The Story of Stress: Part 1

I was intermittently aware of experiencing stress back in my school days: talking in front of a class, waiting outside the principal’s office, working feverishly to finish a class project on time. In university I took a course in psychoneuroimmunology, which offered a more academic look at stress and its impacts on the body. In research papers we read about rats and other unfortunate captive creatures being shocked or otherwise stressed, with various adverse impacts on their physiology then measured.

However, it was not until I landed in the full-time working world that stress and stressors become more of a frequent and relevant topic of discussion. I worked in a medical/health library and our collection of stress management books, for both employees and researchers, seemed to grow by the year. There was also a burgeoning focus on employee well-being, and I remember many employees being handed a slim booklet titled: “Adapting to Stress: Start Taking Charge,” created in 1988 by the Hope Heart Institute (I still have it). It was fairly comprehensive document, with a focus on stress management strategies to reduce negative health impacts, including heart disease.

Since that time, I have read many books and papers on the topic. I think the topic continues to hold my interest because the experience of stress is universal, and has important—even life-saving—utility in some circumstances, although more so for our ancestors who dealt with greater physical demands and threats, like the proverbial sabre-toothed tiger. In the modern world, demands are now more likely to be psychological, but they create the same cascade of bodily responses. And, while the stress response is universal, what triggers a stress response in one person, may not for another. Fascinating stuff.

So, I thought I would delve into my stress library and choose two books that have made an impact in the field, albeit with slightly different takes on the topic. In this post I will focus on the book: When the Body Says No: The Cost of Hidden Stress, by Gabor Maté, a well-known Canadian physician.

Early in this book, Maté cites the work of Hans Selye, considered the founder of stress theory as well as the originator of the term. Selye states that stress consists of internal/physiological alterations--visible or not--when an organism perceives a threat to its existence or well-being. As well, this stress response is heightened when the demand made on an organism (which can be a positive or negative event) exceeds that organism’s capacity, or perceived capacity, to deal with that demand.

Maté draws on medical research, as well as his decades of clinical experience as a family physician, to advance the concept of a mind-body connection and its role in various conditions and diseases, including autoimmune disorders. In this context, he explores the link between stress and disease, examining how early emotional experiences (as well as current ones) impact the body’s immune system and ultimately lead to illness. Reflecting the book’s title, and through multiple case studies, Maté attempts to illustrate how disease can be a consequence (or a way of the body saying no/enough) when the mind cannot or will not acknowledge and or cope with certain emotional issues or traumatic content.

Despite my comments to follow, I think this is an important book to read. In western medicine, the mind-body link is still a relatively new idea, and not regularly reflected in medical practice in many sectors. As well, Maté worked for many years in a Downtown Eastside medical practice, which no doubt influenced and or solidified his trauma-informed perspective. Trauma at any stage in life, can have profound implications for physical and mental health, including the behavioural choices that influence these. Again, this is an idea that is just beginning to take hold in a variety of health fields, including those related to addiction and mental health treatment. In both these realms, Maté remains a crucial voice.

That said, the book is weighty with medical disorder cases that seem to be explained a little too conveniently (or dare I say simplistically) by Maté’s central theories. I think the cases he presents are real, and there may be an emotional/traumatic component to illness manifestation or continuation in a portion of these. But it feels like an over-assertion to say this is a factor in all cases: one that may be under-emphasizing or under-reporting other known or unknown factors. Related to this is the danger of blaming the victim. Maté insists this is not his intention, but that’s sometimes how it reads, and it doesn’t feel very helpful, particularly as the book is very light on practical ways forward for impacted patients. In the case where deep-seated trauma may be a legitimate factor in a current medical condition, many do not have access to specialized and typically costly trauma assessment/treatment. That just sounds like a recipe for more stress. 

In fact, it is not until the final (19th) chapter that Maté outlines how the reader might "heal" or mitigate some of the health threats he talks about in the previous 18 chapters. He outlines the seven “As”: acceptance, awareness, anger, autonomy, attachment, assertion, and affirmation. While he explains these in more detail, with examples, they still feel more conceptual than practical, and too little too late.

