Category Archives: Stories of a Life

Stories of a Life | 1974 | Cathy & Raymond’s European Vacation

Traveling on a train across Europe, with a Eurail Pass, in the 1970s

In the summer of 1974, Cathy and I travelled 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.

Train travel in Spain, in the 1970s, as the train makes its way around the bend

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.

Traveling from the south of Portugal to Spain, in the 1970s

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 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 asked?

“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.

Two-year-old Jude Nathan Tomlin, baby Megan Jessica, and dad, Raymond, in June 1977The 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 first installment 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.

Stories of a Life | COVID-19 | Division in the Time of a Pandemic

Anti vaxxer rally

COVID has proved a trying and divisive experience for many among us.

mother and son

One of my neighbours is a young mother with a two-year-old son. Happily married, her only source of concern is the welfare of her son during the current, extending COVID-19 pandemic. My neighbour’s concern for her son, shared by many in the housing co-operative in which we live, is that her neighbour is an intransigent woman who refuses to be vaccinated.
My neighbour’s very best friend in the world is a woman she has known since the two of them attended kindergarten together some two-plus decades ago, she herself a young mother, but with three young children all under the age of 12. Just like my neighbour, she too is happily married.
My young neighbour and her husband are fully vaccinated, her son not.

mother-3-children.jpg

My neighbour’s best friend is not vaccinated, nor will she consent to be vaccinated, and neither will she allow her three young children to be vaccinated, stating she doesn’t trust that the vaccine is safe. This woman’s loving and devoted husband, on the other hand, is fully vaccinated and a strong vaccine advocate, and has stated to his wife that he wants to ensure when a COVID-19 vaccine becomes available for those under age 12, his three children will be vaccinated — over which a marital dispute has arisen.
My neighbour has told her best friend that in the interest of the safety of her toddler son that she will not visit in the home of her cherished friend, and neither will she invite her friend to visit in her home, that she is free to believe as she wishes, but my neighbour will not put her son in any jeopardy that might compromise his health. My neighbour has told her friend they can get together outside, at a park, socially safe distanced.

children playing at the park

My neighbour is concerned that a lifelong friendship may be coming to an end, and her friend’s marriage may be in trouble resultant from the vaccination dispute, about which my neighbour feels quite some despair.

Vintage reporter at this typewriter, black and white photo

Me, I have a friend, a person who I’ve known for a quarter century, who lives in the Kits neighbourhood, and is both a prominent member of the community and a rabid anti-vaxxer, who believes the vaccine to be poison, and states to me that I am a “sheep”. This “friend” attends anti-vaxxer rallies, and despite being a member of the fourth estate to whom I have provided contact information in order that he might ask Dr. Henry directly, during her press briefings, that she address his concerns, has not done so.
As is the case with my neighbour, I too fear that a cherished friendship of some long duration and mutual respect is drawing to an untimely but necessary close, that his refusal to be vaccinated compromises not only his own health, but the health of everyone with whom he comes into contact.

COVID-19 spikes

A friend of mine was telling me the other day that one of her closest friends has not left her home since the COVID-19 pandemic was declared in March 2020. Neither will she allow anyone to visit her, nor ever gone out into her backyard, but rather has fearfully kept herself a prisoner in her own home.
I, too, have a sustaining friend of some longstanding, someone who I’ve known for more than a quarter of a century, a person I’d worked with closely for a dozen years during my employment at the Canada Mortgage and Housing Corporation (CMHC), dating back to 1996 — but, who since the pandemic was declared more than seventeen months ago, has not left his home, a spacious condominium located nearby Vancouver City Hall, a place he’s owned — with the mortgage paid off more than a decade ago — since the commencement of his employment with CMHC in 1979.

