Posted on February 4, 2026 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with 2 comments

 

 

“Oh, the weather outside is frightful

But the fire is so delightful

And since we’ve no place to go,

Let it snow, let it snow, let it snow.”

Let it Snow – Dean Martin

Earth to Len. Christmas is over.

I realize that this song is a Christmas staple but if you examine the lyrics more carefully, it really has nothing to do about Christmas. It’s a song about the weather and romance, two of my favourite topics. Well, one, anyway.

In our part of the world, it’s shaping up to be an old-fashioned winter with plenty of snow, biting cold, and blue skies. The past couple of winters have been relatively tame. I can tell by the number of times the parking lot at our apartment complex gets plowed each year. Three years ago, the plow arrived almost as many times as the mailman as we had a humdinger of a winter.

But let me tell you Gen Xers and Millenials, you’ve never experienced winters like Baby Boomers. You know them. The ones who walked uphill both ways to school! Our children and grandchildren often accuse us ancients of exaggerating just about everything from the good old days. However, when it comes to winter and snowfall, we have unimpeachable evidence.

You see, our mothers (especially mine) kept photo albums as opposed to 10,000 digital pictures on our phones that will never see the light of day in the future. Photos don’t lie. There was no such thing as “photoshopping” when dinosaurs roamed the earth. Photos were taken and rolls of film were shipped off to Winnipeg or Tuktoyaktuk for processing. You’d wait for several weeks for them to come back and more often than not, half of the pictures would be unrecognizable. Retakes of grad photos could be a nightmare.

Funny thing. Back then, when snow started to fall and the wind picked up, we knew there was going to be a storm. We didn’t need five days of advance notice and “yellow warnings”. Weather happened. Period.

And how much snow accumulated? Enough that our parents warned us not to touch the power lines when we were playing “King of the Castle”. Don’t believe me? Check mom’s photo albums.

When we had the ever-popular storm days, we were hauled out of bed and made to go out and shovel our driveway and then those of our elderly neighbours. No questions asked. If we were enterprising and wanted enough money to buy a Jos Louis and a Coke at The Allies”, we would put ourselves out to hire to shovel anyone’s driveway who wasn’t a senior citizen.

We built snow forts, dug tunnels, went tobogganing or went to the Salt Ponds and scraped the ice so that we could play hockey.

When I ask young people these days what they do on a storm day, invariably they say that they spent the day on an electronic device, gaming.

I reckon that psychiatrists and psychologists are going to have a field day when these youngsters become adults.

In honor of winter and the storms that she brings, I penned this little poem:

LET IT SNOW

 

The days are shorter, the nights are cold,

The winter winds do blow,

It’s late November, we needn’t be told,

That soon we’ll see the snow.

 

Our part of the world, has four seasons,

Including summer, spring, and fall,

But winter’s the one, it is the reason,

That casts an eerie pall.

 

It falls from the heavens, flake by flake,

And covers the frozen sod,

Trees and forests, ponds and lakes,

This ancient gift of the gods.

 

A fresh fall of snow, it is a blessing,

For those who like to ski,

In crisp, cold air, it is refreshing,

For the likes of you and me.

 

Toboggans and sleds, pulled up a hill,

A great day for fun and sliding,

The downward plunge, it’s such a thrill,

Over moguls and bumps a gliding.

 

Making a snowman is such a blast,

If you’re the snowman building type,

This three-tiered character rarely lasts,

The man with rock eyes and a pipe.

 

The greatest joy, if you’re a student,

Is news of a storm on its way,

Staying at home, it might be prudent,

When word comes, “No school. Storm day”.

 

There are days in winter, when it’s not very nice,

When the rain falls melting the snow,

It turns to slush and then to ice,

When the temperature is twenty below.

 

April arrives as the snow disappears,

 

Spring just around the bend,

The sun comes out, and with it good cheer,

So long winter our friend.

Have a great weekend.

 

 

 

Posted on January 28, 2026 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with 4 comments

Sandcut Beach near Jordan River, Vancouver Island

(Pete MacDonald photo)

 

I’m feeling schmaltzy… and liberated.

