Monthly Archives: December 2019

Day Twenty-Two: The Tree

We went riding on motos yesterday – onto the dirt roads, out into the country. Women carrying loads on their heads, kids running after us, a few individual men strolling along – many of them waved. So did we. Through the dryness of it all, under the beaming sun, we rode beside fields spotted with African trees and goats. Past a couple of turquoise mosques surrounded by walls … and finally to the edge of Missirah.

We pulled over in the centre of downtown. In a shop, I lusted over a green, yellow and red Senegalese soccer jersey. Sadly the only sizes in stock started at XXL and went up from there.

A smiling old fellow was to be our guide this morning. He was a fishmonger who recognized me from a week ago. I felt badly that I didn’t recognize him. It makes me pause to realize that I have far more distinctions about the facial structure of white people than I do about black folks.

The gentleman led us to the fish farm he tends – three rectangular pools covered with netting. As he continued along, I moved away from the group to linger with several cows on a large expanse of dusty land. Then there were mangrove trees to visit, with their exposed roots reaching down under the water. A quiet time, as I renewed my wondering about whether I could live in Senegal.

It felt like time again to be with my friends. The glom of us returned to village streets. A twist here and a turn there began to reveal a hugeness ahead.

I stopped. I stared. Before me was a gigantic tree … in height, in the circumference of its trunk, in the massive biceps of its main branches. Our leader said don’t go close: the bees will attack you. So I kept the distance in my body. My soul, however, was reaching towards the immense one.

The group was moving on and I was standing still. I was in the presence of vibrant life, a wooden symbol of transcendence, of gathering in, of coming together.

We returned soon to the other side of the tree, where apparently there were no bees, since we were invited to come close. The tree is a fromager, so named because its soft wood made perfect boxes for the transport of cheese. Facing me was the largest fromager in West Africa, approximately 1000 years old. Its bark folded in marvelous ways. One exposed root many metres from the trunk was named Croco by the residents, due to it resembling a crocodile.

As our guide spoke in French, the reverence in his voice was clear. Lydia sidled over to me and began translating. This fromager is the mother of Missirah. Its leaves speak of the turning of the seasons. Crops are planted when the fromager says yes. When there’s a problem in the village, the women dress up as men, and the men as women. Sacred milk is poured on the roots and the fromager receives the supplication, offering its wisdom in turn. Infertile women visit the trunk, asking for a child. Lovers are married within the folds of the sacred one. Anyone and perhaps everyone touches the wood and feels the communion.

I take the dear fromager with me, not only in photos but also in my travelling being. Perhaps the next person I meet will have an inner fromager … to be honoured, to be loved, and to receive love from.

Day Twenty-One: La Fête

The party was a lunch, a dance and a gift-giving for the kids who we Belgians and Canadian are sponsoring in Toubacouta. Balloons were hung, streamers were streamed, fancy tablecloths and napkins graced the tables, and joyous music was bipbopping out of the speaker.

Girls did their hair in magical ways. They wore the brightest dresses and shirts. One boy even wore a bow tie!

For awhile I made faces with some of the kids and played the game where we’d hide behind someone sitting between us and then poke our heads out. Such fun. Some children were nicely shy while others bubbled over in their eyes. Some danced in the middle of the circle for maybe a minute. Others were pushed in there by friends and quickly scooted back to the edge of things. Mr. Bow Tie really rocked and rolled as we all cheered him on.

There was lots of lunch prep and I loved joining in. I was the only guy to do so but who cares? I sat with some girls and women and peeled onions. And there were no tears! So different from home. Next were cloves of garlic and I got to experience the impact of arthritis on my fine motor skills. I was slow and clumsy but again all of that was irrelevant. I finished with beans. Many hands made for light work as the sounds of Warlof and Flemish filled the space.

Several women distributed the various yummy food on plates in the kitchen. I got to be one of the lucky ones who presented the meal to individual kids. The whole idea was that the day would be special for the children. We served them. Before the meal we gave them the best seats on the patio. Here’s a pic I love:

After we ate, the balloons clearly needed to become soccer and volleyballs. The young’uns leapt in the air and in their hearts.

At one point, I just sat back and took it all in. Two years from now, will I be bilingual? Will I be spending a few months each year in Toubacouta, teaching these very kids how to speak English? I don’t know … but the possibility is real.

Who knows what journeys lie ahead … in my life, and in yours. Let us embrace the mystery.

