Our lives were about to change.

A young woman, her arms embracing a worn cardboard box, stops on the sidewalk and signals to us by waving her hand at my girls. The woman tips the box forward to display its contents. Inside are four balls of mewing fur.

?Ten dollars,? she says. ?they’re orphans.?

Before I can say no, the girls bolt from the table. An emaciated creature is held up for my inspection, followed by a chorus of ?Please, pleease, pleeeease!? I acquiesce easily. I hand over a $10 bill to this strange salesperson and tuck our new acquisition inside my jacket’s voluminous inside pocket.

My wife meets her tribe at the front door, where the kitten is placed into her hands for examination. She then draws me aside and with tight-lipped skepticism says, ?That poor creature won’t make it through the night.?

The next morning I find my spouse at the kitchen table. She’s feeding the kitten warm milk through an eye dropper?a vigil she’d maintained for eight hours. With a smile she informs me that with a little loving care, the tabby will be fine.

The children soon hurry downstairs and a conference is convened; our newest family member needs a name. My oldest child has just read this passage from A Clockwork Orange: ?Come and get one in the yarbles, if you have any yarbles, you eunuch thou!? But while Yarbles is a humorous and creative proposal, it doesn’t seem appropriate for a defenceless creature not yet neutered. Mother recommends Bubba, and when she speaks the kitten utters a tremulous meow.

Bubba spends the first day exploring his new territory, moving around on wobbly legs. As his strength increases, he roams further afield. Our house is reached by entering a long, narrow street that ends in a bubble-shaped court. The children had christened the street King’s Court, naming it for the oldest and first resident to welcome the family. The houses that circle King’s Court back onto cultivated parkland, an ideal location for children and pets.

By the time Bubba is a year old he has claimed territorial dominion over King’s Court. His light green eyes track the neighbours? comings and goings. He’s an aggressive defender against nonhuman intruders, and his scarred, torn ears are a testimony to his vigilant attentiveness. Bubba has too much pride to back away from trespassers. He challenges his opponents head on and refuses to turn and run when outmatched. Bubba takes several trips to the veterinary office every year to receive stitches and antibiotics. On one memorable occasion I have to separate him from an altercation with a raccoon. Even I am apprehensive about getting too close?a raccoon is a fierce foe and I know better than to mess with one That’s in fight mode. I solve my dilemma by spraying both combatants with hose water. Better a wet cat than a dead one.

Last year, Bubba disappeared. I visited the animal shelter every evening and wandered the streets, calling his name. A week passed and I had reconciled myself to the fact that Bubba wouldn’t be returning, and worse, that I would never know why. Admittedly, I was heartbroken. Then, waking up on Saturday morning, I found Bubba sprawled across my legs. My spouse had heard him calling at the patio door during the night and let him in. Under normal conditions, he’s barred from the bedroom. I suspect my wife’s generous act was as much for my benefit as for Bubba?s.

I work from my home performing freelance tasks for various local businesses. A large mahogany desk sits in front of a ground floor bay window with a wide sill that provides Bubba with a sentinel’s outpost from which to view his Court. While I’m occupied at my desk, he spends the time observing his protectorate, preening his fur, or dreaming. I know he dreams, because his tail tip twitches, his ears jerk back and forth, and low growls rumble in his throat. Perhaps he’s reliving the standoff with the raccoon. When he wants a diversion, tracking the cursor on my computer monitor becomes an interesting pastime.

I welcome Bubba’s companionship, and he demands mine. He will push his way into the bedroom when I sleep late, hopping onto the bed and gives me a head butt. It’s like he’s trying to say, ?I know It’s Sunday and you can remain beneath the covers if you want, but breakfast was due an hour ago.?

Or when I’m in the office and my focus is elsewhere, he nips my ankle to get attention. However, I am accustomed to his belligerence and don’t take his painful reminders personally.

My friend the cat is beginning to exhibit signs that he’s aging. His left hip is stiff and some days he needs help climbing the stairs. He’s content to remain indoors now, and shuns all but the mildest days. I note a new element of caution in his approach to King’s Court invaders. He’s taken to treating them with disdain, but occasionally his old nature exerts itself and a trip to the veterinary clinic is the result. The vet assures me that Bubba’s general health is good despite the rheumatic hip. He may be slower than he was a year ago, but the heart of a lion still beats in his chest.

As I write these words, Bubba is curled up on the window sill. His purr fills the office as he indulges in an afternoon nap.

Bubba cost me ten dollars ten years ago. Today, I wouldn’t trade him for all the gold in the world.

Christmas is ideally a festive, family-oriented season. However, this year the holiday brings with it mixed emotions. Last December I was enthusiastic. The upper balcony and windows were lined with sparkling lights. A fir wreath decorated the front door. The Christmas trees were covered in tinsel.

