I was glad to have so many accoutrements for cooking because I would much rather bake a loaf of bread than climb into a car and drive all the way to a store. Partly it’s because I don’t like shopping, but there’s also the math. I understand that businesses have overhead, but it still bugs me that there’s a ten-dollar price tag on two cups of flour, two teaspoons of yeast, and some water.

I’m also not a fan of going to restaurants. My family knows that when I eat out I want something that either a) I could never make myself, say caramelized carrot soup made with a centrifuge, or b) has a menu that puts together weird ingredients in wonderful ways, preferably in France. Otherwise, I can make pasta at home, and not to brag, but probably do it better.

When I’m on a road trip, I like to be prepared. I always pack little baggies with premixed pancake and cornbread dry ingredients with quasi-instructions written in Sharpie.

This trip we brought peaches from Costco, half of which were perfect for eating, and the other half, inexplicably mushy and grainy. Clearly, a pie was in order. My mom was the master pie baker. Not only were her crusts legendary, but she made it look easy. Mine aren’t nearly as good as hers, but I keep trying.

Despite the rented condo having so many kitchen items, there was no pie plate nor the right tools for mixing and rolling. The answer was a galette — a free-form, rustic, open-faced pie. Galettes are very forgiving. I know this because it wasn’t the first time I’ve found myself without a rolling pin. [Here’s what happened.]

Without my food processor I had to use a fork and then my fingers to rub the butter into the size of small peas, just like my mom taught me. To roll out the pastry, I used a water bottle with the lid off.

This slow, hands-on technique was oddly meditative. Since I was on holiday with nothing else to do, going old school was pleasurable, but I would never “waste” so much time making pie dough this way at home.

Which is why I read with disbelief a recent Substack where the author claims she’s never needed a garlic press. I own two: a cheap one that’s falling apart but I can’t bring myself to throw out, and my Zyliss — a glorious workhorse that has lasted more than forty years.

Sometimes, if I’m in a big hurry and the shape doesn’t matter, I will smash garlic with the edge of my chef’s knife, but more often than not, out comes the garlic press.

And when I got my ceramic ginger grater at the PNE — which makes a smooth paste without woody fibres or bloody fingers — the guy threw in a silicone thingy for peeling garlic. How do I feel about it? After I took this picture, I threw it out.

Big or small, I love all my gadgets I’ve collected over the years.

Okay. Maybe not all. The cheese slicers, rotary parmesan grater and vegetable spiralizer were definitely mistakes. I’ve also proven I can’t be trusted to take care of a nonstick pan and I’m still on the lookout for the perfect ice cream scoop.

But the rest are definitely keepers.

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I can’t remember what prompted me to buy the Instant Pot — probably some recipe during COVID — but holy smokes it’s amazing. It makes almost perfect mushroom risotto in 15 minutes, yogurt, broth, and a perfect hard-boiled egg every single time.

Then there are my knives — the Japanese chopping knife and the German paring knife. I hide them because I don’t trust anyone else not to dull them. Is there anything worse than mashing a perfect tomato you meant to dice? Or needing your full body weight to push through a potato? These knives will stay hidden.

Last year my apple tree produced a hundred pounds of apples. They were truly organic, meaning they came in all shapes and sizes, and some were a little buggy. Once we’d picked them, I looked at the boxes of apples on my porch and my heart sank. I figured I was going to be peeling and chopping for most of the day to get those babies in the freezer.

As proof my phone is spying on me, and possibly alerted by my salty language, I immediately got an ad for a Lee Valley apple corer in my feed. Ignoring the surveillance implications, I dashed out and bought one. With my new, highly prized gadget I got those apples cored, chopped and in the freezer in 30 minutes. I raved about it so much, two people borrowed it, and ended up purchasing their own.

And I’m not being hyperbolic when I say getting an air fryer was life changing. It turns out almost everything is better in an air fryer: vegetables, samosas, breaded tofu, chicken nuggets — even donuts. No regrets.

Recently I discovered my muddler — which I’ve never muddled with — is the perfect olive pitter. Sure, it smushes the olives a bit, but shape doesn’t matter for chicken Marbella or pizza.

Getting back to the peach pie — everyone raved about the buttery crust, so thanks, Mom. And while I had fun slowing things down and making do with forks and a water bottle for an afternoon, I was reminded not to take my own kitchen for granted. I could absolutely live without my food processor, rolling pin, and garlic press. But I’m glad I don’t have to.

What’s in your kitchen that you wouldn’t give up for the world? Let me know in the comments.

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I think that I shall never see
A billboard lovely as a tree. 

Indeed, unless the billboards fall 
I’ll never see a tree at all.

Ogden Nash

After our usual walk around the neighbourhood, the Corgi-Poo was tired but happy, and I was kind of bummed out because so many trees are disappearing and more property development signs keep popping up.

I complained to my husband, saying it reminded me of a poem. “I think that I shall never see—”

He immediately chimed in, “A poem lovely as a tree.”

“What are you talking about? It’s a billboard, not a poem,” I huffed (affectionately).

I’d been quoting Ogden Nash’s Song of the Open Road my whole life but it was news to me that his poem was a riff on Trees by Alfred Joyce Kilmer.

Apparently my husband knows more about poetry than I do, even though I’m the English major and I know words like iambic pentameter.

My kind of poems are more along the lines of Green Eggs and Ham (iambic tetrameter). The meaning is clear, it rhymes, and it has pictures.

My current favourite poet is Brian Bilston. I found him on social media where he’s absurd, funny and always catches me off guard. His topics run the gamut from politics to nature to Yoda, and he recently dabbled in Shakespearean Haiku (Haiku, Brute?).

So given my rather lowbrow poetry preferences, imagine my surprise when I discovered the writer’s circle I recently joined was a poetry group. I quickly realized my mistake, but it would have been rude to click on “Leave Meeting,” so I stuck around, hoping they wouldn’t notice my awkwardness.

After some friendly “how was your week” updates, the leader read us a poem, I came here to be a poet … by Michael Montlack. Inspired by a 1983 interview with Stevie Nicks (of Fleetwood Mac fame) the poem explores motherhood, choice, and Martians.

Using that as a prompt, we were supposed to write our own verse. Except for some youthful experimentation in grade 9 with bawdy limericks, I had never written a poem.

But again, not wanting to be rude, I began to write. Although I hadn’t intended to, the words arranged themselves into stanzas. After 15 minutes, it was time to read aloud. The others had lyrical poems with imagery and meaning and beauty. Mine, not so much, but the members of the group applauded my efforts.

They were such a welcoming group of people, I decided to go to the next meeting where the prompt was Zero Circle by Rumi. A 13th century Persian poet and Islamic scholar isn’t exactly my jam, so I was skeptical I’d be able to keep up. I had to read it three times before I understood Rumi’s message. It’s simple, but not easy. Stop trying to control everything. Admit you don’t have the answers. Let go of ego and certainty.

