Many of these columns begin quite unexpectedly – with an image, an overheard remark, a vague feeling. This week’s is no different.
When we are in distress, when are in peril, we rely on our first responders. Firefighters. Paramedics. Police. And, the dispatchers who sort through often-harrowing calls and stay on the line until help arrives.
Last month, Sean Eckford wrote a story in the paper I write for about psychiatric care at Sechelt Hospital that ought to concern everyone in our community.
It was late Christmas Eve, 1990, and I was sitting in the wondrously beautiful Railway Room in the Centre Block on Parliament Hill.
To be a professional writer means dealing with editors.
I have been thinking about art and love in the last month or so – what they are and what they can do to lift our wings and, perhaps, elevate mental health and stay the storms that buffet mental illness.
A couple of weeks ago, Joe died of an overdose.
Let’s be frank.
The Sunshine Coast is not Manhattan.
Liberal-minded folks this morning celebrate the Democratic “victory” in the House Of Representatives, but it is your publisher’s view that this belief ignores reality.
In a long-ago Peanuts comic, Charlie Brown asks Linus “But is it art?” The next panel shows Snoopy’s garishly redecorated doghouse, with its grinning owner dressed like a used-car salesman standing proudly beside it. Both human characters just sigh.