Category Archives: Stories of a Life Redux

Stories of a Life | Oct. 31st | Raymond’s Surgery Day

June 20, 2026fixin to die rag, Food & Health, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life, Stories of a Life Redux, Vancouver, VanRamblingsalasdair, dr. andrzej buczkowski, dr. brad fritz, dr. fergal donnellan, dr. miles mannis, elliott, fergus, gemini ai, gwen giesbrecht, heather, hilar cholangeocarinoma, kelly ryan, meaghan, nick ellan, prostate cancer, radical robotic prostatecomy, susan walsh, teague, vancouver general hospital, wendy pedersenRaymond Tomlin

Saturday, October 31 2025, Raymond is admitted to VGH for a radical prostatectomy

As I’ve written previously, on Friday, October 31 2025, I was admitted to the Vancouver General Hospital for a radical prostatectomy, in response to my Stage 4 prostate cancer. My prostate would be removed over the course of a 3½ hour surgery.

My friend Susan Walsh drove me to the hospital, leaving at 8:45am, arriving at VGH at 9am, where she dropped me off.

I climbed the stairs on the west side of the Jim Pattison Pavilion, just off Laurel Street, and upon entering the building walked down the long corridor towards the Admitting desk, where a woman behind a glass enclosure told me that my arrival was expected. Next, I was directed to an elevator leading to the third floor, and ushered into a carrel, with curtains on three sides, and given a blue gown to wear, a new, softer gown construction less given to exposing a patient’s body. I then climbed into what I found to be a quite comfy bed, the back of the bed tilted up.

No sooner was I comfy in my bed than a young woman in her 30s approached the carrel, my bed and me, introducing herself as Jen, the lead nurse on my upcoming prostate cancer surgery, that was planned to start 75 minutes hence.

Staring directly at me, Jen said …

“Cholangeo, huh?” ‘Yep’, I replied. “You know, Raymond, every other patient I’ve worked with who had been diagnosed with cholangeo died, yet here you are, looking pretty darn fit, and in good shape and quite ready for your upcoming cancer surgery. Why is it that you are here, lying in your comfortable bed, full of vim and vigour, when all of the other cholangeo patients who suffered from your cholangeo diagnosis are long gone, expiring within weeks or months. Gone. Dead.”

“A miracle,” I said. After which I explained what had occurred in the year of my discontent in being diagnosed and treated for my Hilar cholangeocarinoma.

“Well, I’m glad you’re still with us,” Jen said. “I’ll see you in the operating room in about an hour. I’ll be the one keeping an eye on the doctors to make sure that all goes well. You can count on me.”

An Explanatory Digression

Hilar cholangeocarinoma. A bit of background. On October 7th, 2016 I was diagnosed with Hilar cholangiocarcinoma by Dr. Fergal Donnellan.

Weekly for the next six months I attended at VGH where Dr. Donnellan installed a stent in my bile duct. By Christmas, I was in palliative care at St. John’s Hospice at the University of British Columbia. Apparently, I was a goner, the tests definitive.

Problem was, I felt pretty great (October 2016 was the worst month of pain I had ever experienced), in January 2017 attending the Women’s March — with Gwen Giesbrecht, currently running with COPE for a position on the Vancouver School Board, and longtime DTES community activist Wendy Pedersen, and her then 11-year-old daughter — to protest the election of Donald Trump as U.S. President.

Long story short, my family physician, Dr. Brad Fritz, assigned me to meet with VGH urology specialist and surgeon Dr. Andrzej Buczkowski to review my case.

In early January 2017, Dr. Buczkowski showed me the results of several MRIs, CT scans and PET scans, which showed from the neck down, the lymph nodes in my body were a flaming red, the bile duct cancer having spread throughout my body. Dr. Buczkowski expressed surprise that I looked healthy, and fit, when given the surfeit of tests I had been subjected to for months indicated I should be dead.