Rumi suggests that if we can do that, we become what he calls a “mighty kindness.”

When it was time to write, the words came tumbling out. At the time, I’d been down in the dumps over a particularly vexing friendship that seemed impossible to fix. The way I read it, Rumi was telling me to stop trying to solve something that wasn’t mine to solve. I couldn’t control another person’s choices, I could only accept them and move on.

“Life changing,” is how I described the experience to my friend, K, afterwards. She just nodded. She’s always loved poetry.

Now, I look forward to my poetry group, excited to find out what the next prompt will be and what everyone will write. They have shown me I’m not the first, or only, person to worry about stuff. Poets have been trying to make sense of life’s big questions for over a thousand years.

Bonus: my “poems” are getting more structurally poetic. Allegedly.

K, delighted that I’d finally seen the poetry light, sent me Mary Oliver’s I Worried. (For copyright reasons I’ll just encourage you to follow the link.) Essentially, Mary Oliver had an epiphany: there was no point worrying, so she gave it up, went outside and started singing instead. In my head, she was holding an ice-cold glass of Sauvignon Blanc and singing at the top of her lungs, but I'm probably projecting.

The theme of I Worried reminded me that as teenagers K and I had also loved Jenny Joseph’s iconic Warning. (You may know this poem from its opening line: “When I am an old woman I shall wear purple.”)

As a result, we’d made a pact to become dotty old ladies who wore purple, ate anything we wanted, and wouldn’t care what anyone thought. And learn to spit. Now that we are old-ish ladies, I like to think we’re nailing it. Well, maybe not the spitting part.

I’m never going to be someone who quotes Rumi in casual conversation and Brian Bilston’s humour is much more my speed than dense symbolism, but accidentally joining that poetry circle gave me a new way of looking at the world. It was, as Rumi would say, a mighty kindness.

So poetry. Do you have a favourite poet I should know about? I’d love to hear in the comments.

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Like I said, copyright means I can't reprint the poems here, but I've included links below.

Warning — Jenny Joseph

I Worried — Mary Oliver

I came here to be poet — Michael Montlack

Brian Bilston

Zero Circle — Rumi (Translated by Coleman Barks)

Confessions of a Tree Hugger

I’ve spent the last couple of months deep in advocacy for a robust Urban Management Strategy for my community. The battle involves city hall, provincial policy, tree canopy targets, and climate resilience. I have strong opinions on the need for livable and climate-resilient neighbourhoods. Kids need trees. Neighbourhoods need shade. Trees help cool our communities during extreme heat, absorb rain during heavy storms, and make our cities healthier places to live. I can't believe it's something we have to fight for.

Don’t get me started.

An unexpected benefit has been meeting people who care deeply about trees. Through the Wondrous Tree Fellowship—isn’t that a wondrous name?—I recently joined James’ guided tour of my local park. I’ve walked those trails hundreds of time, but through James’ eyes, I noticed things I hadn’t paid much attention to before: sword ferns, lady ferns, liquorice ferns, salmonberries, skunk cabbage, invasive species like holly, ivy, and Himalayan blackberry, and the distinctive bark of the Douglas firs.

I’m still terrible at identifying trees, but now that I’ve hugged one, I might just remember a Douglas fir.

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The Daily Inspection

Every evening the corgi-poo and I walk our neighbourhood loop. The community garden is an essential stop—but only after he’s done his business, I’d be mortified if he pooped there.

I love strolling through the raised beds to see what everyone is growing this year. Onions, lettuce, and peas are shoulder to shoulder with poppies and peonies. A massive kiwi vine has completely covered the pergola and apparently produces hundreds of pounds of fruit which is donated to the food bank.

The only blight is the morning glory—which I have feelings about—so I invariably yank a few out and may utter a few cuss words.

Back at home, I love sitting on the porch or the swing, or just wandering around my own garden. Yes, I have some knotweed and morning glory, but it’s my little oasis.

Let me introduce you to some of my friends.

One More Thing

Have you seen Zach Galifianakis’s This Is a Gardening Show on Netflix? It’s funny and weird, like Zach. I recommend it.

What are your "old friends" that tell you summer has arrived?

That same week another friend’s mom got scammed. She answered questions over the phone believing the caller was legit. They got into her bank account.

Shortly after, I got an email from the Alzheimer’s Society about keeping seniors with dementia safe from scams and fraud.

Then one of my writing buddies lost all their data when their computer died. The book they were working on just disappeared.

Those four events weren’t connected but it got me thinking, maybe it’s time to share what I know about keeping our digital lives safer.

Fair warning before I get into it: I’m not an academic or expert. Think of this as a conversation with a knowledgeable friend.

Don’t put all your eggs in one basket.

Let’s start with losing everything on your computer. All your photos, that great Canadian novel you’re in the middle of writing, every Instant Pot recipe you’ve downloaded from the last 5 years (because they were a-mazing.) All your tax records.

Some of that stuff isn’t a big deal. You can always collect more recipes. Or log into your CRA account to retrieve tax records. You might even be able to reconstruct your book. But those precious memories? Gone. So is all the time you’ll spend trying to recover it.

And it’s easily avoidable. Massive amounts of data storage are readily available for free or at a reasonable cost. The problem is most of us just don't bother.

Don’t it always seem to go / That you don’t know what you’ve got ‘til it’s gone

Amen, Joni Mitchell.

It’s not surprising most of us don’t back up our digital lives. It’s tedious. We’re busy. It’s too technical. We forget. Seems like a lot of work for a problem that hasn’t happened yet.

If you aren’t doing it, you are in good company. According to Get Cyber Safe Canada, only 8% of Canadians back up their files weekly or more.

The 3-2-1 Strategy

The standard cybersecurity advice for backing up your data is the 3-2-1 Strategy.

• 3 copies of your important stuff

• Stored in 2 different ways

• With 1 copy kept somewhere else

Your original is copy one. The other two are the backups.

“Two different ways” means that you don’t keep everything on the same device. If your novel lives on your laptop, one backup could live on an external drive — the little storage device the size of a deck of cards that plugs into your computer. Or put it in the cloud. Or both.

I use Time Machine, the built-in backup software on my Mac. Windows has backup options too. The point is to use something automatic, because “I’ll remember to do it later” is not a good plan.

“One copy somewhere else” means not in your house. If your laptop and backup drive are sitting next to each other on your desk, then fire, flood, or theft means they’re both gone.

But choose your backup buddy wisely—they should be reliable and not live on the same floodplain as you. Cloud storage also counts as “not in your house.” Google Drive, iCloud, or Dropbox are free options most of us are already using without thinking of it as backup.