Day Twenty: Discovering If Home Could Be Everywhere

The broom riders

The military base

The game: Baziel, a fellow from Soucouta, Mariama, another guy from Soucouta, Youssoupha and Ansou

***

I knew that Mamadou and Youssoupha had invited me to watch them play basketball at 5:00 pm in Soucouta. Far earlier than that, I set off from Eddy’s bed-and-breakfast to explore the village just north of here. I knew the route: walk five minutes west and then turn north on the red road (Main Street). But something happened on the way to the plan. A narrow dirt stretch beckoned me to the right. I stopped. I felt my body tighten. And I turned.

It seemed to be the moment I was letting go of the tourist label. I could saunter aimlessly on the highways and biways, at ease with the heat, the dry earth and the goats. There were a few twists and turns, a few cement walls with voices behind, a few pedestrians and motos. The newness was letting go into usualness. There was an ease to my step as the dirt rose into dust.

Onto the red road and looking for the site of the wrestling competition that ended a few days ago. It wasn’t there, except for the power pole around which the competitors ran in their warmups, flexing and shining. The arena had been only netting and poles shoved into the ground. How brief our stays in the events of our lives.

I continued on, and soon saw the basketball court near the entrance to the military centre. I noted that there were cement bleachers. and that there were swatches of shade up there.

There was a cart of watermelons ahead on the left. Sitting in the shade nearby were three elderly men, rolling cigarettes. They all smiled widely at me, showing a lot of gaps in the teeth. I told them (as best I could) that I was going to the basketball game at 5:00. They nodded approval. I then made dribbling and slam dunk motions, threatening to do a demo with a melon. When I tried to convince them that I was playing in the game, they rolled over laughing. Hrumph! Guess they were having trouble sensing a professional athlete when they see one.

Off on a side street, past more cement walls and a couple made out of vertical sticks, I saw the opening to a dirt yard. Adults were sitting around talking and kids were jumping together. Then five of the young ones came at me. They seemed to be tied to something. The kids roared to a halt right beside me, and I saw they were riding a broom. Making pretty good speed on it too!

I started creating some dicey French phrases, and even though they didn’t know what I was talking about, they were happy to smile and stroll along with me. We had fun. Four blocks later, they scurried back home, with waves held high.

Ahh … the sound of the imam, calling the Muslim faithful to prayer at the mosque. I followed the wailing … left here, right there. In a little clearing behind houses, there it was – a tiny white and turquoise place of worship. Even from a distance, I could see kneeling worshippers in the shadows inside. I lingered. I felt into another religion, another way of being.

On the main road again, I headed towards the basketball court. But first the military centre. I gave it a wide berth, perhaps because of the two soldiers in camouflage, guarding the front gate. They looked severe so I was not ready to tell them a Canadian joke. Let’s go to the game.

Turns out it wasn’t a game at all … just six guys who wanted to play 3 on 3. The crowd was spectacular; Mariama, Lydia, Jo, Marie-paule, Gnima and me. We cheered a lot, especially for the Belgium guy. Actually we roared at each person’s great shots. Everybody played hard.

Sport, religion, broom riding, cigarette rolling, shuffling in the sand. Alone, with five kids, with worshippers, and with eleven basketball fanatics. Such a recipe for living.

Day Nineteen: Just Sitting

The span of three photos … left to right. I brightened the middle one so hopefully you can see the woman in the shade.

***

Within the flurry of fast French and many people around, it’s too easy to forget the lingering, the silence within, the abiding in place. Yesterday I made room for the quiet. Some of us were out walking in Toubacouta and I saw cement steps in the shade. I sat down … and I stayed there for an hour. My friends continued on their journey.

How will I know a country and a people? Part of it is focus, study. And part of it is simply “being” in the environment – seeing what’s there and who’s there. Not interacting, not judging, just watching. No hurry at all. Here’s the world that came by:

1. Seeing the boutique across the street where my friends were. Letting them be there, letting them leave, staying put.

2. A very tall black fellow, dressed all in white. Even his pointed hat was white. He walked slowly. Sadly, he reminded me of the Klu Klux Klan but of course the skin was different. And his bearing spoke of the spiritual.

3. Chickens and roosters scurrying in the dirt, across the way and then almost at my feet, pecking here and there. The moving was jerky, almost frantic, and then they were gone.

