The house in Guelph where I grew up was on Metcalfe Street opposite St. George’s Park, an idyllic place for an only child like me. If I got tired of indoor games, there was always something to do right out the front door: the swing set across the street. Once, for no reason at all, I took a hammer and a screwdriver from my father’s tool box, walked well into the park, and hammered that screwdriver right into the ground. I never told him and, as far as I know, he never missed that particular screwdriver. I could walk you...
As 2025 draws to an end, I found myself wondering, did I make any predictions in a blog for this year? And if so, how did they turn out? Just as an aside, the previous year I gave myself a 70% mark for that year’s predictions and added: “Not bad for a guy from Guelph.” Even with such a good track record, in fact I ended up making far fewer calls this year. Just as well. My top prediction for 2025 turned out to be totally wrong. “Abandon hope, all ye who enter here,” I began in a February blog....
Funny how your life’s calling comes about. I was ten, doing my morning ablutions on the junior dock at Camp Nagiwa, run by the Guelph YMCA. Junior because it was smaller than the main dock and the water was shallower. Lathered with soap, I dove in and felt my head scrape a rock on the bottom. I stood up, bleeding profusely. Someone got me to the camp’s nursing station then by car to Coldwater, Ont., where a doctor put in stitches. I returned to camp but spiked a fever. My mother drove from Guelph to bring me home. Family doctor...
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