Pro Tip: I learned the hard way not to back up my Quickbooks file to the same drive as my original. Fortunately, my accountant had a copy and I only had to recreate 6 months worth of bookkeeping. After a good cry, obviously.

That takes care of data loss. What about protecting it?

In my years in the cybersecurity industry I heard over and over that the biggest threat to personal cybersecurity is human behaviour. Basic hygiene goes a long way. Maybe you don’t shower every day, but you probably still wash your face and brush your teeth. Same principle applies here: small, regular habits prevent bigger messes later.

The basics:

• Update devices regularly

• Don’t click links in emails without thinking first

• Don’t use 1234Password as your password

• Don’t use “remember me” on websites

• Practice good password habits

Which brings me to passwords

The advice used to be to change your passwords every three months or so. But nowadays, we know that long, unique, and random passwords (St*r@t!c-B3am5-Tr4ck1ng-7924) are a better idea than flopping back and forth between your dog’s name and your mom’s birthday.

In fact, strong passwords work best when you leave them alone and only change them when there’s an actual reason. Like if a site you use gets hacked, or you’ve shared it with someone you no longer trust. (Breakups are hard.)

Top passwords of 2026 (for people without dogs)

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Password managers are a game-changer

If you know me personally, you’ve heard me say this.

Password managers are free or low cost, easy to use, work across your devices—phones, tablets and computers—and will tell you if your password sucks.

The average person manages somewhere between 150 to 250 passwords across their personal and work accounts. I have 415 in my manager. And a couple of stragglers in a notebook.

Start counting. Then put your number in the comments and tell me if you’re surprised at how many you have.

Ack. Where do I even start?

Don’t do it all at once. Start with email and banking— your most important accounts. Then tackle the others a few at a time. The easiest way is when you need to log into something anyway, change the password and add it to the password manager.

Passkeys—in a nutshell

Bear with me, it’s a big nut.

If your eyes glaze over at this part, here’s the TL;DR. Use passkeys when you have a choice, especially for important accounts but don’t get rid of your password manager yet.

Passwords vs. passkeys

A password is something you remember and type. A passkey is something your device stores and uses for you.

How passkeys work

Passkeys aren’t offered everywhere yet. When they are, you’ll usually see the option when you’re creating an account, signing in, or looking under account settings/security settings. Look for “create a passkey,” “set up a passkey,” “sign in with passkey,” or sometimes “sign in faster.”

And passkeys don’t just automagically appear. You have to choose to create one.

Once you agree to set one up, your device creates one for that specific account. It creates a public key and a private key. Think of them like two puzzle pieces that only fit each other.

The website keeps one “puzzle piece.” The other stays safely on your device or in your password manager. Your private piece never gets sent anywhere.

Later, when you sign in with a passkey, you verify it’s you the same way you unlock your phone or computer— Face ID, Touch ID, a fingerprint, PIN, pattern, or a device passcode. If your device confirms the two pieces fit together, you get in.

Why passkeys are safer

With passkeys there’s nothing to type, steal, or reuse. And a passkey for one account can’t be used to break into anything else.

Where passkeys live

Passkeys can live on your device or in your password manager. Depending on what system you use, that could mean you look for it in Apple Passwords/iCloud Keychain, Google Password Manager, Microsoft, Samsung Pass, or 1Password, to name a few.

The catch

You’ll mostly encounter passkeys on websites and apps for things like banking, email, shopping, social media, and streaming services. You still need your passwords because lots of sites still rely entirely on them.

As someone all-in on Apple, passkeys feel seamless across my iPhone, iPad, and Mac. I can’t speak to how well Android, Windows, Samsung and other combinations play together.

What works for me

I use 1Password as my password manager, but there are other options. My family plan covers five people for about five bucks a month. At a dollar a month per person it’s one of the best deals around, IMO.

A journey of a thousand miles starts with one step

We can’t really avoid having a digital life, and like the rest of our lives, it needs a bit of housekeeping now and then.

I’m no fan of dusting or vacuuming, and I don’t always take my own cybersecurity advice — sometimes I let backups and password management slide too. But a little maintenance goes a long way.

We’re all at different places with this stuff, but a good place to start is a little digital housekeeping this week: back up one important folder, put your email password in a manager, and turn on passkeys for one account that offers them.

My house will always be a bit dusty and my floors will never be spotless. My digital life won’t be perfect either. But it’s worth trying.

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At my Monday Zoom writing group, B read us a chapter from her upcoming thriller. Her main character is at a party up a remote mountain when all hell breaks loose. She flees, in the dark, chased by Bad Men.

Eventually, Main Character has to stop to catch her breath. She empties out her purse to take inventory. She has the usual handbag things: sunglasses, toothpicks, a Sharpie, a lighter. Digging deeper, she also pulls out a stapler, screwdriver and measuring tape.

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“Whoa. Wait a minute,” R, a guy in our group, said. “There’s no way she’d have a measuring tape in there.” He didn’t think that was a realistic item. “Take it out of the story,” he advised.

Well maybe a measuring tape isn’t in R’s bag, but it’s definitely in my purse. I couldn’t believe R couldn’t believe it.

Then and there, I dumped my purse on the floor to answer the age old question: What’s in My Purse? Beyond the obvious wallet, keys, nail file, three reusable shopping bags, and hand sanitizer, here’s the list.

• Tissues

• Tic Tacs (and Werther’s, because I’m a grandma)

• Weird surgical scissors (needed them when mom was sick)

• Advil

• Tea bags: mint and pekoe

• Gum

• Fig bar

• Clear nail polish

• Swiss Army knife

• USB stick (because I’m a modern grandma)

• Two dog poop bags (excellent emergency water containers)

• A sanitary pad — useful for cleaning dog poop off shoes or staunching a wound

• Dental floss — for slicing cheese or MacGyvering

What I didn’t have — and have needed twice in the last week — is a pen. (That has now been rectified, although I wish I had one like Lisa's…)

As I rummaged through my purse, the other women at the meeting were popping comments in the chat.

Important stuff! You never know when you will be on Let’s Make a Deal. lol

A little tape measure is essential for when you’re shopping and need something to fit properly somewhere!

R was still skeptical, but the next morning he sent out an email:

Out of the three visiting women my wife had over this morning, they all have tape measures in their purse. I need to get one for my bag now. B, the tape measure stays in your story, I’d say.

Why do we carry so much crap useful stuff with us?

Maybe it all started with Mary Poppins and her carpet bag. I’ll never forget watching her pull out a hat stand, large potted plant, gilt-edged mirror, and floor lamp. Respect.

Oh yeah, and also medicine and a spoon. And, you guessed it, a measuring tape.

Or maybe we learn it from the women in our lives. At a family wedding, we played a game to see which tables would go to the buffet first: the winner was whoever had the most items in their purse that matched a random list. My cousin Myrna had every single item.