4. A large water bottle seemed to have a life of its own until I spied a young boy continually launching it down the playing field that was the road.

5. For a few minutes, Mariama sat with me on the step, watching me write the moments on white index cards. I wondered what she was thinking as my black scribbles hit the paper.

6. Above the metal rooves and thatched huts, large black birds soared against the blue sky. Were they vultures? The question didn’t need to be answered … they were simply artists of the air.

7. A young boy rode by on a bicycle, probably his sister hanging on the back. Clearly they had places to go, for the street to the right soon swallowed them.

8. Perhaps twenty white goats came into view, managed into rows by an old man wielding a long stick. Bleats abounded but there was a casualness to it all as the family headed down a narrow alley.

9. What? A dark blue Honda CRV blasted past me from the left. Dark faces looked over through tinted glass. This does not compute. But still I smiled with the mystery of it all.

10. Over the hour several women in bright dresses strolled by, their arms at their sides and baskets comfortably riding on their heads. They moved with grace, and some shifted their eyes to me with a smile when I greeted them with “Bonjour.”

11. Five goats wandered over curious and a baby’s eyes came within two feet of mine. Neither of us felt the need to say anything.

12. Teens with a ragged volleyball played soccer in front of me. A long kick from the left split Main Street and landed on the instep of the receiving fellow. He brought the ball softly to the ground and arched it back to his friend. Such grace of movement.

13. Along came a fragile-looking wooden cart, occupied by two donkeys and six kids. No stop and go … just the languid pace needed under a burning sun.

14. Over the way, there stood a huge shade tree, brilliantly emerald and lemon, with long strands of leaves fluttering in the breeze. “Hey, it looks like a maple tree back home.” But it wasn’t.

15. A woman in a pink dress had set up shop under the tree before I arrived. As the heat climbed, she packed up her shiny coloured objects for sale and walked away, complete with basket, tiny table and plastic chair. Maybe it was time for a nap.

16. Apparently not too hot for running. A young black fellow sped by. Above his eyes were blond locks – logically out of place, but actually not.

17. Three young boys and a bicycle joined me in the shade. After the ritual “Ça va?”s, they launched into conversation with each other, not minding my presence in the least. Shade is meant to be shared and words need not be understood.

18. A clearly strong 20-year-old walks close, scoops up the youngest kid, and starts away. The adult fellow looks back at me, smiling. Once the young one is upright again, his mouth also curls into a smile.

19. As the earth bakes, the street empties. No human beings to the left or to the right. The woman managing “Chez Sadio Demba” behind me has just locked her door. The world is quiet.

***

The melodies are soft but they’re still here
Toubacouta reposes
Bruce wanders away, the dirt sliding under his feet
All is well

Day Eighteen: Newcomers Welcoming

New to me. The couple sat on the patio of Keur Saloum, one table away. We Belgians, Senegalese and Canadian crammed together nearby, laughing in three languages. I said several silly things, such as one comment aimed at Marie-paule, Lydia’s mom. We were both taking up residence for a few days at Eddy’s bed-and-breakfast. “Marie-paule est dans la chambre cinq. Je suis dans la chambre … cinq.” (Marie-paule will be in room 5. I’ll be in room … 5.”) Much laughter erupted, and as I glanced over to the next table, the woman was smiling.

As our conversation continued, the couple talked together – in French I believe. Once in awhile, she’d look over to us as our words spilled out. Smiling again.

Lydia brings people together. As our group got up to leave, she bubbled over to our neighbours en français. The conversation among us all sped up and I was left in the dust. Fast French means no French for me. After awhile I walked over to the flowering bushes to watch the sunset on the river. As the disc fell behind the trees, leaving its pink glow, I returned to our tables. All the Lydiaists were standing and inching towards the exit ramp.

It felt like the woman next door was looking straight at me but she may have been taking us all in: “Would you like to stay for a drink?” I looked at the barely receding feet around me and responded “No, I want to get to dinner.” The woman across seemed to lower her head. Then somehow words kept falling out of people’s mouths. I stood there, passive on the outside and churning on the inside.

The movie Dead Poets Society came through – the one where Robin Williams teaches a bunch of high school students about life. “Carpe diem” he would say … seize the day. “And Bruce, isn’t this a perfectly good day to seize?”

As feet really did move one after the other in farewell, I reached down to the nearest chair and pulled it over to the couple. Yes, let’s talk.