Over the course of the next two months, I was tested and re-tested, ending up on an operating table at Vancouver General Hospital at 6am on Friday morning, March 7 2017, where from 6am to 3pm, Dr. Donnellan rooted around in my body looking for the cancer spread — the results of the tests conducted by Dr. Buczkowski indicated that my bile duct cancer had disappeared. At 3pm, I was wheeled to a ward, still fast asleep, and still under the effects of the anaesthetic I had been given.

At 4:30pm, standing at the foot of my bed, Dr. Donnellan voiced what he told me later were the three most difficult words he had ever expressed: “It’s a miracle!” My cancer was gone, there was absolutely no trace of my cancer anywhere, not in my liver, pancreas, gall bladder, lungs, or bile duct. And so it has remained until, and I expect beyond, this day.

My friend Margery Duda, a longtime community pools advocate (whom Kareem Allam must meet), picked me up from the hospital to ferry me home.

I’ll write about the entire journey of my Hilar cholangeocarinoma in days to come.

Jen and I spoke for about 10 minutes, after which she departed, where upon three of her nurse colleagues who would be attending at my surgery approached my carrel to introduce themselves. Next up, my surgeon, a cheerful Dr. Miles Mannas and three of his urologist colleagues dropped by my carrel, as well as two oncologists who had been supervising my case, three anesthesiologists and the two doctors who would be conducting my upcoming, precise, robotic surgery.

At 10:25am I was wheeled into the operating room for my radical prostatectomy that, unlike the “photo” above (created with Gemini AI), appeared to be the size of a football field. I was approached by the lead anesthesiologist, with whom I had met previously, in preparation for my prostate cancer surgery. “I am going to apply the anesthetic now,” he said. And I was out like a light.

The surgery lasted until late afternoon, after which I was wheeled to a recovery ward, where I was attended to for the next 12 hours by an absolutely tremendous nurse — with a wry and wicked sense of humour — and very well cared for.

Alasdair and Fergus walking down Waterloo Street towards Almond Park

At 10am on Saturday morning, my friend Alasdair and his son Fergus (about whom I wrote on Tuesday) arrived to pick me up and take me home, where I remained bed-ridden for the next three months, continuing the worst part of my recovery through early June, cared for by Nick Ellan, Alasdair, his bride Meaghan (and their two children, Fergus and Elliott), my neighbours Heather, Judi, Kevin and Laurie — and all other members of my housing co-op, for that matter, about which circumstance, I will write several times over the coming weeks and months — my good friend Kelly Ryan, and the dog we share, Teague the schnauzer wonder dog.

Teague the schnauzer wonder dog, my constant and much loved companion

Stories of a Life | Redux | Curiosity About Life | Joy

September 21, 2024Stories of a Life Reduxgraduation, ken waites, lord nelson school, simon fraser university, templeton secondary schoolRaymond Tomlin

Lord Nelson Elementary School, on Vancouver’s eastside, where I attended Grades 1 thru 3.

The summer of 1959, after I’d completed Grade 3 at Lord Nelson School in Vancouver, in August of ’59, my parents moved from Vancouver to Edmonton to be closer to family — on both my mother’s and father’s sides of the family.

In Alberta at the time, the provincial government had adopted what they called an “Enterprise Programme,” a focused academic programme meant to engage students intellectually while providing them with the tools they would require to compete successfully at post-secondary university.

While all other Canadian provinces had adopted a two stream programme, one academic (university bound), the other vocational (meant to prepare students to work in the trades), Alberta was having none of that — educational achievement at the highest possible level was Alberta’s goal, the curriculum requirements rigorous, demanding and challenging, and consistently above grade level.

The Enterprise Programme was defined by competition and the striving to become the best possible student — failure was never an option, doing your best was expected and required, academically and socially.

Future leaders were being trained in Alberta.