Everything is Awesome (in my purse)

When my husband peered over my shoulder as I wrote this, he reminded me that when the kids were little, I once made an entire costume out of what I had in my purse. Even after all these years, he talks about it with a sort of reverent awe.

Batman had his belt. Women don’t even get pockets. But that doesn’t stop us.

If you ever find yourself running down a dark mountain chased by Bad Men — find a woman with a purse. She’s got what you need.

So — what’s in your purse? Let me know in the comments.

Although connecting with like-minded, writerly people was reason enough to go, a week crisscrossing the Salish Sea was the real winner. Our license plates don’t say Beautiful British Columbia for nothing. And like a lot of Canadians these days, I’m rediscovering how much there is to explore close to home.

As much as we love to complain about our ferry system, I can’t think of anywhere I’d rather be than up front on the ferry deck, with the wind whipping around me, watching the islands slip past. Unless, that is, it’s so choppy they lock the doors to the outer decks “for safety reasons.” True story.

I loved visiting this part of BC. The pace felt slower, and the people were so friendly.

Travelling up Vancouver Island and down the Sunshine Coast is a reminder that there is a lot of province out there — and people with different perspectives.

Living in the Lower Mainland, it’s easy to think about BC through a narrow lens — to assume that everyone shares our “big city” priorities. While I suspect most British Columbians want the same things — a roof over our heads, clean water, affordable food and good company — I can also see that what works in a major urban area isn’t necessarily what the rest of the province needs.

Wherever we went, strangers rolled down their window or stopped what they were doing for a chat — about sea lions, aquifers, the price of gas, the logistics of demolishing a pulp mill, or how our waitress’s family moved to the coast from the Kootenays because her grandfather may have been a murderer. I kid you not.

At the end of the week, I found myself at the award ceremony in Sechelt, contest booklet in hand, trying to look nonchalant about the fact my story was in print. I sat between two writers. One was a member of the Sunshine Coast Writers and Editors Society. The other, like me, had been short-listed, but wasn’t a member.

The other short-lister had made a deliberate choice not to have her work included in the contest publication — she felt her piece wasn’t ready. She pointed out that even though you retain the rights, once a piece is published, you often can’t submit it elsewhere. Something to think about the next time (!) I’m asked to contribute to a publication.

Being a writer is a solitary endeavour. I’ve been to my share of workshops and writers’ meetups on Zoom — and I got a lot out of them — but there’s something about the connection that happens when you meet in person.

If I had been on a Zoom call, I probably wouldn’t have found out the writer beside me had felt the same way I did about being short-listed: the excitement of being chosen, eagerly awaiting the results, and the “oof” of not placing. For me, this was followed by feeling like an imposter.

My husband was puzzled. “I didn’t know you were so competitive,” he said.

I’m not sure it’s the competition, exactly. It’s that a writer pours so much of themself into their work that not winning feels personal. It’s like being back in junior high gym class and the last one picked for a team. Even at my age, I still want to be picked.

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So what’s the story that didn’t win? It’s about a woman whose husband arranged to send her text messages after he dies. A fellow at the awards event called it creepy. I took it as a compliment, because he’s not wrong — especially since the app that inspired the story is an actual thing. Here’s an excerpt.

Okay. Don’t freak out.

If you are reading this, it means I’m dead.

Lucy reread the message on her phone. Was this some kind of prank? She looked up, half-expecting to catch someone watching her, waiting to see her reaction.

But no one was paying any attention to her. The Christmas tree lights twinkled in the corner of the living room. Someone laughed at a joke she hadn’t heard. Her brother and sister, their spouses and a tangle of kids were draped over the sofa or spread across the floor. A few were already engrossed in the annual Monopoly marathon. The others shouted as Mario and Luigi sprinted across the television screen.

Her siblings had insisted she spend the holidays with them, knowing the death of her husband, John, was still raw. She accepted the invitation and flew halfway across the country. Here, she was a favourite aunt, a treasured sister — pampered and cherished in a house bustling with life, and no reminders of what she had lost.

The phone pinged again and she gripped it more tightly as she looked at the screen.

I can imagine you — biting your lip with that cute little wrinkle in your brow while you try to figure this out. So let me explain, Lulu.

A shiver ran up her spine. John was the only one who ever called her Lulu. She could hear his voice in her head, deep and soft.

It’s weird, I know. But I didn’t want to leave you all alone this Christmas, so I found a way to be with you. This company — Lingr — they send messages after I’m gone.

I’m not ready to say goodbye. This is my way of holding on to you a little longer.

The room swelled around her, then pressed in, and for a moment the floor seemed to tilt. She pushed herself out of the armchair and threaded her way through the clusters of gamers.

As she passed her sister, Jan reached out and squeezed her hand gently. “Are you okay?”

“I just need to go to my room for a bit.” Lucy’s voice quavered.

She avoided eye contact. If she looked at Jan, she’d lose it.

Upstairs, away from the noise, she shut the door and sagged onto the bed. She read the messages again. Then again.

Finally, she opened her web browser and typed Lingr.

It was real. A website. There was even an app, for heaven’s sake.

She started reading:

Death doesn’t have to be the end. Lingr helps you create and schedule messages — a heartfelt goodbye, a secret, words of love. Across time and space, Lingr ensures when and where your future message reaches loved ones. You choose the right moment — even where they must be to receive it.

She swiped the page closed. What in the actual fuck was going on?

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One of my stories is going to be in an anthology coming out this summer: The Courage to Care: The Ripple Effect of Love in Action.

The book is a collection of personal reflections, poems, and pictures — all centred on the experience of giving and receiving care.

The vision behind the book comes from Al Etmanski. If I were to look up “caring and kindness” in the dictionary, I wouldn’t be surprised to find his picture there. Along with his late wife, Vicki Cammack, he co-founded the Planned Lifetime Advocacy Network (PLAN) — an organization that helps parents of people with disabilities create social support networks and estate plans for their children. His advocacy has helped expand legal definitions of capability and guardianship, and played a key role in creating Canada’s Registered Disability Savings Plan, the first of its kind in the world.

After Vicki passed away, Al continued a dream they shared: a book that would help carers see themselves in stories and remind them that they are ‘part of a majestic force, a network of caring people.’ As the book launch approaches, he arranged a meet-and-greet for local contributors at the downtown public library.

Caregiving can be a lonely road. It’s hard to describe the sense of belonging I felt being among people who get it — and who have a kind of grace that I haven’t quite achieved yet.

The experiences I heard about in that room ran the full gamut.

A man in his eighties shared the story of living with a disease that had affected his appearance My heart ached for the boy he once was, being told at thirteen that he couldn’t follow his dream because he was “too ugly.” And yet, by the end of the story, I felt buoyed. Clearly those words had not stopped him from living a full life.