hoarder

All of my friend’s meals are ordered in, all purchases of any other goods or wants are ordered on line, and delivered to him, and left outside his door. Despite the fact my friend owns a new hybrid vehicle, and has a substantial pension, for almost 18 months he has refused to leave his apartment. For much of the first year of the pandemic, I set about to call him weekly, then (at his insistence) bi-weekly, then every three weeks and, finally, once a month. When I asked him how he was doing, he almost invariably replied, “I’m doing fine. I don’t need anyone, or feel the need for you to call me.”
I would ask him about his contact with his brother, or those in his social circle, and he would tell me that he had cut off all contact with family and friends. Finally, a year in, with little or no contact with the outside world, he told me emphatically that he no longer wanted me to call. I had encouraged him to mask up, and go for a drive in his new Toyota Prius hybrid, just to get out of the house, and see the world around him, an idea he told me that he thought was ridiculous. As of this writing, I’ve not spoken with him in months, and I find now that I’ve given up on him — not out of a lack of compassion, but in recognition of the fact that I am unable to provide support and succour to someone who doesn’t want the caring I proffer.
Another friend of mine was talking with me the other day about an acquaintance of hers who has steadfastly avoided learning anything about the pandemic, that although this person is well educated and otherwise well informed, that this acquaintance of hers studiously avoids reading or listening to anything to do with the current pandemic, whether it be information on the vaccines, or the current state of COVID-19 infection in our province, in Canada, or elsewhere — remaining utterly uninformed.
Once again, I too have a friend with whom I’ve worked with in the Coalition of Progressive Electors and the NDP for the past quarter century. This man — a year younger than me, as is my now former friend above — is a hale fellow well met, and well-liked by a broad cross-section of our mutual friends, and continues to this day to work full time in his chosen profession.
From Day One of the declaration of the pandemic, my friend has believed that COVID is a hoax, and has ignored it, stating that whatever is going on around him that causes people to wear masks has no direct impact on his life — that he will carry on with his life as normal. My friend has gone out of his way not to watch or listen to the news, and has therefore never watched or heard an Adrian Dix-Dr. Bonnie Henry press conference (in fact, does not know, or could care less, as to who Dr. Henry might be, and her role in keeping COVID-19 at bay in British Columbia, over the past 18 months). My friend last autumn even booked a non-refundable ticket to Cuba in order that he might enjoy a Christmas vacation in tropical climes — despite my advising him that the opportunity to travel to Cuba was probably not going to be possible, an idea my friend pooh-poohed.

anti vaxxer

The straw that broke the camel’s proverbial back occurred when were enjoying a mid-afternoon coffee at our neighbourhood Starbucks, sitting outside in the cool air, and socially distanced. As it was just after 3pm, I picked up my iPhone to read the latest British Columbia COVID figures — which that day established a new record for infections & deaths (10 deaths in the previous 24 hours in Vancouver alone). I advised my friend of the latest provincial COVID results, to which information in reply he snapped back at me, “What do I care? How’s that information relevant to me?”
I advised my friend that the deaths covered a range of ages, that each person was a person of value, a father or mother, a sister or brother, aunt of uncle, a neighbour, friend or colleague of someone resident in our community, and because Vancouver is in essence a village, a small town, that given the theory of seven degrees of separation, it is likely that he knows someone who knew, or was close to the, then, more than 1,500 British Columbians who had succumbed to the coronavirus — and that, at any rate, any early or untimely death is a tragedy, for each of us and for the community. Scowling at me, he got up and walked away.
We have not spoken since.
All of us have sacrificed over the past year, some more than others. Health care providers, teachers, and public health officials have put their needs aside for the sake of their communities, the country, and the entire world, really. People have lost their jobs, and in Canada more than 27,000 Canadians have lost their lives. The toll of this pandemic is staggering.

COVID relationships

The COVID-19 pandemic has reshaped our personal relationships in unprecedented ways, forcing us to live closer together with some people and further apart from others, with social distancing measures isolating us from our friends and wider communities. Socializing with others is a fundamental human need, the strain of the COVID-19 pandemic on relationships laid bare for many of us this last eighteen months.
Abundant research suggests that supportive relationships can help relieve harmful stress, with physical and mental benefits that include resistance to viruses. Yet our year and a half ride on the coronacoaster has frayed many of our relationships, and in some cases destroyed the bonds that in simpler times might have helped carry us through.
Many of us have lost some friends for good, but the overall quality of our friendships with others has improved. As a friend stated to me recently, “If you’re supposedly my friend,” she averred, “and you don’t accept my wishes about safety, then you’re really not my friend.”

“Good health depends not only on the closeness of our ties but also on their nature,” says Henry Stanford, a neuroscientist at the University of Western Ontario, his recent study suggesting that “ambivalent relationships, those combining affection and hostility — like so many family ties — create chronic stress that can ultimately damage health. This sometimes gets lost when we talk about social isolation. It’s not as if we just need to make people more engaged with others. We also have to pay more attention to the negativity in some relationships.”

