGEDY.

Is it better to make the same mistakes as others or to learn from their misfortunes? The answer is obvious. Like millions of families, we bought a young bunny at Easter without knowing how to look after her. As has happened in many other households, our rabbit ended up in a backyard hutch and died a few months later due to our neglect. This need not have happened. These pets can live up to ten years with proper care and loving attention, things which we never provided our trusting bunny.

I wrote When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) in the hope that novice rabbit owners would read and be forewarned regarding impulse purchases of living creatures. Here's an excerpt from it that describes the easily-avoidable tragedy of buying live animals on a whim.

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On a snowy day in April 1968, my mom and I visited the downtown Edmonton Eaton's department store and we spotted some blond-coloured rabbits in a raised pen.

On a whim, Mom decided to buy one to surprise my sister Diane. Because of the rabbit's wiggly nose, we named her Samantha, after the character in the Bewitched television show.

Diane and I enjoyed our new pet. We loved stroking her soft golden fur and her silky ears. Both of us giggled when Samantha tickled our faces with her whiskers and licked our fingers.

Unfortunately, we weren't as gentle as we could have been with her. We thought it was hilarious when Samantha kicked her legs spasmodically when placed on her back in somebody's lap. We often improperly carried that poor bunny and were entirely too noisy around her.

As I was attending Jericho Hill School for the Deaf and Blind in Vancouver, I was only able to be with Samantha over the Easter holidays. Sent home at the end of June, I discovered that she was kept in a large wooden hutch in the backyard. When I asked Mom why, she said that the mess the rabbit made had become too much for her to bear.

I visited Samantha the first evening of my summer vacation and when I knelt and looked in on her, she hopped from the main part of her cage to her private quarters. I opened the door on the side and she glared at me with large brown eyes?as if I were intruding.
I felt rejected by her.

Besides, it was boring watching a bunny through the wire.

I soon lost interest and the poor animal ended up alone most of the time as we went about our daily activities.

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When a Man Loves a Rabbit contains many more fascinating stories of life with house bunnies. These range from the tragic to the hilarious. Click here to read more about this book and to order it. You may also e-mail me directly if the comment form doesn't work.

UNLIKELY PET TOYS.

Isn't it funny how children and animals ignore our expensive gifts but have immense fun with the boxes? Upon hearing on PetBunny that some people gave their rabbits cardbord tubes used by construction crews for concrete forms, I decided to mooch a ride to Edmonton, the nearest large city, and buy one for my bunnies. From When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies), here's how an object meant for a building site became a beloved pet toy.

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I had a chance to go with my friend Pete to Edmonton in February and we stopped at the Home Depot. Among all the goodies for sale were cardboard tubes used to make concrete pillars. I was going to buy a six-inch diameter one, but Pete suggested I buy the eight-inch instead.

"The rabbits may need more room to hop," he suggested.

The price was the same, so I agreed. But an eight-foot tube posed quite a problem getting it into Pete's car, until he suggested we ask a store employee to cut it in three equal pieces.

All three rabbits loved their new toys.

Harry tried hopping through his, but the tube kept rolling from side to side. That ruined some of the fun, so I put the cardboard tunnel under the table and propped two water bottles against it. That worked great and Harry loved playing in that tube. It must have reminded him of being in a warren and it possibly gave him a sense of comfort.

Neutrino also loved his new toy. He even slept inside it. I moved the litter box, which he wasn't using anymore, and placed the tube next to the fireplace.

I stashed Gideon's tube under my bed and it took him a while to find it. When he did, he had just as much fun as the other two. I forget what I paid for the cardboard concrete tubes, but the joy I saw in my fur-clad lads repaid me a thousand times.

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When a Man Loves a Rabbit contains many more fascinating stories of life with house bunnies. These range from the tragic to the hilarious. Click here to read more about this book and to order it. You may also e-mail me directly if the comment form doesn't cooperate.

CULTS CONDEMNING CULTS.

When I was a high school student, handing out tracts on the street was a popular activity among religious practitioners. This was especially true of cults. Even when most pedestrians tossed aside the handbills, true believers persisted in importuning passers by with their messages. The litter from discarded paper became so serious that the City of Toronto banned tract missions.

In the autumn of 1974, the followers of a man calling himself Moses David fanned out onto the streets of Edmonton with tracts containing the sayings of their leader. Being targeted to teenagers, these mini epistles appealed to me.