Again, When the Body Says No covers important ground, particularly in reminding us about the mind-body connection and the real impacts of unaddressed trauma (big and smaller) on well-being. I recommend reading it with an attitude of curiosity, and in full knowledge that Maté has a strong point of view to share. 

Enchanted April

It’s the time of year—at least in Westcoast BC—when spring is gaining some traction after months of grey skies, short windy days, and multiple layers of clothing. While it still feels too slow in coming, with many false starts and retreats, every sustained rise in temperature inspires hope. So, it seemed like the perfect time to introduce The Enchanted April, written by Elizabeth Von Arnim, first published in 1922.

As the book begins, two women are also struggling with the dregs of winter in post-World War 1 England. On a February afternoon, in a London woman’s club, they each separately come upon a newspaper advertisement that reads as follows:

 To Those Who Appreciate Wisteria and Sunshine. Small medieval Italian castle on the shores of the Mediterranean to be let furnished for the month of April. Necessary servants remain.

Mrs. Lottie Wilkins and Mrs. Rose Arbuthnot are middle-class housewives with predictable lives and strained marriages. They attend the same church, but differ in temperament and re the social circles they travel. Yet the advertisement stirs something in both of them, although they initially dismiss it as a pipe dream. But Mrs. Wilkins, “sees them there,” and thus begins the journey to San Salvatore.

To afford the rent, the women advertise for two more to accompany them. Applying are Mrs. Fisher: an older, curmudgeonly widow, and Lady Caroline Dester (the author later uses her family nickname Scrap), a young beautiful woman in need of rest from a full social calendar and a host of grabby suitors.

As the holiday begins under the warm and welcome Italian sun, tensions flare between these women of different backgrounds, characters, senses of entitlement, and expectations for the trip. For example, Lady Caroline’s single intention is to “lie comatose for four weeks in the sun.” It takes the others some time to understand this and just let her be. As they settle and begin to take in the magic of the place, they eventually bond over shared misfortunes and the pleasures of life in their tranquil surroundings.

Almost immediately Lottie “sees” her husband Mellersh there, despite the fact that the vacation seemed like an escape from her humdrum London life and her sometimes overbearing husband. She writes to him, and encourages Rose to invite her husband as well, which rocks the equilibrium of their little foursome. Mellersh arrives and surprisingly fits right in, happy his wife has made advantageous social connections. He finds new appreciation for Lottie and is heartened to offer help and advice to the others.

Joining them later at the castle is Mr. Briggs, owner of the property. He is initially drawn to the attractive and interesting Rose, but ultimately becomes distracted by Lady Caroline’s extraordinary beauty. Then Rose’s husband Frederick arrives: a philanderer and author of racy royal memoirs. He never received Rose’s invitation to visit, but instead coincidently came in search of Lady Caroline. He is startled by the appearance of Rose, as well as her enthusiasm, warmth, and ardour as she is overwhelmed by his unexpected arrival. In true San Salvatore style, they rekindle their romance and forgotten regard for one another.

As I describe the basic plot, it might seem like a gals get-away, which men then join to liven up the party. However, much of the novel is a languid homage to the deliciousness of slowing down, and to opening up our hearts and senses. From the moment she reads the advertisement, Lottie is drawn to the idea, then the reality, of San Salvatore. The warm sun and bursting garden, as well as her new-found initiative in supporting her own needs, infuse her almost immediately with a sense of agency and generosity towards others. That openness and warmth is contagious, and allows each woman to begin to trust each other and slowly reveal vulnerabilities. This ultimately extends to the men in their lives.

As the story closes, Lottie envisions her increasingly close relationship with Mrs. Fisher continuing back in England. Over the month, Mrs. Fisher’s initially crusty, demanding demeanour has softened into an almost motherly affection for all, with a willingness to accept affection in return. Lottie also sees a future match for Lady Caroline and Mr. Briggs, despite Lady Caroline’s early annoyance at his almost worshipful (and potentially grabby) attention.