The pandemic’s toll on many of our friendships goes deeper than mere political polarization —&#32the confusion of a mask with support for ‘big government’, for instance. It’s more about discovering personality differences between you and your relatives and friends, including different levels of risk-tolerance and what might seem like irrational optimism on one side vs. hysterical alarmism on the other. At a time when many of us are losing sleep, picturing ourselves or someone we love gasping for air in a crowded emergency room, these differences are painfully relevant.
Because of the pandemic, the way we communicate and relate to one another has changed. Some relationships disintegrated because of close proximity, or the lack thereof. As we enter the fourth wave of the pandemic, and a cooler and more isolating autumn and winter seasons are on the near horizon, for many of us the pandemic is far from over. The good part of the pandemic, though, is that while we have “lost” some friends, and our relationship with some members of our family has become strained, our relationships with others has both been clarified and strengthened, as we have come to realize that we share beliefs in common and an approach to life that serves not just our own interests, but the interests of all.

Stories of a Life | Megan’s Boxing Day Specials | 1990s Edition

Boxing Day

For me, the 1990s are notable for the preparatory chess-like approach that a teenage Megan Jessica Tomlin put into preparing for what was, for her, a signal event in her life: the post-Christmas Boxing Day extravaganza where a hard earned dollar might best be put to salutary advantage, one dollar equalling as many as ten, and the acquisition of notable high fashion a necessary goal for a young woman who wished to be seen as presenting herself well to the world, not just as a Marxist feminist presence and young woman of substance, but as a woman of fashion meant to turn heads.
Yes, dear and constant reader, Boxing Days throughout the 1990s were a delight of immense proportion not just for this callow writer, but for the aforementioned Ms. Tomlin, whose Boxing Days unfolded as follows …

Breakfast at Denny's restaurant

Each Boxing Day at 4 a.m. Megan and I would leave home, to attend at a Denny’s Restaurant, where we might enjoy a breakfast repast, as Megan informed this writer of her plans for the morning, through until noon day. With the required information in hand (and committed to memory), Megan and yours truly set about to acquire garments & clothing of not simply the most sophisticated fashion, but of the most careful design & construction.
Having enjoyed our breakfast at the Denny’s Restaurant, nearest to the retail establishment first on Megan’s list, within which retailer’s premises was contained a particular good, the first good of the day Megan felt must henceforth become a part of her wardrobe, the two of us — father led by daughter — would proceed to the store chosen as the first stop of the day for my acquisition-inclined teenage daughter, waiting patiently in line while the (most often young, and surprisingly, too, often quite churlish) retail staff prepared to throw open their doors to the maddening crowd of eager, mostly young shoppers — accompanied most often by their weary mothers.
At precisely 6 a.m.

boxing-day-woman.jpg

At which point, those Doc Martens Megan had her eye on would, as she jostled through the store, making a bee line for the shoes of her choice, and then to the cashier to check out, in order that we might proceed to the “next” retail establishment on Megan’s well-crafted list of winter fashions.
Perhaps now would be the appropriate time to provide a bit of background.

cash.jpg

Each Boxing Day, for some weeks leading up to that auspicious day on the retail calendar, Megan would set about to ensure that on Christmas Day a sum of monies totalling exactly $1,000 in cash would find itself into her most deserving possession. Megan’s indulgent grandmother, aunt, uncle, mother, mother’s partner, father, mother’s best friend, cousins, her boyfriend, and her mother’s partner’s children would present different denominations of bills, whether they be tens, twenties or fifties, the sum then of $1,000 in cash in Megan’s hands by late on Christmas Day evening.
To know Megan is to know that Megan is not to be refused.
Of course, one wishes to please Megan, as well — that is a prime directive.

Megan Jessica Tomlin at age 13 in 1990

For this writer, to be in the presence of this young, focused, giddily happy young woman for a period of eight consecutive glee-filled and joyous hours, where Megan was kind and thoughtful, generous in her thoughts, focused and political our conversation on how one might best going about changing the world, to share this young woman’s sense of joy and appreciation was, for this writer, throughout the entirety of the 1990s, a most looked forward to event & stretch of hours each year, on the post-Christmas Day calendar.