From my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir, here is how I, who was also a member of an obscure cult, became acquainted with this equally obscure cult.

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This misplaced confidence caused me to defer unquestioningly to Brother H in all spiritual matters. "What are these Moses David people all about?" I asked him after supper one Wednesday in November. "Some guy on the street gave this Mo Letter to me but I don't understand it."

He examined the tract that I handed him, read it over, and came to a conclusion. "This is a cult. If this Moses David man was like either Moses or David, he would recognize that Jesus is God. I advise you to have nothing to do with these people."

As soon as Sister E drove me home after the meeting, I gathered up every Mo Letter I had collected. "It's too bad they're not of God," I said to myself. "I liked the comics." I sighed and tossed them into the garbage. After that evening, I refused to take the tracts that the Moses David followers offered. The fact that I myself was in a cult didn't occur to me.

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My previous memoirs, When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) and Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) are featured At my InScribe writers group page.

"AND YOU TELL THE YOUNG PEOPLE OF TODAY THAT AND THEY WON'T BELIEVE YOU"

This punch line from the Monty Python's Flying Circus sketch entitled The Four Yorkshiremen certainly reminds me of many of my generation's experiences, though we really didn't have it that bad. The fact that parents buy their school-age children smart phones with more computing power and data storage capability than my first PC, a 386SX, still boggles my mind.

Today, people under 18 years old would sneer at my first telephone. It was a black rotary dial instrument which could only be connected to terminals in the wall by a qualified Alberta Government Telephones engineer. We had to wait at home all day for him to arrive too.

Having applied for Social Assistance in the autumn of 1974, I decided I now had enough money for my own phone. I attended a special high school in Edmonton where visually-impaired students could receive help with recorded book assignments and filling out test papers. Because my dad previously gave me just enough money for groceries and rent, I used a pay phone located a block from my room if I needed to call anybody.

I felt like a real grown-up as I began using my phone. No longer did I need to beg anybody's permission to call anyone anywhere or pay a dime a time while braving the elements for the privilege.

I soon discovered the down side of having a telephone. Strangers kept dialling my number to make appointments. Apparently, my number once belonged to a dentist who had moved or quit his practice. I'd eagerly dash over to the phone when it rang, pick up the receiver, expect to hear from my mom or somebody from my church, and I'd find myself explaining that Doctor So-and-so wasn't at this number anymore. Some callers actually became irate because I wasn't him.

As the telephone was government property that we only rented, I left the phone behind when I moved out of that cosy room in 1979. This alone must sound like something from the horse and buggy era to today's cell phone users. They can buy the model they like, set up a payment plan for their service, and use their phone anywhere. Even with corded phones, nobody has to wait all day for a government repair man to bring them an ugly black telephone and connect a few wires.

The house I bought in 2000 still has it's antique wall phone. While I can't use it to choose options in voice mail, it still works well when I talk to people. Unless I find a job that requires having a cell on my person at all times, I'll stay with my old faithful technology.

Speaking of faithful technology, I wrote When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) and Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) using WordPerfect 5.1 for DOS. Click here to check out these paperbacks.

WHY NOT HAVE A "STAYCATION?"

Many of us have been told by our teachers to write essays on what we did on our summer vacations when we returned to school. For some students, it was an easy essay to write. Others, myself included, didn't have much to tell. In my case, Dad spent much of his pay cheque on booze and Mom was too poor to travel anywhere.

Is it so wrong to stay home and enjoy two whole months of indolence? In my Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoir, I related stories of doing unremarkable-but enjoyable things such as listening to all the ground-breaking hits of 1966 on my new transistor radio. In fact, my father bought it for me because I wore down his Volkswagon's battery from listening to his car radio for hours at a time. I can recall the excitement I felt when distant TV stations from America came in on our set without the aid of satellite or cable. Even the thunder storms were exciting spectacles for my sisters, my brother, and me to watch. Being children, we could have fun even without technology.

Though I didn't mention much about what I did during the summers of my adulthood in my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir, I did go on what some call a "staycation" on many of my holidays from work. During my 1983 vacation, for example, I decided to visit as many local attractions in Edmonton as I could afford. One of those was the Muttart conservatory, four glass pyramid-shaped greenhouses containing plants from around the world. There was one pyramid for tropical species, one for desert plants, a third for temperate flora, and a fourth which contained various flowers. I brought my new 35mm camera and took plenty of photos while there.