Two trees last year was a first, and now my spouse is angling for three. I’m not fond of clichés, but really, too much of a good thing is too much, or so my Grinch side asserts. I’ve also been informed that my two adult daughters are coming home for the holidays. And while I love my children unreservedly, there are times when they don’t lavish that emotion upon each other.

My younger daughter travels with a theatrical group. She’s creative, driven, and harbours grand dreams. She’s an energetic, fun-loving individual who is ready to embrace all that society has to offer.

My older daughter possesses numerous creative traits too, but they’re gifts that She’s struggling to define. She lives in a foreign land and from her perspective, Western civilization is woefully uncivilized.

I know that my children love their family, each other, and life, but get them together and an explosion is imminent.

The chasm between them is wide. I want to be a bridge builder and facilitate the healing of their damaged relationship. I worry that I’m inadequate for the task. However, what I can do is continue to hope in the future. The future may be unknown and uncertain and yet to be experienced in the present, but nonetheless It’s a tangible reality.

I’m realizing that Christmas this year isn’t only about my dilemma as a parent, It’s also about the preservation of hope. Regardless of any religious affiliation or belief, hope remains. In a global community That’s being despoiled by war, famine, and pestilence, hope is the eternal gift.

My girls? fractured relationship is a metaphor for the state of our world and its inhabitants. Peace and reconciliation among peoples, families, and nations is the gift I request this year. Not just for me, but for every human being.

Perhaps three trees truly isn’t too much of a good thing.

I know the signs; I’ve seen them before. In the beginning the hints are subtle; there are slight hesitations before agreeing to do as I ask.

The hesitations last no longer than the taking of a deep breath, but they seem to last for an eternity.

It’s not outright mutiny I’m facing, but an inclination to rebel that lurks somewhere beneath the surface.

When a relationship begins to slide into the abyss there’s a plethora of emotions to endure: frustration, despair, hopelessness, and anger.

Why can’t we agree to exist harmoniously? Let’s try and work things out. Do I make too many demands? I don’t know.

I tinker with the mechanics of our affair hoping for the perfect solution. Perfection is an ephemeral quality that many seek and never find.

Our time together is over when logging on to my computer the monitor mysteriously flashes on, off, turns black for a moment, and I find myself sitting before the ?blue screen of death.? I moan, yell, curse, kick the wall, and throw my hands in the air, but all to no avail.

I contemplate the possible alternatives now that It’s time for a new beginning. I re-evaluate what it is that I’m seeking in a relationship. My conclusion is that I desire a sweet system That’s difficult to find; It’s speed as well as the basics that I yearn for.

Will it drive my peripherals and provide word processing and spreadsheets? Will I be able to enjoy music and movies? Questions, questions, questions, too many questions, but as a part-time student experience has taught me that diligent research provides answers.

Every university student understands the reliance that I place upon my computer in order to function academically. Whatever the age my electronic mate is, I need it to perform flawlessly in order to succeed. For instance, without my keyboard in front of me, I labour under a psychological burden when beginning a critical essay. I’m intimidated by the blank sheet of paper sitting atop my desk.

A computer only does what I tell it to do. Computers don’t possess the cognitive abilities that I have, although they may in the future. An enterprising scientist in Europe has successfully fused ?living brain cells and silicon circuits.? In years to come, my organic desktop system will advise me when our relationship needs intervention, such as a component replacement or a maintenance session.

Throughout these past two years, I’ve managed my affairs with a ubiquitous operating system I’ll leave unnamed (though I quickly conclude that I’m a ?V? victim?). I feel victimized and this recent bout of emotional turmoil convinces me to sever our partnership.

Budgetary constraints decree how exotic my new partner will be. A trip to the local computer store proves to me that purchasing off-the-shelf software and hardware isn’t an option.

For one thing, I’m not certain what the root of our problem is. Did the disk fail? Is there a file corruption disabling the system? Is the CPU long past its prime? How am I, the computer illiterate, able to diagnose an electronic malaise?

The first thing I attempt to do is reinstall my old operating system. However, after a frustrating afternoon I turn to other sources for help. Perusing the Internet, I’m offered several possible solutions; there’s an abundant amount of advice available, but some sources are questionable and caution is therefore advised.

Hours later, after attempting several fruitless procedures, I quit. I don’t count these spent hours as a loss, because I’m now more computer literate than I was before.

I hit on the notion that replacing the hard drive, even if the problem isn’t solved, will be a worthwhile investment. The installation is straightforward and simple. I note how the old drive is connected and duplicate the same with the new drive, taking special care to avoid electrical shock (you can never be too careful when working with electrical equipment). Furthermore, nothing is gained by frying sensitive electronic components.