“The provincial government meant to produce the best and the brightest, informed by a progressive educational ideology that Alberta was the first Canadian province to adopt in the 1950s, an educational philosophy that was child-centred, subject-integrated, with an activity-based approach, known in Alberta as the Enterprise Programme, focused on content centered courses in History, Geography, and Civics integrated into a new course: Social Studies, which was taught across all grade levels, this new subject emphasizing the development of democratic, co-operative behaviour, and inquisitiveness through experiential learning.”
Lynn Speer Lemisko & Kurt W. Clausen, Connections, Contrarities and Convolutions: Curriculum & Pedagogic Reform in Alberta; Faculty of Education, SFU, March, 2017

In the summer of 1962, my parents made the decision to return to Vancouver — the reasons unclear to me, but whatever the case, in the summer of ’62, living at 2136 Venables Street, I was enrolled at Templeton Secondary School, then the toughest school in Vancouver (that mantle would soon be claimed by VanTech — but in 1962, Templeton was the school where all the toughest “juvenile delinquents” were enrolled, although truth to tell, many of those students found themselves behind lock and key at the Brannen Lake Juvenile Correctional Facility).

From Grades 7 through Grade 12, I attended Templeton Secondary School.

Based on my experience in Alberta, I was enrolled in the academic programme at Templeton, whereas every person I’d attended Grades 1 thru 3 with at Lord Nelson found themselves enrolled in the vocational stream.

Odd, I thought to myself at the time.

Another odd thing I found: from the spring of 1963 on, my grades never soared about a C-average — whereas in Alberta, I’d been a straight A student.

Unlike most other students enrolled in the academic programme, I was required to take vocational classes — and from Grade 8, I was enrolled in typing and secretarial classes, unlike any other student in the academic stream.

Although a typing speed of 160wpm would serve me well later in life, I still found it odd, and just a bit concerning, that I was required to take three clerical classes each year through to graduation.

From Grade 8 on, I was also concerned that when I submitted an essay in Social Studies or one of my English classes, it either came back to me with a C, a D or a fail — with a comment from my teacher that someone other than me had written the essay, or I had either plagiarized or copied directly the work of someone else.

By the time I reached Grade 12, where I had achieved an A- average in French, was taking the lead in the school plays, and editing the student newspaper, I was disappointed to receive a D in English, and a fail in History and Geography.

I recall one spring afternoon in 1968, the teacher having turned down the lights, with soft music playing in the background, the teacher asking the students in my Grade 12 English class to write a stream of consciousness essay, which I was only too happy to do.

When I submitted the essay to the teacher, she took a glance at the essay and tore it up, saying to me, “You didn’t write this. You either copied it from someone else or had the essay prepared in advance (note. there had been no notice of a stream of consciousness essay taking place in class that day). You receive a fail for the essay. I’m disgusted with you.”

A dozen years later, I was the Assistant Director of Teacher Training, PDP 401-402 at Simon Fraser University (a position I held while working on my Master’s degree).

The English teacher referred to above had taken a seconded position as a PDP Faculty Associate — in essence I was her boss.

When we first connected, in September, at the outset of the 1980 academic school year, almost the first words out of her mouth were, “I had a student with your name at Templeton Secondary. How odd that you should both have the same name,” at which point I informed her that the Raymond Tomlin she had taught, and the person standing in front of her was one and the same person. She looked aghast, stammering, “But how?”

I told her I had a 3.8 grade point average and two undergraduate degrees, and was currently enrolled in a Master’s programme at the university, letting her in on what I am about to write and record for posterity now …

In June of 1968, when I was about to graduate, as was the case with all of the other graduating students, I met with Ken Waites, the patrician, white-haired Principal at Templeton Secondary School, in his office with the door closed, and this is what he said to me …

“Well, Raymond, even though you’re a couple of courses short of graduation, given your failing grades in History and Geography, I am nonetheless going to graduate you anyway — because any kind of academic future is clearly not in the cards for you. I want to tell you something that we’ve kept from you for the past five years: for each of those years, you were recorded as having the lowest IQ of any student enrolled in the Vancouver school district, not just at Templeton, but city wide. Your teachers and I had often wondered, given your low IQ, how it is that you locomoted yourself from point A to point B. Someone with as low an IQ as you shouldn’t even be able to speak — but here you are.