But what happens when the magic of San Salvatore is but a memory, and ordinary life resumes? We’ve all had a restful, immersing vacation we’re sure will remain with us, yet the feeling inevitably fades as stressors re-accrue. But I’d like to think there are certain places and experiences that never leave us, and we can call them back in a heartbeat. I hope that magic continued for The Enchanted April characters.

NOTE: This book was made into a movie in 1991. A few plot points were changed, but the filmmakers did a laudable job of capturing the book’s characters and magic of San Salvatore. It has stayed with me. 

Clara Callan: A Canadian Favourite of Mine

Several decades ago (2001 or 2002), I went with a friend to a local literary festival. One of the authors, Richard B. Wright, read from his new book at the time: Clara Callan. The story is primarily told through an exchange of letters and Wright’s short reading intrigued me enough to buy the book.

My friend who attended with me has never warmed to the book, while I’m drawn back in every time I read it. What is it about this story that resonates strongly with me?

Clara Callan follows the lives of two small-town Canadian sisters, from the end of 1934 to the end of 1938. After their father’s death, thirtysomething Clara stays put in the family home, teaching school in their small Ontario hometown, as her father did before her. Her younger, more adventurous sister Nora is ready to spread her wings and moves to New York City, using connections to get work as an actor on radio.

Their letters back and forth chronical their lives during these four years; journal-type entries from Clara add further background detail. As Nora settles into her life in New York, her co-worker and free-spirited friend, writer Evelyn Dowling, also begins writing Clara. Clara’s letter topics range (and jump around) from the minutia of daily work and small-town life, such as keeping a coal furnace going in winter, to more weighty matters including her early-in-the-story rape and having to deal with the resulting pregnancy. Nora’s letters typically focus on her burgeoning career; her social life with friends, co-workers, and various men, as well as advice for Clara around expanding her seemingly little life.

But while Nora initially appears to be leading the bigger life, cautious dutiful Clara comes up from behind, experiencing significant life changes as the story unfolds. She distances herself from God and her church, while Norah continues to believe. She travels to New York, then Italy with Norah and her emotionally abusive boyfriend, offering Norah support throughout the journey. She also participates in an intellectually satisfying correspondence with Norah’s friend Evelyn. Later Clara begins seeing a man she met at a movie theatre, continuing even after she learns he’s married. Small-town rumours circulate and she is harassed. She finally breaks off her relationship with the married man, but finds herself once again pregnant. This time she decides to keep the baby, forcing her to resign from teaching and embark on a bold new life as a single mother as 1938 comes to a close.

Norah and Evelyn have dramas of their own, contributing to respective personal changes in both work and life; but their evolutions seem less surprising than Clara’s. In fact, their boldness and brashness seem subtly tempered over time by wisdom won through hard knocks.

Wright does a fine job of writing for these three strong, unique women. His ability to do so reminds me of the talents of Wally Lamb. In an era when women’s voices were essentially silenced or eclipsed, his focus on such voices is refreshing. That said, I would have liked to have seen more substantial, nuanced, and positive male characters. Other than a few mentions of Clara’s late father, and her teaching colleague, the only other men represented were a rapist, several cheating husbands, and a narcissistic abusive boyfriend. One would hope the men of the 1930s had much more to offer.

I also appreciated the Canadian context of this novel. The backdrop to a good portion of Clara’s year is the dark, bleak Canadian winter. Wright does a good job of capturing the claustrophobia and wearing nature of this season; and, admittedly, that atmosphere could be off-putting to some readers. Yet, this winter bleakness is counter-balanced by the hope and new energy of spring, the lushness of summer, and the crisp beauty of fall. For those of us who live in the land of Canadian seasons, it feels familiar and reassuring.