Aritzia at Oakridge, in Vancouver

The final location at which to attend was, for Megan, almost a second home through most of the 1990s, and the single store Megan and I most often visited during the course of the decade was the Aritzia store, in the Oakridge mall. I don’t think there was a time when we were together when Megan and I did not travel to the Oakridge Aritzia store, if only to browse.
Those times are now part of Megan’s and my past, fondly remembered by me as Megan’s last breath of innocence, a time before almost a dozen years at university — or just at the start — a time before a marriage that would take place years later, in her late twenties, before her children were born, and before Megan began inexorably to feel the weight of the world, and the myriad responsibilities of adulthood, on her capable shoulders.

Stories of a Life | The Frosty, Tear-Filled Christmas of 1994

christmas-frost.jpg

Christmas 1994 is one of my favourite Christmases ever. Not because it was an especially happy one, but because it’s become a memorable one.
From the late 1980s through the mid-1990s, one of my employments was as a restaurant critic, publishing in various community newspapers and magazines across the Metro Vancouver region. In 1994, one of my editors suggested I write a column on the best shepherd’s pie in town, which allowed me to travel to the Expo Saskatchewan Pavilion restaurant in West Vancouver, as well as a number of other establishments across the Lower Mainland, including a restaurant in my Kitsilano neighbourhood, which served a warming and delicious shepherd’s pie dinner for only $4.95 — at the time, this was the best deal in town for shepherd’s pie.
This was a deli-style restaurant. Martha, the young woman behind the counter, was a UBC student, I was to learn, in her final year at the University of British Columbia who, as she took my order, and then delivered my shepherd’s pie dinner, proceeded to flirt with me like mad. Long story short, I asked her out, we began dating, and all seemed right with the world. This was the early autumn of 1994. I learned that she grew up in Nova Scotia, but had decided to attend UBC, as she had often travelled to British Columbia with her parents when she was growing up.
As Christmas approached, we made arrangements to spend Christmas Day together. I would make Christmas dinner, while she would supply the baking. On Christmas Eve, I picked her up from work and drove towards her home on East 18th Avenue and Ontario Street, just off Main Street.
As I was driving, I mentioned to her that my friends Michael Klassen and Stacey Fruin were having a Christmas Eve party at their home on Columbia Street near 18th, just a few short blocks from her home, and asked Martha if we might make an appearance at Michael and Stacey’s home to wish them a happy Christmas. “I’d rather not,” Martha said, although we did end up attending the party, if only briefly.
We stayed only 15 minutes at Michael and Stacey’s, Martha was social and seemed to enjoy herself, but remembering her “I’d rather not” and the agreement we made that we’d attend the party for only a few minutes, after 15 minutes we wished Michael and Stacey a merry Christmas, and we were off. As we were walking towards the car, Martha turned to me to say that she needed some fresh air, and would walk the three blocks to her home, stating, “I’d better get started on the baking when I get home, as well.” As we parted, I told her I’d call her at 8 a.m. Christmas Day.
We hugged and kissed good-bye, I made sure that she was safe walking down East 18th Avenue, and headed back home to my Kitsilano neighbourhood, snuggling up in bed with a good book, and a cup of herbal tea on the night stand to sip on. By midnight, I was fast asleep.

Greyhound bus, at sunrise, in a rural area of British Columbia

At 6 a.m. the phone rang; it was Martha, who told me the following …

“I’m in Hope. I’ve decided to spend Christmas Day with my university friend who lives in Penticton. My bus is about to leave. I’ve got to go.”

At this point, as I was rubbing the sleep out of my eyes, I was now fitfully awake, and a little awestruck at this unexpected turn of events.
Several months in, the relationship with Martha was a romantic and loving one. Although she maintained her shared residence in Mount Pleasant, more often than not she slept at my place, just a couple of blocks down the street from where she worked, and relatively close to UBC.
At 6:30 a.m. my children called to wish me a merry Christmas, and told me how much they were looking forward to seeing me on Boxing Day.
At 7 a.m. I got up, showered and made myself some breakfast, taking a few more calls from friends wishing me a merry Christmas, after which I went for a walk throughout and across my Kitsilano neighbourhood.
This was a bitterly and bitingly cold Christmas Day, with a smattering of snow on the ground, but mostly a great deal of frost. The skies were azure blue and clear with nary a cloud to be found, the sun was out, the streets deserted. The headphones over my ears effectively acted as earmuffs, as I listened to some of my favourite music on my bulky Sony Walkman.

