It was a sign for summer break and summer thought, there at the front of a public school near the park where we had our wedding photos taken. The children’s mother and I passed it. This is what it said: “There are only 18 summers
It was the first stroke on the first hole of the day, a chintzy Par 3 just under 100 yards, with a 7-iron. This is how I recently got a hole-in-one. It’s why I ran round and round, arms raised – hat, sunglasses and club thrown high – celebrating with everybody and nobody in particular.
You can tell some kids just about anything, so if you’re bored this summer tell them that people couldn’t see colour until the 1960s. Before this, everything in the world looked black-and-white. I once told this to my own kids, which is probably one reason why their mother never asked me
Today’s news from the Daily Dad is that if you stick around this fatherhood business long enough, you’ll feel a bit inadequate, if not like some flying villain. But don’t let it get you down because it means that you’re in the game, so to speak, and maybe even its hero.
Today is a good day to think of war, especially the one we often simply call “the war,” the war of our forebearers, that is our parents and grandparents and great grandparents. One man in it was Sid James Stacey. Some decades later,
It’s your phone and you pull it out and it’s the other side of the world. This is what it says. Help. Help me. Help us. Precisely, “We are all home with the kids asking for what to eat, so help me get out of this situation, please.” It's Paul, from Uganda, in Africa. A photo of Paul and his
Today’s offering is about a dog. And children. And a couple of books and a movie. Seems like the right mix for Mother’s Day. The dog is Oscar, a friendly Shih Tzu Poodle wanting to be touched. There he is following me in the nearby cemetery where I often walk in the fresh morning light.
My relationship with Superman is not what it used to be. I now feel closer to strangers on the news. Like that nurse. More on her in a minute. But when I was a boy, Superman was like God. Faster than any bullet. More powerful than a train. That’s Clark Kent, a shy Daily Planet reporter, secretly wearing that big, bold Super-S
When I was boy we rarely attended church because my father thought church people were a bunch of phoneys. Still, he had enough sense to give us kids a decent idea of the Creator God, human sin, and eternal forgiveness, through Sunday morning TV-lounging when
I've never been one of those fathers who believes that having a particular relational status somehow makes you a more complete human being. Even so, we're not made to be alone, but to connect in spirit and mind and other ways with other people, for better or worse. Discuss.
The moment with my boy had nothing to do with coronavirus and all these anxieties. But there I was lounging on the couch, and there he was, beside me, playing his guitar and singing about the end of the world. It’s that JP Saxe song, If The World Was Ending. It’s a love song, really. One that asks, during the world’s final curtain call
EGBE, NIGERIA ✦ We're on our motorcycles — my friend Rick has offered me his for the afternoon — at a place called Prayer Rock. It's a lookout at the end of a bumpy, winding dirt road near this historic town in Kogi province, a brown patch of earth in central Nigeria that's been touched by Canada. It's my last day here. The spot seems as
MUKONO, UGANDA ✦ This column is about UCU’s new, yet-to-be-named vice- chancellor. But first let me tell you about the Ugandan who was happy to tell me about his recent marriage.“ Congratulations,” I said, before asking, “How old are you?”
I said congratulations again. “That’s a good age.”
Then, like a good counsellor
MUKONO, UGANDA ✦ It’s hockey night in Uganda and you’re running, running, chasing that little red ball that’s, of course, (this is Africa), held together with just hope and tape. During a break, you ask a question. How old are you? “Twenty-one,” someone says. “Nineteen,” says another. "Twenty-two." Another
Now we’re going to look at some important new developments in the world of travel, namely that if you have plans, well, good luck. Even if you fly off to nowhere, you might not get back home easily. This is the latest from the Ministry of Miserable Pandemic Affairs. Don’t make travel
When I die, I want my obituary to read as follows: “Thomas Froese is dead. Mr. Froese’s biggest accomplishment was bringing hockey to Africa, where it’s now enjoyed by pretty well everyone.” Today, here’s my progress report. In short, I can’t die any time soon.
I’d like to take a minute here to talk about something I know nothing about, namely your brain. But you’ll be happy to know that on this January day we’ll consider other exciting things too, like, let’s say, oh, I don’t know. The beach? Sure, let’s talk about the beach too.
It’s been a year of sadness. Not to bum you out. I’m just saying. And a year of vulnerability. Vulnerable. This was the man outside my house. His name is Victor. He’d walked across the city for some hours, pushing a cart of bottles collected along the way for money.