You’ve probably wondered to yourself, why you were required to take three clerical courses each of the past five years. The answer is easy: you spell well, and it was clear early on that you had an aptitude for secretarial work, your typing speed and accuracy superior. Your guidance counsellor and I determined a long time ago that the best course in life for you would be to enter the clerical field, to be a secretary — because, clearly, you are possessed of no academic skill whatsoever, although you seem to have done well in French.

I have had these meetings with all graduating students, providing what I believe to be sound advice on how each student should proceed with his life following graduation. In your case, your best — and I would say, your only — hope is as a secretary. Thank you for meeting with me this afternoon, Raymond. All the best in your future.”

In 1970, my new wife insisted I enroll at Simon Fraser University, where students with an inferior academic record were being accepted, in order to build the student body.

In my first semester at SFU, I achieved 3 C’s and two B’s. In my second semester, 3 B’s and 2 A’s — and every semester after that, straight A’s (not that I ever cared about grades, as did many of my fellow students — I was just hungry for knowledge, and curious about the world, eager to learn as much as I could, at one point early on not leaving SFU’s Burnaby campus over an 18-month period).

I loved to read, I loved to write, I loved to learn, I was curious about everything — being at Simon Fraser University and hanging out with and being challenged by the best and the brightest was like a dream come true for me.

My curiosity about life, about all aspects of our existence on Earth remains to this day — I want to read all of the papers of record every day (and I do!), to engage with nation builders and city builders, to work with persons of conscience, to work towards better, fairer, more just.

And I am afforded that opportunity each and every day, surrounded (outside of my plangent housing co-op life) by strong-willed persons of conscience who mean to build a better and more just world. As such, my life is near filled with joy!

Stories of a Life | Redux | Failing Grade One as a Pivotal Moment in My Life

September 14, 2024Stories of a Life Reduxlord nelson school, vancouverRaymond Tomlin

For the first five years of my life, I didn’t speak. I sang, but I didn’t speak.

Early childhood trauma, I expect — neglect, a lack of love, and darker goings on I won’t write about today — but there was nonetheless joy in my young life, the Sunshine Bread truck that would situate itself in the park at the end of Alice Street, over by Victoria and 24th, providing the young children who lived in the neighbourhood an opportunity to ride on the tiny merry-go-round on the back of the truck, the children running home to their mothers saying, “Mom, oh mom, you’ve got to buy some Sunshine Bread.”

At age five, I began to speak, first haltingly and then in full sentences. For anyone who knows me, they’d probably say that for many years now, I have been making up for the lost words of the first five years of my life.

In my home, there were no bedtime stories.

Not that either of my parents were inclined to read to my sister and I.

My father had a Grade One education, and couldn’t read. My mother had a Grade Three education, and she could read — but not to either me or my sister. Not that she was ever around the house long enough to read stories to us, even if she was so inclined — which she wasn’t.

My mother was the breadwinner in my family, working three jobs simultaneously, always, 16 hour days six days a week, with one 24-hour day. Those were in the days of the 1950s and 1960s when women were paid 35¢ an hour, hardly enough to live on.

In September 1956, I entered Grade One. My mother was actually present to enroll me my first day of school at Lord Nelson Elementary, at Templeton Drive and Charles.

Grade One was, for me, a blur.

I was, I suppose, unmanageable, full of life, although I don’t have any strong memories of my attendance at Lord Nelson Elementary school, from September 1956 through June of 1957 — I had never been socialized, no one had ever made demands of me in regards of my conduct, although I would receive hard spankings at home if I got out of line.