One woman is building healthier, more connected neighbourhoods, convinced that resilience of people and nature is possible through strong communities. Another, was the first person with a disability to speak at the United Nations on self-advocacy — her work focused on the power of plain language and protecting the rights and consent of people with disabilities, including organizing against forced sterilization.

I also talked to caregivers who told bittersweet stories I could identify with — how there is both grief and joy in caring.

One person I had the pleasure of speaking with was Katrina Love Prescott, whose middle name struck me as perfect for her.

She and her team have produced two web series that speak to the caregiving experience. The videos are refreshing, compassionate and spot on.

Things Not to Say to a Caregiver is a sharp, funny series featuring a “Care-y Godmother” who turns awkward missteps into moments of empathy and understanding. The scenes are short — about three minutes each — and I laughed at the opening credits saying “based on actual events.” They sure are.

I appreciated the witty approach and every episode was something I’d experienced when caring for Dad. I suspect other caregivers will see themselves too. But the videos might be even more valuable for the people around caregivers — friends and family who want to help but aren’t sure how.

The other series tackles a more complicated subject: therapeutic fibbing in dementia care.

This is something that can be difficult for many people. I certainly struggled with it at first and call it ‘emotional honesty’ in my book. It can feel like lying, and most of us don’t like the idea of lying — especially to those we love.

But the series reframes the idea. Therapeutic fibbing isn’t about deception — it’s about kindness. It means bending the literal truth in order to avoid unnecessary distress or agitation for someone living with dementia.

The show follows a multi-generational family navigating dementia together, each member approaching communication in different ways. Let’s just say that, like in real life, they have varying levels of success. The episodes nail it.

Storytelling, whether in books, videos, or getting together in person, can help caregivers feel less alone.

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The stories I heard that day brought back so many of my own caregiving memories, along with a compassionate heaviness for others who are on that road now. By the end of the gathering I was on a bit of a high — and tired in the way that comes from being surrounded by so much emotion. But after a nap, I’ve still got the good feelings from meeting all those people who, just like the song says, Keep On Keeping On, doing their thing to make the world a better place.

It feels good when you find your tribe. I’m grateful to Al for welcoming me into his.

Nearby was a newly erected Paws & Play Dog Library. I read the plaque and found out both had been placed in memory of Dean.

I didn’t know his name until then, but I remembered Dean. On my walks during off-leash mornings, I would often pass him sitting on his regular bench with his Starbucks cup. He greeted every single dog and human that passed. And of course pet owners love people who love their pets, so everyone would stop to say hello. His motto was “no treats, just love.”

This new memorial bench sits just behind the bench that was his regular spot. It had been installed by dog walkers who probably never thought of themselves as a community until they came together to remember him.

Although I only knew him to wave at, when I heard he had died last September, I was sad.

The Corgi-Poo and I continued on our walk, but I kept thinking about Dean. Later that day, I found the local community Facebook page and discovered I wasn’t alone in my sadness. Photos and memories were pouring in.

It wasn’t just me — Dean had made everyone smile. There were pictures of him with dogs and people, dressed up for Halloween, Valentine’s Day, and Christmas. And photos of the ribbon-cutting ceremony with crowds of people — even the mayor and a few councillors. I realized I was part of a community I hadn’t known existed.

The lesson I’m taking away from Dean’s bench is that building community doesn’t always take a big effort. Dean did it by:

Finding joy: When his own dog died, a terrible thing as any dog owner knows, Dean went out and found joy in other dogs.

Giving joy: The simple act of sitting on a bench and saying hello with a smile made so many dogs’ — and people’s — mornings brighter.

In a world where so much of our “community” exists online, Dean was someone who connected the old-fashioned way — a person sitting on a bench, and greeting everyone who passed by.

Have you known someone like Dean? I’d love to hear about them.

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One of the hardest parts of dementia caregiving is having to take away the things that give your parent their sense of independence — driving, cooking, managing their own life. You’re trying to keep them safe, but you’re also taking away who they’ve always been. For me, that moment was when I had to stop my father from driving, once and for all.

It happened almost twenty years ago, but I still remember it as if it were yesterday.

Dad hadn’t had a driver’s license since his dementia diagnosis, but that didn’t stop him from trying to drive.

One day, discovering his car was missing, I scoured the neighbourhood. As I drove up and down streets and alleys, my annoyance turned to panic. I finally found him two blocks from home, stalled at an intersection. He was gripping the steering wheel with both hands, staring straight ahead, as the windshield wipers flapped back and forth.

I couldn’t sleep that night, imagining the what-ifs. He could have hurt himself. Or someone else. The sooner I ended this the better.

Early the next morning, I texted a heads up to Sally, Dad’s caregiver, that I’d be coming over to deal with the driving situation. When I arrived, she opened the door, her face grim. “He’s in the kitchen.”

Dad stood at the counter, rocking from foot to foot — his tell that he was feeling anxious. His eyes narrowed as I walked over to him, Sally close behind.

“What?” he said.

“Not good.” Tears stung my eyes. “You know you aren’t allowed to drive, right?”

“No.” His voice was firm.

“When you took the car yesterday, I was worried.” There’s an understatement.

“I drove all my life.”

“I know.” I took a deep breath. “But the doctor and the government say you need to take a break. Sally and I can drive you.”

His body stiffened. “I’m a good driver.”

“I’m asking for the car keys.” I kept my voice gentle. “I don’t want to take them. I want you to give them to me.”

He surged forward, finger in my face. “Get out! You are not my daughter.”

I knew it was the dementia speaking because he had never raised his voice at me. I wasn’t afraid, exactly, but I became aware of his bulk and strength. I straightened my shoulders, fighting back tears, projecting calm so my body and words were sending the same message, like the dementia experts advised.

The silence stretched. No words could make this better, easier. He stomped, paced, hit the counter with his hand.

Why hadn’t I made a better plan? Rookie mistake. I needed to shift gears.

“Dad, could you give Sally the keys instead? Since she drives you everywhere, it makes sense.”

He froze, then unclenched his fists.

“We want you to be able to go places,” Sally said softly. “But we need to keep you safe.”

“If we don’t do this, the police will have to. Please, Dad.” My voice cracked. “Please.”

This wasn’t about transportation. Dementia was stealing his freedom, his autonomy, his pride. And I could see it in his eyes; he blamed me.

Surrender came abruptly. He yanked the keys from his pocket and thumped them on the counter. His cold eyes met mine.

I craved a hug, a flicker of Old Dad telling me he understood, that everything would be okay. Instead, he turned and trudged into the den.

“I love you, Dad,” I whispered to his retreating back.

I knew I’d done the right thing, but it didn’t feel like a win. I hated being the gatekeeper. I just wanted to be his daughter again.