Also dark are some of the themes explored in the book: rape, illegal abortion, small-town intolerance, depression/mental illness, sexism, the limited options for women in that era, and politics (particularly in Europe) leading up to World War Two. Yet again, these are ably offset by the positives and small wins of everyday life, including the acceptance and support Clara, Nora, and Evelyn are able to offer and find in each other.

As my friend would attest to, Clara Callan is not for everyone. It is no beach-read romp, which is sometimes what we really need as winter drags on. But there’s also so much there to embrace and take comfort in: the bond of sisters (and siblings) who are different but mostly accepting of those differences; the power of reciprocal communication to ground us and help us feel known; the energy and promise of personal evolution, and the way life can surprise us and we can surprise ourselves. 

A "Little House" Christmas

Tis the season and all that.

I can get a bit Grinchy this time of year, but I’m not totally immune to a heart-warming tale.

This year’s pick: Little House on the Prairie, is part of a beloved book series (see my past post on the joys of a favourite book series).

I’ve not read every book in the series of nine, but I’ve read at least half of them. They are not Christmas-themed books per se, but many have a chapter or two specifically devoted to the season.

The “Little House” books are based on Laura Ingalls Wilder’s childhood and adolescence in the American Midwest between 1870 and 1894. As books often do, this series introduces the reader to a world and lifestyle that was hard to conceive of when I was young, and is probably all the more foreign today.

In Little House on the Prairie (book three in the series), the Ingalls family of five pack up their belongings and move away from their home and extended family in the woods of Wisconsin. In search of wide-open spaces and free land, they travel west to “Indian country.” Along the journey by covered wagon, they encounter fast-flowing rivers, wild animals, bad weather, and other adversities. They camp every night, cooking over a fire, gazing up at the stars.

Eventually they find a place to settle, and it’s fascinating to read in detail the many steps that went into building a new home and barn. This is essentially done by one man, with occasional bartered help from a neighbour--not an architect, contractor, or tradesperson in sight. Then there's everything that needs to be done to keep a household/farm running day to day: feeding the animals, cooking, doing laundry (by hand), sewing and mending, obtaining food by various means, and eventually farming. And let’s not forget, all without the benefit of indoor plumbing!

Overlaying this already hard life are the physical threats from wildlife, such as wolves, as well as other settlers, and conflict with the Indians, on whose land they are settling. From where I stand today, the portrayal of the Indigenous people in this book is pretty shocking (although I don’t remember it having the same impact when I was younger); one settler’s favourite adage is “the only good Indian is a dead Indian.” That said, it’s a good reminder of the historic injustices that are still reverberating today.

Given the ongoing challenges in just getting through the day, it’s no wonder Christmas is anticipated and celebrated as heartily as it is in this book and series. As Christmas nears in Little House on the Prairie, the older children are concerned that the lack of snow and rising creek will prevent a visit from Santa Claus, as well as from their favourite neighbour Mr. Edwards. Although they have a big fat turkey set for the next day, they hang their stockings on Christmas Eve with little hope of gifts in the morning.

In Christmas miracle style though, Mr. Edwards crosses paths with Santa and agrees to pass along Santa’s presents to the Ingalls girls. The two older girls: Mary and Laura each receive a tin cup (they used to have to share one), a candy cane, a little heart-shaped cake topped with white sugar, and a bright new penny. As a bonus, Mr. Edwards produces nine sweet potatoes for all to enjoy with the turkey.

In some substantial ways, little has changed since Mary and Laura’s day. Christmas is still an exciting time for many children: a vacation from the everyday, comforting traditions, festive food, music, gifts, and a focus on family, friends, and good will.

I think this particular story has stayed with me through the years because of its simplicity. By modern standards, Mary and Laura receive a few stocking stuffers, but to them it is a bounty. They are also deeply grateful for what they receive, particularly as they were almost resigned to getting nothing.

Granted, some could argue the true meaning of Christmas is absent in this story: there is no mention of Christianity or the birth of Christ. But I've always been compelled by its hope, and a doing-the-best-we-can spirit we can all use from time to time. It makes my Grinchy heart grow a few sizes at least. 