My most cogent memories of September 1956 to June 1957 are this …

- Walking to school alone through billowy white fog, so thick you couldn’t see your hand in front of you, arriving at school on time, and settling into a day where I would learn nothing;
- Spending occasional afternoons at my best friend John Pavich’s home, his mother with fresh-baked, warm cookies at the ready, a glass of milk on the table. I would often stay for only a half hour, after which I would walk down Charles Street in the rain, towards Nanaimo, rumbling thunder and lightning in the steel blue skies a wondrous delight for me.

Six-year-old me, Raymond Tomlin, on my bike, outside my home, in the spring of 1957

As the school year was ending, the sports day complete, the warm summer days having now just begun, on the last day of school in June 1957, I received my report card, taking it directly to my home as instructed by my Principal and my teacher.

There was no one home.

I played make believe all on my own. I left my report card on the kitchen table. Alone, I felt fatigued, and went to bed early on that June 30th afternoon, unsure of what the summer would bring, and what life held in store for me.

Early the next morning, following 12 hours of fitful sleep, upon opening my eyes, I was surprised to see my mother standing over my bed. She looked at me, seething, her lips pursed and tight, her face purple with rage — next thing I knew, she hit me across the face, hard. “You failed Grade One. No son of mine is going to fail Grade One. You are in for a summer of hell!”

And so it proved to be.

For the only time in all the years I lived at home, my mother left her employment, staying home with me through July and August, the renters in the downstairs suite evicted that summer, my days of hell beginning at 8am, tied to a chair in the kitchen of the downstairs suite, from 8am til 8pm Monday through Friday of each week of summer 1957, for near on 60 days — save my birthday, on August 11th, when I was given a day off.

Hour upon hour upon hour.

Over the course of the thirty-one days of July 1957, something of a miracle occurred amidst the tears, and the now lessening screams of the day: I learned to read. I learned arithmetic. I learned to print. I learned everything I had not learned in ten months of enrollment in Grade One.

By summer’s end — as would soon be discovered — I knew how to print and to write in cursive longhand, my arithmetic skills progressing far beyond basic addition and subtraction into fractions, and elementary algebra and geometry. I learned to read, I read for hours every day.

That summer I learned to love learning.

On the first day of school in September 1957, my mother — as you may have gathered, a force of nature — marched me into the school office, confronting the Principal, an anger in her that had transmogrified into rage, my mother fierce and unrelenting in a barrage of hate-filled words that filled the room, fear and dread also filling the room, the Principal clearly unsettled, teachers running towards the office to see what this mad woman who had taken control of the office wanted, was demanding.

“My son is ready for Grade 2,” my mother bellowed at my Principal, whose complexion now was ruddy, his face shuddering, his eyes wary, wide, concern — perhaps for his safety, perhaps for me – spilling out of his eyes.

“But Mrs. Tomlin, your son can’t read, he doesn’t even know the letters of the alphabet, and he doesn’t know how to do even the most basic addition and subtraction, not even one plus one equals two. I cannot place your son in Grade Two, just because you wish it to be so.”

My mother looked around the office. There was a large plaque on one of the walls, with 20 or so lines of print on the plaque.

Turning to me, pointing to the plaque, she roared, “Read it.” And I did. While I was reading the dozens of words on the plaque, my mother looked around the office, spotting a Grade 5 Math book.

Handing the Math book to the Principal, her eyes now in a squint, she demanded of the Principal, “turn to any page, ask him to solve any problem on that page.

Now!”

The principal did as he was instructed to by my mother, asking me one question after another, as he flipped through page after page of the Math book. I answered every question correctly — and quickly, as I had been instructed in my basement dungeon at home.

The Principal turned to me and said, “Wait here son, take a seat over there. Mrs. Tomlin, please come with me to my office.”

Twenty minutes later I entered Mrs. Goloff’s Grade Two class, in a portable outside along Charles Street, beginning what would be one of the best years of my life. The school had spelling bees. I won every time, not just for Grade 2, but for the whole school.