We did so for three hours. In another seizing moment, I said yes to having dinner with Julie and Luc. Happily we talked about our lives – rehabilitating elephants, working in the Belgian embassy in Dakar, seeing big white birds land on an island at sunset so they could be together overnight, living with cancer loss, volunteering with 11-year-olds, eating a delcious meal in Keur Saloum … just everything.

There was communion at our evening table … three discovering friends savouring the flavours of relationship. It was all so cozy.

We hugged and shook hands goodbye. Will this be the end of it or will there be a friendship which endures? Using Lydia and Jo as an example, there may be many more dinners to come.

Day Seventeen: Réunion

A few days ago, a great spirit died. Thousands of us, if not millions, have been touched by the wisdom of Ram Dass. He was an American (Richard Alpert) until he came upon a Hindu spiritual master and became his devotée.

Ram Dass spoke many words in his life. Here are my favourites:

When you go out into the woods, and you look at trees, you see all these different trees. And some of them are bent, and some of them are straight, and some of them are evergreens, and some of them are whatever. And you look at the tree and you allow it. You see why it is the way it is. You sort of understand that it didn’t get enough light, and so it turned that way. And you don’t get all emotional about it. You just allow it. You appreciate the tree.

The minute you get near humans, you lose all that. And you are constantly saying ‘You are too this, or I’m too this.’ That judgment mind comes in. And so I practice turning people into trees. Which means appreciating them just the way they are.

Jo and I have been in Senegal for eleven days. It’s the longest he’s ever been away from his dear wife Lydia and he’s missed her so much. Yesterday Lydia, Lore, Baziel and Marie-paule (Lydia’s mom) awoke at 5:00 am so they could catch their late morning flight from Brussels, Belgium to Dakar, Senegal. The loved ones would be reunited by 11:00 pm. So many different trees would come together in the darkness of the Toubacouta night.

At 10:10 we heard a honk. Jo jumped up. So did Moustapha. I was a bit slower but we all were drawn towards the arrivals pulling up in the van. The headlights blocked all else but a moment later there was Lydia’s smile in the front passenger seat. Tired faces spilled out of the vehicle, still full of the sweetness of connection. There were many soft hugs.

After we had unloaded the van of luggage and food, we all sat together, some on padded seats and some on the arms of chairs. Here we were: Jo, Ousmane, Baziel, Fatou, Ansou, Marie-paule, Lydia, Lore, Ali, Moustapha and me. Plus the little one Nima asleep in her bed. We were young and old, male and female, black and white, shy and outgoing. From three countries, speaking French, Flemish, Warlof and English. I looked around at all the trees – the curves of their trunks, the fluttering of their leaves, the colours of their bark. Our forest contained it all.

Each of us had their place
Each of us brought a uniqueness into the world
Each of us mattered

Day Sixteen: Rambles

Wild goats seem to be everywhere

Mariama on the edge of Soucouta

Laundry day

Home

***

Soucouta is a small village only a kilometre away from Toubacouta. Mamadou, Youssoupha and Mariama wanted me to see it. Since it was during the biggest heat of the day, they insisted I ride on the back of a moto, rather than walking.

The people don’t speak any English. French, Warlof and Serai are the words I hear. (I don’t know how to spell the last two.)

Mamadou took me into his home and I met his grandmother. She was old and pretty in her flowered blue dress and head wrap. She smiled softly and extended her hand.

Folks young and old called out greetings to my friends as we walked the land and the streets. Kids ran and jumped in the 37 degree Celsius sun (98 Fahrenheit). I slogged with the young ones to the edge of the sea, which felt like a narrow river. Mud lay exposed in the low tide and we walked the less gooey parts. Ahead of us hundreds of crabs scurried away to their wetter holes in the sand. Sadly, I forgot to take a picture of this migration.

I stood on the moist earth and talked to the water in puddles to my left: “De l’eau … vient ici tout de suite! Je t’attends.” (Water … come here right away! I’m waiting for you.) I stood still with my arms crossed. The young Senegalese gaped at me, then burst out laughing. Dumb white guy, expecting the tide to come in since he told it to. It was great fun.

How incredibly dry Senegal is. The wind blows the sand. The sun bakes the earth. But at least there’s the river and the sea. And through it all the folks of Soucouta and Toubacouta adorn themselves with smiles and splashes of colour.