Spanish Banks, in the winter

When I arrived back home, I began making preparations for dinner, and at 1 p.m. decided that I wanted to make my way down to Locarno Beach, along Spanish Banks, and then head out for a drive around the west side of my most beloved city. At the beach, the grass and then the sand was crunchy beneath my feet, my gloves serving to keep my hands warm, my scarf keeping my face safe from the biting cold off the waters of the Inlet.

Casa Mia, along SW Marine Drive, in Vancouver

Casa Mia, as seen from the road, along SW Marine Drive, in Vancouver

Back in the car, with the heater on, I warmed up, took my coat, scarf and gloves off, headed towards UBC, and then down southwest Marine Drive, adjacent to the Musqueam lands as I headed towards Granville Street.
Rickie Lee Jones’ EP The Girl at Her Volcano was the soundtrack for the drive. As I was passing by the multi-million dollar homes on the south side of Marine Drive, Rickie Lee’s song Rainbow Sleeves began to play on the speakers in the car, and I started to cry, the first time I’d cried — other than at the movies, in a darkened theatre — in 16 years, since Cathy and I had begun the first tentative steps toward our separation over Christmas 1977, continuing my lamentation during the entire time the song played.

Rainbow Sleeves, written by Tom Waits, as interpreted by Rickie Lee Jones


You used to dream yourself away each night
To places that you’ve never been
On wings made of wishes that you whispered to yourself
Back when every night the moon and you would sweep away
To places that you knew you would never get the blues
Now whiskey gives you wings to carry each one of your dreams
And the moon does not belong to you
But I believe that your heart keeps young dreams
Well, I’ve been told to keep from ever growing old
And a heart that has been broken will be stronger when it mends
Don’t let the blues stop your singing
Darling, you only got a broken wing
Hey, you just hang on to my rainbow
Hang on to my rainbow
Hang on to my rainbow sleeves

Martha spent the whole of the holiday season in the Okanagan visiting with her friend. Upon her return home, once again employed at the delicatessen I ran across her in early January, and asked if she wanted to accompany me to a review I was going to write on Floata Restaurant, in Chinatown. “Can I bring along a friend?” she asked. “Sure, that’d be fine,” I responded.

Floata Restaurant on Keefer Street, in Vancouver

On the first Thursday of January, on the 5th, I picked her and her friend up, along with my friend, J.B. Shayne, and we attended at the Floata Restaurant on Keefer, and proceeded to enjoy a feast. When dinner was over, Martha asked me to drive her and her friend home, not commenting on the restaurant or the food, or in any way indicating to me that she’d enjoyed herself, most of her time in the restaurant spent engaged in conversation with the friend she’d brought along to our dinner together.

Siegel's Bagels, Kitsilano, Vancouver

After dropping the two off at their homes, J.B. and I proceeded back to his home on Arbutus Street, stopping in at Siegel’s Bagels for a hamantaschen, one of our favourite late night treats. While sitting at the table, J.B. turned to me and made the following remarks and observations …

“Tonight, we went out to a great restaurant for dinner, and I want to say how grateful I am that you invited me along. Your girlfriend — if I could call her that, although the term hardly seems to apply, given what I observed this evening, and what you’ve told me occurred on Christmas Day — utterly ignored you throughout our dinner together, neither she nor her friend thanked you for the sumptuous feast to which you treated them, was engaged in conversation with her friend the entire time we were at the restaurant, and on the way back to her home, and when she got out of the car, neither she nor her friend bothered to thank you.

Martha seems not to care for you, her conduct verging on — from what I observed, as — unkind at best, and even more, cruel, given what I know about her. Now, I realize that she is a beautiful young woman, and from what I gather quite bright, but for heaven’s sake, apart from her youth and her beauty, for the life of me, I cannot understand what you see in her, and why you are wasting your time with someone so seemingly callous in her treatment of you. Raymond, you could do so much better.”

Later, when I returned to the deli, I learned two things: 1) Martha had quit her job, and 2) the review I’d written had driven a sizable number of new customers to restaurant, causing the owners to more than double its price for the shepherd’s pie, undoing whatever good had come their way by charging a lower amount for the dinner, that had once given good value.
I never saw Martha again.
And, from that Christmas Day in 1994, outside of an occasional teary session inside a darkened cinema during an especially moving scene, I’ve not cried since. My heart is stronger. I have remained open to love, and love with all my heart, but become more protective of my own heart, more aware of the actual, rather than imagined or romantic, tenor of my various relationships, not just with women, but with all those who are in my life.