Let me explain.

If there’s such a thing as the dog days of winter, then surely, we are in the thick of it now. Bitter cold temperatures, snowstorms and icy sidewalks are frequent visitors. We’re all struggling to put on a brave face as we continue to try and honor our new year’s resolutions. So far, I’ve had no alcohol, no sugar, and no dairy which equates to no fun.

The news gets more depressing with every passing day. I can’t watch it anymore. What is a person to do?

My personal favourite is to indulge in schmaltz. In case you haven’t heard this word in a while, let me remind you. Schmaltz is excessive sentimentality, especially in music or movies.

Last week, I randomly stumbled upon a series on Netflix called Everwood which I recommended to a friend. If Webster’s Dictionary wanted to change the meaning of schmaltz, then they could use this series as a prime example. It’s light and fluffy like whipped egg whites, and easily digestible.

There are lots of great examples of schmaltz including the classic movie Love Story which features an over-the-top emotional plot, a tear-jerking musical score, and the famously sappy line, “Love means never having to say you’re Tory”. Oops. I mean sorry, not Tory! And when it comes to music, for raw, unfiltered sentimentality, grab Bread’s greatest hits as you curl under your electric blanket and pray for spring.

Schmaltz is rather harmless, wouldn’t you say?

“Please release me let me go,

For I don’t love you anymore.”

Release Me. Engelbert Humperdinck

My long affair with Facebook is coming to an end. Liberation is at hand. I was quite enamored with this site when I was a social media virgin 15 years ago. It was a great place to chat with friends and renew long lost acquaintances. Sadly, it has morphed into a full-blown dumpster fire. Consuming Facebook these days smells and tastes like rotten fish. I don’t know what your feed looks like but mine is filled with ads, smarmy reels, mindless memes, and the latest Trump rant. I simply can’t take it anymore.

While I am an eternal optimist (I still cheer for the Montreal Canadiens!), I find Facebook depressing and I’m convinced that a regular diet is simply unhealthy. If you want to paint a picture of what the end of civilization might look like, just spend a lot of time scrolling endlessly on Facebook. Your brain will soon have the consistency of Jello.

“Please release me can’t you see,

You’d be a fool to cling to me”.

Having said this, I plan to take a very long hiatus from Facebook. In the short term, I will deactivate my account. I won’t be sharing any more posts, including riveting pieces such as this one! However, fear not. All is not lost. You can go to my website at www.week45.com, go to the bottom of the page and subscribe to my site the good old-fashioned way by e-mail. There is no cost to subscribe.

I will continue to write a monthly column for the Guysborough Journal, our wonderful community paper.

I have been extremely gratified by the response to my autobiography. I have received dozens of comments and compliments. Many of us had a similar childhood.  I ramped up the nostalgia (schmaltz!) in the early chapters. Thank you for supporting my writing.

Speaking of books.

My plan was to stop writing books after my autobiography… my 8^th offering. It’s not official yet but I may be writing another this year. It is the remarkable story about a woman I met eight years ago. It is a story of incredible courage, caring, perseverance, determination, and love.

Salut. Bon voyage.

“Then one by one, the stars would all go out,

Then you and I would simply fly away”.

If – Bread

Have a great weekend.

Posted on January 14, 2026 under Wednesday’s Words of Wisdom with 6 comments

 

Pete and Len with Big Lonely Doug

(Pete MacDonald photo)

 

Two weeks.

Are your New Year’s resolutions already in tatters?

I’m not a big fan of resolutions except when I am. This year, I’m all in. I have a list of eleven things that will get my undivided attention. A friend of mind said that I was an “overachiever”. I told her that I had a lot of things to clean up.

I’m not a huge fan of trite expressions. These are the classics that lack originality or freshness and are dull on account of overuse. Merry Christmas; Happy Birthday; Happy Thanksgiving; Happy Easter.

So it was, that I entered Canada Post a few days into the new year. I approached the counter and instead of using one of said trite expressions, I said, “I hope the year ahead is a good one for you.” Without skipping a beat the clerk replied, “It’s another chance to get it right.”(Thanks, S.B.)