Go Ask Alice

I've read a lot of addiction and recovery books, with a range of focuses: medical, neuroscientific, historical, social, treatment approach (such as AA), well as memoir. Memoirs make up a good chunk of my readings and they also vary, from authors who are merely “sober curious” to those who eventually climb back up from the lowest bottom (or don’t make it back, as their lowest bottom is death). As per one of my past posts, Drinking: A Love Story is still my top pick in the addiction memoir genre.

But such books were not always as commonplace, and I was recently reminded of one of the first I read: Go Ask Alice (Anonymous author). This memoir, based on diary entries, felt like a pretty risqué read at the time. It was published in 1971—when I was 10—so I suspect I read it a few years after initial publication. It was also made into a TV movie in 1973, featuring the multi-talented William Shatner, as well as Mackenzie Phillips, who would later write a memoir about her own addiction struggles.

The author of Go Ask Alice is a teenaged girl from an upper middle-class American family. In her first diary entry, when she is 15, she writes about dealing with an upsetting, awkward first boyfriend break-up. Given this, she is happy when her family decides to relocate for her father’s academic career. While her younger brother and sister seem to fit into the new town and schools seamlessly, she struggles, as many teenagers do, with low confidence and trying to find her place. 

By the end of the school year though, she has made a few friends, including best friend Beth. But Beth is off to camp for the summer, and the author is slated to stay with her grandparents in her old town. Initially bored, she’s invited by an old school friend to a party, where she unwittingly ingests LSD in a bottle of Coke.

She has a positive LSD experience and, despite her fearful thoughts that taking it makes her a drug addict, her experimentation with drugs continues. She also starts using prescribed tranquillizers/sleeping pills. Coming back home after the summer away, she finds her best friend changed, and becomes friends with another girl who gets her a job and connects her with a drug-taking crowd. Drug use escalates pretty quickly, she begins dealing, runs away, comes back, runs away again, comes back.

Home again, the author tries to live the “straight” life, but is harassed by her former drug-using friends. She must also deal with the death of both her grandparents in quick succession. Then one night while babysitting, someone slips her a drug, and she ends up in a mental health facility after a bad trip leaves her physically and psychologically injured. Once released, she takes a trip with family, then is back in school where the harassment and stigma have died down; she also has new supportive friends and a developing relationship. All seems good in her world, and she bids farewell to her diary (“her dearest friend”), deciding instead to share her thoughts with those around her.

Sadly, an epilogue lets the reader know that the author died of an overdose three weeks after this sign-off. The particulars aren’t shared, only that “she was only one of thousands of drug deaths that year.”

Over fifty years later, amidst a continuing toxic drug crisis in many jurisdictions, it’s tempting to see the 1960s/early 70s drug scene as pretty benign—dare I say even groovy—in comparison. That said, clearly deadly drug overdoses did happen in the 60s/70s era as well, and were just as tragic as they are today.

The book is also dated in other respects. Gelatin salads and homemade dresses were a thing, and film was processed and picked up. As well, drug use stigma was somewhat worse at that time (if that’s possible): the book had a scare-tactic vibe; there was a clear divide between “squares” and those who used drugs in any capacity (and those who did were quick to be labelled “addicts”), and the author was Anonymous. Today, many, including public figures, confidently put their name to, and proudly promote, their pretty gnarly addiction/drug use memoirs.

But the book is also full of themes and topics that transcend time: longing for acceptance, feeling like a misfit in school/in the family, dieting and body image, clothes, hairstyles, mother-daughter struggles, coping with death and grief, peer pressure, bullying, dating, young love, sex, fear of pregnancy, and the depth, complexity, and importance of female friendships.

Despite the dark ending to the book, it still made me nostalgic for less fraught times. When I heard of this book in the early 70s I was very curious, but ultimately its story felt foreign and irrelevant in my world. And, despite there always being some risk, occasional recreational drug use rarely ended in death (not that I was/am a proponent in any era). Today, young people are (of necessity) much more drug aware and educated, including issues surrounding the toxic drug crisis and its risks. Ultimately, we can’t go back, but the book did remind me of an era when many aspects of life seemed simpler.  