Before the wrestling competition – drummers on the left and the two female singers on the right

Wrestlers warming up and showing off their bods before the fights begin

Youssoupha, Mamadou, Mariama and Bruce

***

And then there’s the night, when I can breathe easy again and lounge around in t-shirt and shorts. The Senegalese, however, need longsleeved shirts and jeans to ward off the chill. I’ve even seen a down jacket or two.

It turns out that last night was the final session of the Soucouta wrestling competition. I’d thought it would continue to New Year’s Eve. Singing and drumming were scheduled to happen pretty much uninterrupted from 10:00 pm until 2:00 am. Towards midnight, the wrestling would start.

I wanted to go. The four of us walked to Soucouta in the dark, drawn by two female voices beaming from the sound system. They alternated lines of music … seemingly forever. The drums smashed out their beat as we approached the glare of the stadium lights. It was actually a very small space. Only about two hundred of us went inside to witness the spectacle, one white guy included.

Hypnotic … the rise and fall of the singing and the frenzied rhythms of the drumming. The spotlights shone into the darkness, and all around eyes in dark bodies turned towards me. There was no feeling of animosity, merely curiosity.

I sat in a chair at the edge of the wrestling ground. In a flash, Mamadou was at my side, telling me I couldn’t sit there because I hadn’t paid an extra fee. At least that’s what I thought he said, as the music blared and I tried to pick out French words from his quiet sentences. I moved to another side of the arena and sat down in the dirt. Worked for me.

Wrestlers were strutting their stuff in the middle of the open space. Some would pour water over their torsos – naked or clothed – and keep running (dancing?) in a circle. One fellow tossed dirt over himself. All this while the two female singers kept up the drone of the song, while the drummers pounded the skins. The event flowed out from loudspeakers to the world of Toubacouta and I suspect far beyond.

Around 11:30, the first two wrestlers stripped down to loincloths and came to the centre of the field. Judges gave instructions. They crouched towards each other as the drums started up again. Soft touches on each other, reaches to the ground to get dust on their hands, feet moving left and right … then the fierce grabbing, the hips engaged in a supreme effort to throw the other, feet pounding into the sand as the dance moved twenty feet from the centre point. One fellow flipped backwards and fell to the earth, his opponent pressing down. Somewhere a whistle sounded and the match was over. The victor stood above the vanquished, who clutched his knee in agony.

Woh … intense or what. Now I wanted my bed … 2:00 am was a bridge too far. The four of us returned on the black roads towards Toubacouta, with vague human shapes passing us by. Mariama and I walked. Youssoupha and Mamadou shared the moto. I wanted them to stay and enjoy more matches but they would have none of it. Jo had made it very clear to them beforehand: take care of Bruce.

Yes, indeed, I am being cared for in this country, and in this life. I’m in the middle of something big.

Day Fifteen: The Space Around

There is you over there and me in here … or is that so? Perhaps your skin isn’t the end of you. We might be far broader than that, stretching and stretching till we touch the stars.

Maybe there’s a huge space around everything – a sense of outflow, of joining me to whatever’s beside. And time expands too … into a softness, a lingering. It could be that even the difficult moments blend into the air and extend themselves back into the past and forward into the future. Maybe there’s nothing distinct and limited at all, no edges marking “this” from “not this”.

There is space around the beings and moments of the world – softening them and enriching them. I just need the eyes to see.

Just now, it was easy. Ali, Nima and I sat together. I showed them a video on my phone, of Aretha Franklin singing You Make Me Feel Like a Natural Woman to an audience that included Barack Obama and Carole King, the co-writer of the song. The three of us cuddled and the singer touched not only a Canadian heart, but also Senegalese ones too, despite the language difference. I feel in my being that this is true.

I could feel us extending together … being with Carole, Aretha, Michelle and Barack in that faraway where of Washington, D.C. and that faraway when of 2015. It wasn’t my brain that knew we were all together, but it was nonetheless so. People of the ages 4, 11, 70, 77, 55, 58 and “dead” were united across such permeable boundaries. The space around us kept reaching outward, animating whatever it touched.

Last night, not so easy. Wrestling is one of the big sports in Senegal and there’s a competition in a nearby village happening now. The singing and drumming starts each night around 9:00 pm and lasts till 1:00 am. This will be going on for the rest of 2019.

