Our hillbilly family from around the corner are in the habit of collecting animals and then neglecting them. We call this family The Ducks because of their idiosyncratic gait. Usually waddling along the side walk in single file, they look like parade floats on a windy day. Sometimes Carlos, their tabby cat drops by for dinner. He is friendly, polite and well mannered and gets along with our cat Badger. One day I may bring him into the house after a prolonged flea dip and a visit to the vets which is more than I can say for The Ducks.

Here’s a fine topic for my first entry here: tomorrow, crack of an hour before dawn, I’ll be at the Mayo Clinic to find out if Alzheimer’s is gnawing my brain: it took my grandmother. It took my mother. It’s my one deep terror, back in the closet, behind the monster, in among the hangers. Fifty-four is too young, isn’t it? Isn't it? How about if I’m 25 really, and the lines and the gray are courtesy of the makeup department? I hope my posts will be witty, or moving, or insightful, or at least fun. Tonight? I’m fresh out.

This day, the 28th of February is the anniversary of when my father died. It was a long time ago, but the date remains very special. He was a wonderful man and a very loving father, although I sometimes feel that I did not appreciate him for who he was, or show him that I did, being so involved in my own teenage life. He died suddenly and unexpectedly. I was 19. On a cold dark February afternoon, in Montreal while studying in the University library, I felt I must go home immediately. It was that afternoon that he died.