I breezed through Grade 2. Somehow, over the summer, I had gained a love of learning that resides in me still, and informs my life each and every day. I loved to read, spending hours in the school library reading whatever I could get my hands on.

The summer of 1957.

A pivotal summer in my life, not just my young life, but the whole of my life, the most impactful summer of my near 68 years on this planet since 1957. In retrospect, looking back on that summer of what began as misery and pain, and what it has meant to me over the course of the next 68 years of my life — I love my mother for what she did for me.

As I have written previously, and as I will write again, I am who I am because of the tough, caring women who have come into my life, who have been demanding of me to be my best, to give all that I can give.

As is the case with most of the women with whom I have shared my life, my mother was a tough, bright, brooked no nonsense and driven woman, someone you did not want to cross, ever, who was also — not to put too fine a point on the matter — crazy (a consequence of childhood trauma), but a survivor nonetheless, and was in her own way, loving, but in terms of the woman who was supposed to raise me, in large measure and for the most part, absent — save one particular summer, the summer of 1957.

Stories of a Life | Redux | Cathy and Raymond’s 1970s European Adventure

September 7, 2024Essay, fixin to die rag, Jude and Megan, Stories of a Life Redux, Thought for the Day, Unbelievable Truth, VanRamblings1974, britrail pass, cathy, danelle, european vacation, eurrail pass, jd salinger, raymond, susan, the laughing manRaymond Tomlin

In the summer of 1974, Cathy and I traveled to Europe for a three-month European summer vacation, BritRail and Eurail passes in hand, this was going to be a summer vacation to keep in our memory for always.

And so it proved to be …

On another day, in another post evoking memories of our cross-continental European sabbatical, I’ll relate more stories of what occurred that summer.

Only 10 days prior to the event I am about to relate, Cathy and I had arrived in Lisbon, Portugal, alighting from a cruise liner we’d boarded in Southampton, England (passage was only 5£s, much cheaper than now).

After a couple of wonderful days in Lisbon, Cathy and I embarked on the first part of our hitchhiking sojourn throughout every portion of Portugal we could get to, finally traveling along the Algarve before arriving in the south of the country, ready to board a train to Spain.

Unfortunately, I developed some intestinal disorder or other, requiring rest and fluids.

Once Cathy could see that I was going to be fine, she left the confines of our little pensão to allow me to recover in peace, returning with stories of her having spent a wonderful day at the beach with an enthusiastic retinue of young Portuguese men, who had paid attention to and flirted with her throughout the day.

Cathy was in paradisiacal heaven; me, not so much.

Still, I was feeling better, almost recovered from my intestinal malady, and the two of us made a decision to be on our way the next morning.

To say that I was in a bad mood when I got onto the train is to understate the matter. On the way to the station, who should we run into but the very group of amorous young men Cathy had spent the previous day with, all of whom were beside themselves that this braless blonde goddess of a woman was leaving their country, as they beseeched her to “Stay, please stay.”

Alas, no luck for them; this was my wife, and we were going to be on our way.

Still suffering from the vestiges of both an irritable case of jealousy and a now worsening intestinal disorder, I was in a foul mood once we got onto the train, and as we pulled away from the station, my very loud and ill-tempered mood related in English, those sitting around us thinking that I must be some homem louco, and not wishing in any manner to engage.

A few minutes into my decorous rant, a young woman walked up to me, and asked in the boldest terms possible …

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth?

“Huh,” I enquired?

“Do you kiss your mother with that mouth? That’s the filthiest mouth I’ve ever heard. You’ve got to teach me how to swear!”

At which point, she sat down across from me, her lithe African American dancer companion moving past me to sit next to her. “Susan. My name is Susan. This is my friend, Danelle,” she said, pointing in the direction of Danelle. “We’re from New York. We go to school there. Columbia. I’m in English Lit. Danelle’s taking dance — not hard to tell, huh? You two traveling through Europe, are you?” Susan all but shouted. “I come from a large Jewish family. You? We’re traveling through Europe together.”