Harm to myself and the computer circuitry is avoided and the installation is accomplished without incident. The drive is formatted and ready to receive the operating system. However, when I try to install my old system, numerous messages tell me that a particular file is corrupted and must be replaced.

The previous forced shutdowns and restarts, cursor hangs, indecipherable error messages, and other idiosyncratic behaviours have turned me into a thoroughly disgruntled customer already. I now pledge never to return to the fold. I turn to the Internet again.

And I discover Linux. There are numerous Linux-based operating systems available, and It’s a matter of choosing which one best meets my needs. And they’re legally free for the asking. I learn that Linux Ubuntu is available by download over the Internet or by ordering the disk. The disk is mailed free of charge. A disclaimer advises a 10-week wait, but my disk comes within 10 days.

I’m a neophyte when it comes to the Linux-based systems, but there are numerous Ubuntu sites with plenty of information to help me along. I now have a complete system that meets my needs. Not all is perfect, however. There are a few nagging problems for me to contend with.

For example, configuring my printer to work with Ubuntu appears to be straightforward, but isn’t. Although my Brother laser printer is listed in the installation guide, the printer refuses to print. By searching through and trying other printer drivers, I discover an alternative that works. Problem solved.

However, I learn that configuring a wireless device is more problematic. A few devices exist that are Linux compatible right out of the box, but it appears that these aren’t available in North America. There are alternative installation methods, but a perusal through numerous web sites and blogs convinces me that configuring a USB wireless device will be brutal, exasperating work.

I’m not ready for that task yet, but will be one day. Is there perchance a reader out there who can offer a simple solution? This wireless hassle is an unfortunate glitch in an otherwise rewarding experience.

Still, I’m a realist. The honeymoon is barely over, so I’m guarding against my expectations being too high. A month has passed and my new relationship is growing stronger. I’m content and confident that this one will work. So confident, that I rescue an old laptop from the storage room, blow the dust from the keyboard, purge the hard drive, and install Puppy Linux on it.

Puppy is a small distribution, 100 megabytes, that packs lots of wallop for its size; it gives new life to an old PC. Like Ubuntu, Puppy has a full slate of features. The basics are included with the initial download and other complimentary ?puplets? are available through the official Puppy Linux website. Like its brothers, Puppy is free. Puppy is fun to take for a walk and its speed is exhilarating.

Printer configuration is approximately the same as Ubuntu. I’m surprised to discover that my USB wireless device connects to my router automatically. Puppy is friendly to ?newbies? such as myself and has all the applications that I want in an operating system. In my short experience with Puppy, I can attest that getting some of the features to work requires research and effort. There’s a learning curve to contend with, but That’s endemic to every new operating system whatever its profile.

Puppy is a slimmed-down, functional operating system. I’m happy with my new Puppy; It’s helping me meet my career and academic goals.

I’m ready to tackle that essay now, but first I’ll take my new puppy for a run.

The hesitations last no longer than the taking of a deep breath, but they seem to last for an eternity.

It’s not outright mutiny I’m facing, but an inclination to rebel that lurks somewhere beneath the surface.

When a relationship begins to slide into the abyss there’s a plethora of emotions to endure: frustration, despair, hopelessness, and anger.

Why can’t we agree to exist harmoniously? Let’s try and work things out. Do I make too many demands? I don’t know.

I tinker with the mechanics of our affair hoping for the perfect solution. Perfection is an ephemeral quality that many seek and never find.

Our time together is over when logging on to my computer the monitor mysteriously flashes on, off, turns black for a moment, and I find myself sitting before the ?blue screen of death.? I moan, yell, curse, kick the wall, and throw my hands in the air, but all to no avail.

I contemplate the possible alternatives now that It’s time for a new beginning. I re-evaluate what it is that I’m seeking in a relationship. My conclusion is that I desire a sweet system That’s difficult to find; It’s speed as well as the basics that I yearn for.

Will it drive my peripherals and provide word processing and spreadsheets? Will I be able to enjoy music and movies? Questions, questions, questions, too many questions, but as a part-time student experience has taught me that diligent research provides answers.

Every university student understands the reliance that I place upon my computer in order to function academically. Whatever the age my electronic mate is, I need it to perform flawlessly in order to succeed. For instance, without my keyboard in front of me, I labour under a psychological burden when beginning a critical essay. I’m intimidated by the blank sheet of paper sitting atop my desk.

A computer only does what I tell it to do. Computers don’t possess the cognitive abilities that I have, although they may in the future. An enterprising scientist in Europe has successfully fused ?living brain cells and silicon circuits.? In years to come, my organic desktop system will advise me when our relationship needs intervention, such as a component replacement or a maintenance session.