End note: Another drug-themed book I read in my youth was Nicky Cruz’s Run Baby Run. It was grittier and even less relatable to my life than Go Ask Alice (and The Outsiders), but definitely expanded my awareness, which of course is a key benefit of reading.

 

Coming Home to a Favourite Book Series

For an avid reader, there’s nothing better than starting a promising new book series.

I can’t remember who introduced me to Louise Penny’s Chief Inspector Gamache series, but I recall it had already gained some traction among readers when I started the first book.

That book was Still Life (2005): a mystery that, on the surface, feels like a classic who-done-it. The first sentence reads: “Miss Jane Neal met her maker in the early morning mist of Thanksgiving Sunday.” And the mystery, as well as the police procedural element, is off and running

Within the first page, the reader is also introduced to two central characters of the book and series: Chief Inspector Armand Gamache (of the Sûreté du Quebec), and the secluded village of Three Pines. These characters remain integral and consistent throughout what is now an 18-book series.

As I shared in a previous post, I love a good mystery, and this series does not disappoint in that regard. But it's not main reason I come back to it time and time again. I come back for the people and place, and I suspect this is true for many successful book series. 

Still Life introduces the reader to many of the characters who will continue throughout the book series. As mentioned, we are introduced to Chief Inspector Armand Gamache early on. And slowly, the rest of the main characters are introduced: Reine-Marie, Armand’s librarian/archivist wife; Olivier Brulé and Gabri Dubeau, partners in life and several hospitality businesses; Myrna Landers, former high-profile psychologist now bookstore owner; Inspector Jean Guy Beauvoir, Gamache’s second-in-command and eventually his son-in-law; Clara and Peter Morrow, married artists; and Ruth Zardo, a cranky, irreverent, award-winning poet. There are other less central (or transitory) characters, but those listed above, with the exception of Peter, are mainstays throughout the series.

I think most readers—of all ages—would agree that well-developed, engaging characters are what keep us coming back for more. The characters that have resonated most with me are unique, multi-dimensional, imperfect, and evolving. Louise Penny does a skilful job of developing such characters.

In creating the village of Three Pines, Penny also establishes a powerful sense of place, as my human geography professor would say. Many of the folks who end up in this tucked-away hamlet have been seeking a life or lifestyle change, and find sanctuary there. While there can be conflict among its residents, there is also a palpable sense of community, and deep comfort in that community. Gamache visits Three Pines for the first time during Still Life, and keeps coming back for various reasons before settling there permanently with Reine-Marie upon retirement (spoiler alert: retirement doesn’t last).

Another attractive feature of Three Pines is it’s Canadian location. For Canadian readers, this feels somewhat unique in such an internationally popular series. For those outside Canada, it is an effortless way to read/learn about the beauty and traditions of Quebec. The weather—often in fall or winter—seems to figure prominently, both as a layer of plot and as atmosphere. Exposure to the biting wind, snow, and freezing rain, is often remedied by a crackling fire and tucking into hearty soups and stews.

If I have one complaint about the series, it's that Armand Gamache sometimes seems a little bit too good to be true: he’s honourable, competent, respected, ever-judicious, and family-focused. It’s said his character was inspired by Penny’s beloved late husband, Michael Whitehead. Gamache’s choice of life partner also seems to be what some would call ideal: his wife is loving, intelligent, and wise, with her own professional pursuits and personal interests; her nurturing spirit is evident in cozy, nourishing meals and the safe-place-to-fall home she creates. Their marriage is built on attraction, deep respect, and companionship, with a mutual sharing of joys, challenges, and important decisions. Over the series, a few rough patches emerge in the Armand Gamache patina, but I would like to see a few more.