Small achievable goals. While I don’t care much for the “Happy New Year’s” chant, I am a big believer in setting goals. This doesn’t necessarily have to happen at the beginning of a new year, but it is as good a time as any to hit the reset button. I have always believed that writing down my goals gives me the best chance of achieving them.

After cogitating on my goals, I typed them out, printed them and put the list in the most obvious place in the house: the fridge, that “go to” place when all else fails. This is not about shaming. It’s a mild form of accountability.

You often hear professional athletes talking about “sticking with the process”. New Year’s resolutions are no different. If all we can think about is losing those nasty pounds that we put on over the past year, then failure is almost assured. If we eat right and exercise, then time will take care of the rest.

Enough pontificating.

I spent the Christmas holidays outside of Victoria with my son. We had long walks, long talks, and many pleasant dinners. On the final day of 2025, we took a tour up the west coast of Vancouver Island. This part of the island is notorious in winter for its rainfall. We lucked out. It was a beautiful, sunny day and the temperature was around 10. We sat on a massive log, a piece of driftwood on Port Renfrew beach, and had lunch.

Our last stop of the day was meant as a surprise. Pete told me that a short 15-minute drive up an old logging road would take us to an iconic site. We had barely started our ascent up the mountain when it was obvious that the road had suffered damage. Serious damage. The road was inundated with huge potholes. The going was slow. For someone with a bad back, it was a bone jarring drive. As we neared the top, there were two vehicles parked on the side of the road. The remainder of the road was impassable. The last stretch of our journey would be on foot. A full hour had elapsed. It was obvious that the road had deteriorated greatly since my son’s last visit.

Many years ago, foresters had clearcut this part of the mountain. They left one tree – a thousand-year-old (some estimates say it is 1200 years old), majestic Douglas Fir. I could see it standing stately no more than 75 yards away. If I thought that the road up the side of the mountain was challenging, the last 75 yards to reach our destination was double or triple that. For spry young people, the slippery, uneven terrain, is a walk in the park. For a senior who had recently broken his arm in a perfectly dry parking lot, this was my definition of hell. I am reluctant to use the term terrifying, but it was unsettling and nerve-wracking. Slightly terrifying.

There were two other groups paying homage to Big Lonely Doug. We patiently waited for our turn until we had unfettered access to Doug. After spending time pondering the imponderable, we drove back to Pete’s home in Metchosin. My back hated me, but I felt so inspired that I wrote this poem as a tribute to Doug:

DOUG

 

My name is Doug and I’m a tree,

I’ve been kicking around for a while,

I reside in a forest near Renfrew, B.C.,

If you see me, I’ll make you smile.

 

Around the year 1000, I was just a tiny seedling,

When Erikson reached our shores,

My branches started needling,

Not far from the ocean’s roar.

 

I’ve seen a lot of history,

And sadly, many wars,

Humans are a mystery,

I want peace and nothing more.

 

For hundreds of years I stretched and grew,

As I reached up to the sky,

Every century, something new,

Things that caught my eye.

 

Through rain and snow and sun and sleet,

I groaned and creaked and swayed,

My fellow forest friends I’d meet,

From on high, I watched them play.

 

A Douglas fir is meant to last,

For centuries I am told,

My job as a tree, to stay steadfast,

To be solid, straight and bold.

 

But the clear cutters came, with saws and blades,

To bring us to our knees,

All at the cost of a profit made,

At the expense of my fellow trees.

 

For whatever reason, I don’t know,

They chose me to survive,

I was spared the fatal blow,

My will, to remain alive.

 

And now I sit here in the woods,

Away from the madding crowd,

Spending time with me is good,

I can nearly touch the clouds.

 

So come and take the rutted road,

Walk down the narrow path,

Embrace me and lighten your load,

Count my rings and do the math.

 

Be like Doug. Slow and steady.

It might not take you 1000 years to reach your true heights or achieve your goals.

But it will be worth the effort.

Best wishes in the year ahead.

… And check the fridge door!

 

 Tiny Tree

Tell me what you see?