And thus began a beautiful friendship.

Turns out that Susan could swear much better than I could; she needed no instruction from me. Turns out, too, that she had my number, and for all the weeks we traveled together through Europe, Susan had not one kind word for me — she set about to make my life hell, and I loved every minute of it. Susan became the sister I wished I’d had, profane, self-confident, phenomenally bright and opinionated, her acute dissection of me done lovingly and with care, to this day one of the best and most loving relationships I’ve ever had.

Little known fact about me: I love being called out by bright, emotionally healthy, socially-skilled and whole women.

The summer of 1974, when Cathy became pregnant with Jude, on the right above.

Without the women in my life, Cathy or Megan, my daughter — when Cathy and I separated — Lori, Justine, Alison, Patricia, Julienne or Melissa, each of whom loved me, love me still, and made me a better person, the best parts of me directly attributable to these lovely women, to whom I am so grateful for caring enough about me to make me a better person.

Now onto the raison d’être of this instalment of Stories of a Life.

Once Susan and I had settled down — there was an immediate connection between Susan and I, which Cathy took as the beginnings of an affair the two of us would have (as if I would sleep with my sister — Danelle, on the other hand, well … perhaps a story for another day, but nothing really happened, other than the two of us becoming close, different from Susan).

J. D. Salinger's Nine Stories, an anthology of short stories published in April 1953

Danelle saw a ragged copy of J.D. Salinger’s Nine Stories peeking out of Cathy’s backpack.

“Okay,” she said. “In rounds, let’s each one of us give the title of one of the Salinger short stories,” which we proceeded to do. Cathy was just now reading Salinger, while I’d read the book while we were still in England, about three weeks earlier.

Cathy started first, For Esmé — with Love and Squalor. Danelle, Teddy. Susan, showing off, came up with A Perfect Day for Bananafish, telling us all, “That story was first published in the January 31, 1948 edition of The New Yorker.” Show off! I was up next, and came up with Uncle Wiggily in Connecticut. Phew — just barely came up with that one! Thank goodness.

Onto the second round: Cathy, Down at the Dinghy; Danelle, Pretty Mouth and Green My Eyes; Susan, showing off again, De Daumier-Smith’s Blue Period, “turned down by The New Yorker in late 1951, and published by the British Information World Review, early in 1952.” Me? Struggling yet again, but subject to a momentary epiphany, I blurted out, Just Before the War with the Eskimos. There we were, eight stories down and one to go.

But do you think any one of us could come up with the title to the 9th tale in Salinger’s 1953 anthology of short stories? Nope.

We thought about it, and thought about it — and nothing, nada, zero, zilch. We racked our brains, and we simply couldn’t come up with the title of the 9th short story.

We sat there, hushed. For the first time in about half an hour, there was silence between us, only the voices of children on the train, and the clickety-clack of the tracks as the train relentlessly headed towards Madrid.

We couldn’t look at one another. We were, as a group, downcast, looking up occasionally at the passing scenery, only furtively glancing at one another, only periodically and with reservation, as Cathy held onto my arm, putting hers in mine, Danelle looking up, she too wishing for human contact.

Finally, Susan looked up at me, looked directly at me, her eyes steely and hard yet … how do I say it? … full of love and confidence in me, that I somehow would be the one to rescue us from the irresolvable dilemma in which we found ourselves.

Beseechingly, Susan’s stare did not abate …

“The Laughing Man,” I said, “The Laughing Man! The 9th story in Salinger’s anthology is …” and before I could say the words, I was smothered in kisses, Cathy to my left, Susan having placed herself in my lap, kissing my cheeks, my lips, my forehead, and when she found herself unable to catch her breath, Danelle carrying on where Susan had left off, more tender than Susan, loving and appreciative, Cathy now holding me tight, love all around us.

A moment that will live in me always, a gift of the landscape of my life.