The voice easily crosses the few kilometres between Soucouta and Toubacouta. I couldn’t sleep. I felt into the space around but there were jangles in the way. The staccato sound, the fatigue, the unfamiliarity of it all. In my better moments, I sank into the sweetness of the tones, feeling the rhythm of the song. And then the walls closed in. Contract … expand … contract … expand …

Still I knew … all moved outwards, dissipating as the night said hello. I was home, within all that the word can mean.

Day Fourteen: The Body

Is it a microphone … or is it a trowel? How I perceive it is up to me. The same goes for my body. I’ve spent most of my lifetime seeing it as a problem … fat, weak, U-shaped rather than V-shaped. What if there’s no “reality” to any of that? There’s merely a body here – white, thin in most places, of seventy years. How about no judgments, just a witnessing of the physical life’s ebbs and flows?

And now a new moment: Gnima wants to hold my cell phone (I’ve learned how to spell her name since last time). So I give it to her, knowing that her 4-year-old hands could easily drop it. It’s simply a new way of seeing things. I wonder if I can apply this to all of my life. What freedom is available here?

Now Gnima is cuddled up against my chest as I tap these words. She’s enthusistically examining her hands while commenting en français. Another now has her up and away, tossing the shark-face beach ball to herself. Everything feels loose, untethered.

I watched a soccer game two days ago – the young men of Toubacouta in red, the fellows of another village in green. I watched their grace, their speed and joyed in the flow of movement, the deft flicks of the ball to teammates, the explosive shots on goal. There’s no need to refer all this back to Bruce. I can merely celebrate youth, power and the lungs going full out. A better choice.

Over the last few days, the body has spoken:

1. It wants to rest, walking some and reposing a lot

2. It struggles with the heat of midday in Africa

3. It coughs a lot in the dust and fumes of Senegal, and enjoys puffer times each day

4. It balances precariously between constipation and diarrhea, seeming to lean towards one or the other at every moment

5. It feels midnight pains and knows that there is a way through this. There is intelligence here.

6. It sees the absurdity of tanning, of accomplishing an appearance that will fade over the span of Canada’s winter.

7. It doesn’t want a lot of food, being in the middle of a sufficiency that doesn’t require adding to the essence.

Let us be at ease then, dear Bruce – in mind, spirit and body. Let us abide here within the African moments. Let us continue the study of French so that I may come closer to my friends. It is enough.

Day Thirteen: Touch

Nima, Bruce and Ali

Back home in Belmont, Canada, I volunteer in a class of 10- and 11-year-olds. They’re marvelous kids. In our culture, if an adult touches a child who’s not in his family, he’s suspected of being a bad person. Therefore I don’t initiate hugs with kids. Still, if they come at me with arms open, I don’t turn away. We hug.

Our society is so touch poor compared to Senegal. Yesterday an old friend came to visit. Ali and I became buddies when I travelled to Africa for the first time – last December. He spoke very little English and I spoke very little French but we connected. Deep communication includes the subtleties of language but goes far beyond that. There are the eyes … and there is the touch.

Ali snuggled close in the chair with me and fingered the bracelet on my left wrist. He gave me that bracelet long ago, gesturing that I should hold up my arm and then slipping it over my wrist. Back then, the beads were held together with yarn, and one day in Toronto, in my room at the bed and breakfast, the beads spilled onto the floor. Happily I found them all, and soon began the search for repair.

Kids at school tried their best with more yarn but soon that one broke as well. The owner of a jewelry shop experimented with a few things, without success. Finally she found a stainless silver chain narrow enough to enter the holes of the beads. Two days before I flew to Belgium and later Senegal, Ali’s bracelet reappeared on my wrist. And now he was touching the beads and the skin beside them.

Ahh … the warmth of the skin, two arms just resting together. There is an abiding with no desire to move on to something else. Ali is fascinated with my grey hair and sometimes runs his fingers through it. He’s also made valiant efforts to braid little bits of it … amazingly with a little success!

Ali and his brother Ansou accepted my offer of bracelets from Canada. Several kids in the Grade 5/6 class created them for the Toubacouta children. Right now I can’t remember which Canadian child provided the adornments that now rest on the brothers’ wrists. “That’s okay, Bruce. The donor will be revealed in the fullness of time.”

I’ve never been a dad or a grandpa. Oh … what I’ve missed! With the help of Ali, Ansou and a whole bunch of young ones in Belmont, I get to know all about family. Lucky me.