If you've walked this road, you probably know what I'm talking about. Was it the car keys for you too? Or something else?

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This essay is adapted from a longer chapter in my forthcoming book about my father and our journey through dementia.

Or it could be friendly advice — an invitation to get outside and boost your feel-good neurotransmitters.

It turned out to be the latter last Sunday, when four things aligned to make it a perfect morning to hike up my local mountain.

1. Sunshine

With the short days and what seems like nonstop rain that start in November, I was excited to wake up to sunshine beaming through my window — especially since I’d been invited to take a hike with a group of women and their pups.

Without the usual rain gear scramble, I had time for a cup of coffee and a Wordle before hitting the trail. As we walked in and out of bright sun, then into dappled light filtering through moss and trees, I couldn’t think of a better setting. I felt happier with every step.

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2. Forest Bathing

The Japanese have a name for what I was doing — shinrin-yoku, or forest bathing. It emerged in the 1980s based on the idea that simply being among all those magnificent hemlocks, cedars and maples reduces stress, lowers blood pressure and gives the immune system a boost.

Okay. I looked it up later — forest bathing isn’t supposed to follow a defined route, and we were definitely on a path. So maybe it was more like a sponge bath equivalent than a full-fledged forest bath. Still, I touched moss, listened to birds and breathed in that musky damp dirt smell.

I can’t say whether my walk measurably improved my health, but I certainly felt happier.

Believe it or not, there are instructions about how to do forest bathing “properly.” The first step is Choose Your Forest. Luckily that decision had already been made for me — which brings me to my next point.

3. Friendship Bathing

I’m sure that’s not a real thing, and I’m definitely not going to google it because it would probably get weird. But my point is that I tagged along with a good friend and the women in her book club.

There were seven of us, at all different ages and stages of life — employed, retired, married, not married, children launched… or not. As we wandered through the forest, uphill and down, over field and stream, our conversations flowed naturally as pairs or groups of three repositioned themselves, forging ahead or falling back.

It reminded me of Mr. Farley’s Grade 8 science class where we learned about kinetic molecular theory. Remember? Solids, liquids and gases? We were in the liquid state — close together, but not fixed, sliding fluidly past each other.

Hah. Finally, a real-world use for that lesson.

We chatted about everything from ecology to our dislike of being asked ‘what’s for dinner’ to dogs who had accidentally ingested marijuana (apparently not just my dog), to dawn simulation alarm clocks.

I ended up buying one of those sunrise clocks later that day — it’s life-changing. (No affiliate links, but LMK if you want more info.)

That morning we were seven chattering, laughing women and a pack of happy dogs.

Which brings me to the next point.

4. Dog Bathing

This has nothing to do with dog grooming, although I do bathe the Corgi-Poo at Bosley’s the last Thursday of each month.

I can’t remember who let their dog off leash first, but within a few dozen steps we were surrounded by a swirling mass of hounds. If we apply kinetic molecular theory to them, they were a gas: constant motion, elastic collisions, back and forth, circling round.

The standard poodle confidently positioned herself at the head of our pack. The ever-vigilant Collie took her herding duties seriously, making sure no dog was left behind. And my Corgi-Poo checked in every so often to see if treats were available.

Their sheer joy of being off leash in the wild was contagious. There’s nothing like the merry chaos of dogs to get the oxytocin flowing in their humans.

Letting it all soak in

Back home, with the dog at my feet and warmed by the sun streaming through the window, I sipped hot chocolate and dozed off doing the Sunday crossword. When I woke up, the benefits of the morning’s ‘bath’ were still with me.

After two long months of dark days, that Sunday morning felt like a gift. And with an extra hour and thirty-one minutes of daylight coming in February, I’m looking forward to more mornings like this with friends, dogs and feel-good neurotransmitters.

So if someone tells me to take a hike, I’ll say yes.

But then I worry that relying on technology means I’ll stop exercising my brain and I’ll become more forgetful.

Anyway, I made shortbread.

When I baked my first batch of shortbread this year, something was off. It’s my mom’s recipe, and I’ve been making it for (ahem) almost 50 years.

The batch was fresh out of the oven and I was anticipating that first piping-hot bite where I burn my tongue just a bit. When it tasted more like a sugar cookie than shortbread, my first thought was that I must be losing it. Did I forget to add the egg yolk? Had I lost the ability to follow a recipe?

After some sleuthing and crowdsourcing, I think I have the answer.

Many years ago, a friend who’s a fantastic baker and makes her mom’s Scottish shortbread, told me to leave the butter on the counter for a few days prior to baking. The butter softens and is easier to incorporate, giving a fluffier texture.

This year, like every other year, I did that. But it hadn’t registered that the butter never softened.

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It’s Not Me — It’s You (Butter)

A light bulb went off. Something was different about the butter. As I pondered this mystery, I was spreading a slab of butter onto a delicate slice of pannetone. It came off the knife in chunks and tore the bread apart.

Maybe I wasn’t losing it

It wasn’t just me who was noticing this. I mentioned it to another friend, who told me her book club members were saying the same thing.

Our middle daughter expressed frustration that she was having cookie trouble too. She was sure it was the butter.

Our youngest reported that she couldn’t get her butter to whip.

On Christmas Day, the matter became even more dire.

We’ve been making my mother-in-law’s recipe for hard sauce for the Christmas pudding for decades. It’s not rocket surgery: melt a glob of butter, add some brown sugar and a few glugs of rum, then heat and stir.

As my husband was making the sauce, I heard some decidedly un-Christmasy words and went to investigate. He was stirring a pot containing a clump of partially melted brown sugar surrounded by a slurry of yellow liquid that purported to be butter.

We reread the recipe. We tried reheating it, adding more butter, and even ran it through the immersion blender.

No change.

Christmas just isn’t Christmas without a flaming cake and hard sauce, so obviously we needed to start again. I figured it would be lunacy to use the same ingredients.

We scavenged the remains of a different brand of butter and, just to be doubly safe, we switched from dark brown sugar to golden.

Holding our collective breaths, we watched as my husband melted and stirred. He came up with a serviceable hard sauce — but honestly, even the leftovers are sus. The sugar is grainy, and the butter is not quite right.

What was going on?

Buttergate.

I looked it up. Butter consistency is influenced by both the balance of ingredients added to milk, and what the cows eat.

Way back during the pandemic, toilet paper wasn’t the only thing we were hoarding. Isolated in our kitchens, we were baking massive quantities of banana bread and heaping butter on slices of homemade sourdough.

The demand for butter skyrocketed, prompting farmers to look for ways to increase butterfat production, including feeding palm oil supplements to their cows.

I wasn’t imagining it. People who know about such things, “food experts,” did studies and concluded the hardness could be linked to an increase of palm oil in dairy cattle diets. You know, the same palm oil we once scorned margarine for.