Staycations are even more fun when a friend comes from another country. Mike, who lives in Oregon, visited me in July of 1994. One of the places we went to was the Space and Science Centre, as it was known then, Edmonton's planetarium. Through my connections with the venue's music composer, Donovan Reimer, Mike and I were privileged to see equipment and facilities that were off limits to the public.

West Edmonton Mall was also an excellent place that Mike and I visited. My friend especially wanted to see the dolphins and ride the submarines. Though we enjoyed the other attractions, our jaws dropped when we learned from the ticket sales lady how much it would cost to use the water park. The water slides and artificial waves enticed us but we didn't want to spend all day there.

Mike noticed a local indoor swimming pool as we passed a shopping mall near my home and we visited it the next day. I think we had just as much fun there as we would have had in the expensive water park.

Good times can even be had for no cost for both children and adults. Whether it was exploring the local creek as a child or the river valley as an adult, I have spent many hours exploring as well as appreciating nature without spending a penny.

It is a wonderful experience to visit distant lands such as Mexico, Russia, and Trinidad, which I wrote about in my upcoming How I Was Razed memoir, but there are many fascinating local attractions just waiting to be seen and enjoyed. In these times of economic hardship, it only makes sense to get the most value for the least amount of money. Since municipalities work so hard to attract out-of-town visitors, you and your family will also benefit from visiting local attractions.

Some people use books as a way to fill the long lazy days of summer. My When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) and Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School) memoirs are filled with interesting and poignant vignettes, many of which have been posted on this blog. I have also posted them on Wordpress. Blurbs describing my books are on the InScribe Writers Group page.

TEN WONDERFUL YEARS OF SOLITUDE.

Living here in this tiny prairie hamlet has been like a permanent writer's retreat for me. It was an answer to my many anguished prayers for a quiet place near a small town that had a grocery store and a post office. Though I miss being able to take a city bus to any shop I desire, I wouldn't trade this three bedroom house for any in Edmonton.

Since moving from the noise-ridden metropolis, which had been my home for almost thirty years, I have written many freelance articles. My two memoirs were also "penned" here and self-published by a Calgary company called Blitzprint.

From my first book, When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies), here is a brief account of how I arrived in this writer's paradise.

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Poor Gideon had to stay in his cage for most of that eagerly anticipated day on which I moved to Radway. Pastor Doug arrived at ten o'clock that morning with his black pickup truck and we hauled about five loads of furniture and boxes into it while my little prince fumed in his prison. Gideon just couldn't understand why he suddenly wasn't allowed to roam free in his accustomed way.

My bunny, his cage and litter were taken on the last trip that evening. I worried that he'd stress in the carrier, which we had put in the truck cab, but the hour-long trip didn't bother him too badly. Maybe he'd given up being free by that time.

Doug left my place a little after midnight and I was so weary from hauling things that I put Gideon's cage in the bathroom, placed his litter box by the tub and gave him his pellets. Once again he went into his head-bobbing routine. He periscoped and put his paws on the tub and toilet, trying to get a better view of the new place.

I was about to lock Gideon in the cage again when I realized I could contain him in the room. It was about five feet by twelve and he had plenty of space. Bathrooms are great places to keep rabbits in because there aren't many things they can chew on or ruin with urine.

As I went to sleep, I marvelled at the sound of frogs croaking outside my window, instead of the rumble of traffic and the thud, thud of stereos to which I was accustomed.

When I woke up the next morning, I felt like a child at the start of summer vacation. I was free of the city racket and I actually slept without earplugs for the first time in years.

As soon as I was out of bed, I visited Gideon. He had enjoyed the night and to my delight, he used his litter box where I'd placed it. I feared he'd pee somewhere inconvenient, like in the doorway where I'd step in it.

Though I was extremely busy unpacking, I let Gideon explore the laundry room that was next to the bathroom. It was about the same shape and size, and the appliances weren't installed yet. Gideon had a great time conquering that area. In addition to his periscoping, he kept hopping between the bathroom and laundry room as if he were memorizing the route.

My little prince seemed delighted to have two new rooms to call his own and I videoed him putting his paws on things and hopping around. My bunny boy's innocent happiness gladdened my heart and made the chore of unpacking that much easier.

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When a Man Loves a Rabbit (Learning and Living With Bunnies) and Deliverance From Jericho (Six Years in a Blind School), my second memoir, are available at the InScribe writers group site. I hope to have my third, and most likely final, memoir called How I Was Razed published by the end of this year.