That said, too much reality can be over-rated in a work of fiction. Sometimes the sanctuary of Three Pines and an honourable, dependable character like Armand Gamache are just what’s needed at the end of another jarring day out in the real world. When I open up a new book in the Chief Inspector Gamache series, I look forward to a diverting adventure, but am just as eager to find the comfort of home. I hope you find the same escape and comfort in your favourite book series. 

Lanterns and Shadows: A Father's Legacy

Please indulge me in sharing this less conventional post, marking my late father’s birthday, and the tenth anniversary of his death tomorrow.

It actually strikes me as fairly fitting, given my father, Alf Foxgord, was an unconventional man, with creative interests all over the place: visual art, sewing (even some clothing design), knitting, macramé, jewellery-making, inventive cooking, music, and various genres of writing.

In his retirement, he pursued his interest in writing through a local seniors group called The Scriveners. He enjoyed the challenge and discipline of writing various pieces for the group to read/listen to and constructively critique; he was also inspired and motivated by the work of other members.

The Scrivener’s first book: "We’ve Got Something to Say" (1989, Orca Book Publishers) became a local bestseller. The group followed this in 1993 with the publication of a new collection of fiction, essays/remembrances, and poetry titled: Lanterns and Shadows.

I’m glad my father found this group. He needed the creative outlet, and his family was only marginally interested in his writing pursuits at the time. In retrospect, I regret this, but at the time I was a young adult with my own interests and challenges, as were my siblings. Even my mother, who was an extremely supportive spouse, was busy with part-time work and other diversions.

In the end, eight of my father’s contributions made it into the published collection. He wrote about things he knew: Trial Island, where his sister and her family lived for a time; men shedding their veneer of toughness; the comfort of a long-term relationship, and the torturous waiting for a phone call that would likely bring life-changing medical findings.

An interesting submission was titled “Selections from Sketches,” which he describes as “brief descriptions, often concerned with a single image or event, that serve to sharply focus one’s attention for a moment.” He wrote lovingly about his children when they were young: a time he seemed to cherish. He also described the impact of the navy in moulding him. And, the sketch that follows seems to describe a side of him—or how he saw himself—that is antithetical to how he often came across. It surprised me:

If I have chosen a quieter way
To walk
Than most,
I am content.
Like Janus,
Looking both ways,
I sense a sameness:
I have known no great moments,
But have been blessed
With a multitude of 
Smaller joys.

His final contribution to the book is a family and friends favourite: “I am a House.” It is essentially the first-person tale of/by our family home: the comfort and shelter it has provided, and the life transitions of the people who've lived there. I won’t transcribe the whole poem here (contact me if you’re interested), but I include several segments to give you a sense of its spirit:

Until my thirty-seventh year
I never heard a youthful voice
More than a day or two.
Suddenly there were two, then three
And in my middle years, I learned
What it was to be a home,
Not just a house.  

With regret, one by one
I saw you leave,
And knew it was both the end
And a beginning.
Whenever you return I bid you welcome,  
My aging face smiling
To greet you,
But there will be a time
When man and his machines will come: 
In a few hours I will be dust,
And what there is of you in me
Will be gone
But what there is of me in you
Will live forever,
If you treasure it,
With love.

In my young adult self-absorption, I failed to fully appreciate the bittersweet timing of the book’s release. Lanterns and Shadows was published very near the time my mother died. In the months leading up to this, the pre-publication process occasionally offered some snippets of lightness and distraction in an otherwise dark family time; but in the aftermath of publication, my father had little capacity to savour this well-earned moment of fruition, given his life-changing loss. Heartbreak and uplifting accomplishment can exist side by side, yet this can be hard to reconcile.

Twenty years later, I was nursing another heartbreak as I created my Alf Foxgord memory box. The centrepiece of that box was (and is) Lanterns and Shadows. I may not have fully realized what a gift it was in 1993, but in 2023 my signed and personally inscribed copy remains poignant and priceless.

NOTE: Lanterns and Shadows can be found at the Greater Victoria Public Library, although it’s held in the non-circulating Heritage Room.