The Dairy Farmers of Canada launched a working group to investigate and advised farmers to temporarily stop using palm oil, while pointing out no rules were actually being broken. There was no firm evidence butter was different, they said. (Get it? Firm evidence?) Besides, there’s no federal ban, and palm oil products remain approved by Health Canada.

After reviewing the scientific research and consulting industry and academic experts, the working group concluded that any perceived increase in butter hardness couldn’t be blamed on palm-derived feed supplements. Many factors, they said, influence butter consistency.

But research by David Christensen, a professor of animal science at the University of Saskatchewan, found that feeding cows palmitic acid supplements increases the percentage of palmitic acid in milk by 27 to 47% — raising butter’s melting point. Once palmitic acid in milk exceeds 32%, noticeable changes in butter occur.

So what’s the answer?

You could get a second job so you can afford special and premium brands from local BC artisanal producers — or from Finland, Ireland, New Zealand and France.

You could do what I do — pop your “cheap” Canadian butter in the microwave for 12 seconds before you spread it.

Or maybe my mom was on to something when I was a kid. It might be time to go back to margarine.

Let me know in the comments if you think I’m imagining things — or tell me about your own butter fiasco. Misery loves company.

Every year I make a gingerbread project.
Every year starts with the dream of re-creating Who-ville.
Every year, Who-ville does not happen.

Enter, the Penguins

TBH, this year Who-ville was out of the running during the “looking for inspirational photos” stage because who am I kidding? That level of complexity is out of my league.

Instead, I became fascinated by gingerbread penguins.

Maybe it was because of my visit to the Calgary Zoo last summer. I was enchanted by the penguins in the Penguin Walk. When one rather sassy penguin jumped-scared me at the railing, I learned that Penguins are surprisingly quick and agile — which explained the double-door system to enter the habitat. Well, that and climate control.

Here’s the thing, though. Penguins live at the South Pole, which is essentially a vast, endless, icy plateau of snow and ice, and doesn’t provide much opportunity for candy decorations. That’s why I decided on a North Pole scene, but with penguins.

When I started googling “gingerbread penguins,” every single picture showed round, cute, evenly iced cookies, either made by AI or by people with skills and patience I’ll never have.

My persistence paid off when I finally found a blog by a home baker like me. Her penguins were lopsided and imperfect, and therefore perfect for me to copy. I just needed to find a cooke cutter.

Who charges $35 for one cookie cutter?

Online retailers, that’s who. And it wouldn’t even arrive until January. Plus, five inches was too tall for what I had in mind. I finally found a local shop that carried smaller cutters. According to the website, they were 3.5 inches tall. Perfect. I drove 40 minutes to pick it up.

It was 5 inches tall.

Bigger than the polar bear cookie cutter, which I also purchased.

Whatever.

Back home and back at the computer, it was time to work out what the igloo would look like.

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It seemed like a good idea at the time

As in other years, I did a little construction-paper mockup. Inspired by a newspaper article about a gingerbread igloo made by students in Nunavut, I figured I could also build mine brick by brick. Super easy, right? Bear with me here.

I cut out all the pieces I thought I’d need. But this wasn’t my first gingerbread rodeo, so I made a few extra bricks. Good thing because I had carefully constructed the curved entryway in the mockup, but completely forgot to cut those pieces out.

I won’t even mention that my icing bag sprang a leak. As did the emergency-backup icing bag.

Then, the little blocks started collapsing inward.

Why? Instead of egg whites, the family had encouraged me to try using meringue powder for the royal icing. I followed the recipe (honest!) but it wasn’t stiff enough and kept dripping and oozing off the bricks, causing catastrophic structural failure. I had some leftover icing, so I added more sugar to it, re-piped the cracks and propped the igloo up with cans and jars.

Sadly, the damage was already done.

The igloo looked like a three-year-old made it.

Whatever.

No G-bread project is complete without trees — even at the North Pole, so I added a couple of those. A certain Little Lady enjoys decorating trees because she can load a ton of candies onto them. I like to top them off with a golden Werther’s star.

I had fun making the Abominable Snowman. Finally, a win. The blue was the right shade. And look at those teeth and claws.

Gingerbread, Assemble

Finally it was time for assembly, but the ridiculously large penguins were still bugging me. What a weird thing to obsess over. So I made up an explanation to make myself feel better: The penguins grow so big because living at the North Pole makes them magical.

My next challenge was to get those darn oversized penguins to stand up.

Normally, a gumdrop glued on the back does the trick. But not with these guys.

While my back was turned I swear those penguins started jumping off the counter, resulting in one missing a head, one snapped in half and another with a wing injury. I ate the penguin butt as I repaired the wing. It tasted. . . magical.

For the bears, most of the online pictures showed intricate designs on sweaters and scarves done by professional cookie makers. Sweaters were outside my skill set, but how hard could a scarf be?

I piped a white scarf onto one of the polar bears and carefully placed tiny red sugar balls in an appealing pattern — with tweezers. I’d barely finished when I heard a splat and had to rescue another penguin that had leapt off the table. When I returned to the bear, the red dye had oozed and spread into alarming pink smears, as if its throat had been —

Nevermind, you get the picture.

I scraped all the icing off the area and re-iced it. That bear remains scarf-less.

Ready to decorate

The day of decorating the igloo finally arrived. I got up early and realized I didn’t have enough candy, so I dashed to the dollar store for supplies. Bosley’s was next door, and Toby, my noble hound, stopped at their door, refusing to budge. Of course we went in so he could look around and be fawned over by his favourite clerk. While they were exchanging Christmas cheer, I noticed the snowman dog cookies.

Yes, I bought one for Toby and Daisy (the grand-dog.) They’ll have to share.

Everything’s Better with Candy

The Little Lady saved the igloo by applying massive quantities of candy.

For the final touch, it was time to place the Cadbury Mini Eggs at the feet of each penguin. But the candies had disappeared. A mild kerfuffle ensued as we tackled Young Sir and wrestled what remained of the mini eggs away from him. Not all the penguins have eggs.

When Papa Bear saw the finished project, he agreed our granddaughter’s decorating skills had vastly improved the situation.

“But those penguins’ eyes are a bit. . .weird,” he said.

I prefer to think of them as magical.

I don’t give gifts. And I’m not religious. So what’s to like about Christmas?

So much.

The twinkling lights around the neighbourhood.

The music ( except those 2 songs — you know which ones I mean.)

The Annual Gingerbread Project.

Shortbread. Shortbread. Shortbread.

And a pretty wreath on my door.

Over the years I’ve leaned towards non-traditional wreaths.

The Wreath Workshop

This year I attended a wreath workshop put on by the Wondrous Tree Fellowship. They’re a local group of passionate tree people who aim to protect, advocate and educate the public about trees.

And educate us, they did.

The workshop was led by James, a horticulturist who had foraged massive quantities of natural, local boughs and materials for us to use.

As James held up branches and told us the names of each one, I nodded along, but five minutes later, I couldn’t identify them on my own. (Yet somehow, I remember all the names of the pups in Paw Patrol.) I was slightly mollified to discover that most people around me didn’t know the names of the greenery either. I have no idea where they stand on the Paw Patrol front.

What I learned from James:

• Make bundles first. When you attach them to the frame, make sure they all point the same way.

• Holly is an invasive species. Throw it in the garbage. Don’t compost it. Don’t throw it in your neighbour’s yard. (Seems like an oddly specific warning, James.)

• Once you have beautiful greenery, it doesn’t matter what your skill level is. Every wreath that night looked so pretty.

Trying to Learn the Trees

After the workshop, with a renewed interest in learning tree names, I took a walk around the neighbourhood armed with a plant-ID app on my phone. The pictures below show the ones I’m starting with — but honestly, they all look so similar I wouldn’t take my word for it that they’re labelled correctly. If I’m wrong, I’m sure someone will let me know.

Given the weird wreaths I’ve dreamt up over the years, I think Papa Bear was quite puzzled, but in a good way, to see the natural, traditional wreath I hung on our door.

A Christmas Memory

I know some of you are here because you’re interested in my book-in-progress about Dad’s dementia. I won’t always be writing about dementia, but thinking back to the marshmallow wreath — which I had made while Dad-sitting — brought back some Christmas memories.

Dad would sometimes get overwhelmed at the Christmas dinner table, especially when twenty people were talking at once. He never joined in the conversation, but he did enjoy the food. And even if he didn’t remember everyone, I like to think there was something comforting about being in a familiar place, with familiar traditions, familiar people and the joyfulness of the day.

People living with dementia may not understand everything that’s happening, but they often sense good “vibes,” and I think Dad enjoyed the family time. I would seat him at the head of the table and keep an eye on him, so if one of his anxiety “tells” happened, I could easily help him move to an armchair, away from the lights and noise.

Dad’s been gone quite a while, but I still read articles put out by the Alzheimer Society. A recent tip suggested introducing Christmas gradually, putting up decorations over a few days so there isn’t one giant change to the environment of the person you’re caring for. Maybe even involve them in some small way.

Although there’s a lot of advice about how to handle the holidays, a lot of it also applies to every day of the year. One thing I remember clearly is that, holiday time or not, when things were simplified and consistent, it was a lot easier on Dad.

Attribution: Here’s where I got the picture of Rocky .

My dad was what some people might call a real character. I loved him, but we didn’t always see eye to eye. Life with him may not have been easy, but it was always interesting. When he was diagnosed with dementia, and I became his caregiver, things got even more interesting.

Dementia is a hard disease, but Dad provided comic relief with his antics, and no shortage of material for a writer. Among other things, he:

• stole a car (yikes)

• had an active dating life (ick)

• refused to move out of his home (grr)

My friends kept saying, “You should write a book.” So I did, and the book is now in its final edits. I’ve been pitching it as a lighthearted look at dementia, but anyone familiar with dementia looks at me skeptically when I describe it like that. Let me explain.

Turning “Alone-ness” Into Connection

Dementia is a tough gig. These days, people recognize how hard it is as more and more families are dealing with the disease. But back in 2008 when Dad was diagnosed, I felt very alone.

Although the Alzheimer’s Society was very helpful, there wasn’t the awareness or the resources that exist today. And I soon discovered most people don’t know what to say or do around dementia. For all sorts of reasons — stigma, fear, and uncertainty — they stay away. Understandable, but still isolating.

Not everyone has someone as stubborn as my dad to contend with, but I noticed other caregivers were navigating the same challenges I was: Meds, MoCA tests, maintaining dignity, driving, diet, self-care, adult diapers, intimacy, finances, family dynamics … the list goes on.

My book shows how I tackled those issues — without sugarcoating the absurd (and sometimes funny) moments that come along with the disease. My beta readers told me that reading about my unfiltered experience (I may have dropped a few f-bombs) made them feel less guilty about their own feelings. One reader said it was like a road map for caring for his mom.

It meant a lot to hear that because when I started writing about Dad and me, my goal was to make one person feel less alone. Through the test reader process, I achieved that.

Technically, I could have stopped there.

But I didn’t.

Apparently I need a million followers

I believe in my book. It’s different from anything else I’ve read on the topic — and I’ve read every book I could get my hands on.

So I started reaching out to publishers and agents. And if you’re like 99% of writers, you know how that went.

One publisher told me to get back to her if I could rustle up 30,000 followers on social media.

I was at a writers’ conference when a rather snooty agent told me, over Zoom, that unless I had a million followers, no one would even look at my book. After that call, I retreated to one of the conference rooms where the keynote speaker, Suzy Vadori, was setting up. I must have looked dazed because she came over and asked me what was wrong.

I calmly explained to her that my writing career was over.

Now if you know Suzy, you know she’s a never-say-never kind of person. She immediately dropped what she was doing and started brainstorming how to get me to a million followers. She was so convincing that instead of packing it in and going home, I decided to keep going.

Still not at a million

Two years later, I still don’t have a million followers.

I’ve got 40 friends on Facebook (yes, I’m that age) and I joke that someone has to die before I accept another friend request. Plus, there’s nothing like a job in cybersecurity to teach you the value of keeping a low profile.

But I do have stories. And I love words.

I didn’t stop writing. I entered contests, submitted pieces to publications, and edited the heck out of my book with the assistance of my joyful, ruthless Monday-night writing group. They cheered me on while pointing out gaps in settings and stakes and encourage me to “kill my darlings.”

Then there’s my friend Beth, a real maverick who self-published two novels (Tale of Humanity and Shadows on the Heart). She is the kind of person you’d readily follow through the underbrush while she clears the path with a machete. Watching her made me believe I could do it too. I didn’t need the snooty agent.

Going Indie

Where once self-publishing was called “vanity publishing,” it now goes by the more respectable name of Indie.

I like the idea of being an Indie. It feels like the right path — even if it’s a bit intimidating and a little lonely. But I’ve been there before with my dad and dementia.

Finding My People

Thankfully, I’m not alone. Inspired by Beth and Suzy and a whole community of writers I’ve met over the last few years, I’m starting a newsletter of my own. Although finding people who want to read about Dad is what brought me here, there’s so much more to talk about than dementia and one book. I’m looking forward to sharing stories that surprise you, make you laugh or simply entertain you.

So here I am.

I can’t see you, but I’m trusting that someone out there — beyond my sister — will read this.

Think of yourself as one in a million.

All em dashes thoughtfully placed by a human. Me.