Throughout these past two years, I’ve managed my affairs with a ubiquitous operating system I’ll leave unnamed (though I quickly conclude that I’m a ?V? victim?). I feel victimized and this recent bout of emotional turmoil convinces me to sever our partnership.

Budgetary constraints decree how exotic my new partner will be. A trip to the local computer store proves to me that purchasing off-the-shelf software and hardware isn’t an option.

For one thing, I’m not certain what the root of our problem is. Did the disk fail? Is there a file corruption disabling the system? Is the CPU long past its prime? How am I, the computer illiterate, able to diagnose an electronic malaise?

The first thing I attempt to do is reinstall my old operating system. However, after a frustrating afternoon I turn to other sources for help. Perusing the Internet, I’m offered several possible solutions; there’s an abundant amount of advice available, but some sources are questionable and caution is therefore advised.

Hours later, after attempting several fruitless procedures, I quit. I don’t count these spent hours as a loss, because I’m now more computer literate than I was before.

I hit on the notion that replacing the hard drive, even if the problem isn’t solved, will be a worthwhile investment. The installation is straightforward and simple. I note how the old drive is connected and duplicate the same with the new drive, taking special care to avoid electrical shock (you can never be too careful when working with electrical equipment). Furthermore, nothing is gained by frying sensitive electronic components.

Harm to myself and the computer circuitry is avoided and the installation is accomplished without incident. The drive is formatted and ready to receive the operating system. However, when I try to install my old system, numerous messages tell me that a particular file is corrupted and must be replaced.

The previous forced shutdowns and restarts, cursor hangs, indecipherable error messages, and other idiosyncratic behaviours have turned me into a thoroughly disgruntled customer already. I now pledge never to return to the fold. I turn to the Internet again.

And I discover Linux. There are numerous Linux-based operating systems available, and It’s a matter of choosing which one best meets my needs. And they’re legally free for the asking. I learn that Linux Ubuntu is available by download over the Internet or by ordering the disk. The disk is mailed free of charge. A disclaimer advises a 10-week wait, but my disk comes within 10 days.

I’m a neophyte when it comes to the Linux-based systems, but there are numerous Ubuntu sites with plenty of information to help me along. I now have a complete system that meets my needs. Not all is perfect, however. There are a few nagging problems for me to contend with.

For example, configuring my printer to work with Ubuntu appears to be straightforward, but isn’t. Although my Brother laser printer is listed in the installation guide, the printer refuses to print. By searching through and trying other printer drivers, I discover an alternative that works. Problem solved.

However, I learn that configuring a wireless device is more problematic. A few devices exist that are Linux compatible right out of the box, but it appears that these aren’t available in North America. There are alternative installation methods, but a perusal through numerous web sites and blogs convinces me that configuring a USB wireless device will be brutal, exasperating work.

I’m not ready for that task yet, but will be one day. Is there perchance a reader out there who can offer a simple solution? This wireless hassle is an unfortunate glitch in an otherwise rewarding experience.

Still, I’m a realist. The honeymoon is barely over, so I’m guarding against my expectations being too high. A month has passed and my new relationship is growing stronger. I’m content and confident that this one will work. So confident, that I rescue an old laptop from the storage room, blow the dust from the keyboard, purge the hard drive, and install Puppy Linux on it.

Puppy is a small distribution, 100 megabytes, that packs lots of wallop for its size; it gives new life to an old PC. Like Ubuntu, Puppy has a full slate of features. The basics are included with the initial download and other complimentary ?puplets? are available through the official Puppy Linux website. Like its brothers, Puppy is free. Puppy is fun to take for a walk and its speed is exhilarating.

Printer configuration is approximately the same as Ubuntu. I’m surprised to discover that my USB wireless device connects to my router automatically. Puppy is friendly to ?newbies? such as myself and has all the applications that I want in an operating system. In my short experience with Puppy, I can attest that getting some of the features to work requires research and effort. There’s a learning curve to contend with, but That’s endemic to every new operating system whatever its profile.

Puppy is a slimmed-down, functional operating system. I’m happy with my new Puppy; It’s helping me meet my career and academic goals.

I’m ready to tackle that essay now, but first I’ll take my new puppy for a run.

In Tegucigalpa, summer lies over the palm-shrouded streets like a blanket some torpid god has thrown carelessly upon the slovenly city.

The courtyard’s metal gate crackles when opened. It’s early in the a.m. The day’s heat will build, until my nostrils fill with a metallic smell.

I hear the water vendor’s groaning cart roll downhill toward the creek at the bottom of the ravine, where the mule will push his muzzle beneath the water’s surface and drink.

The night watchmen sit outside the tiendita where they sip Coke and watch the gringos pass by in the morning light. I hear the church bells of Santa Maria call the faithful to Mass. A tiny, yellow taxi traverses the cobblestones and spews a cloud of noxious fumes that hang in the still air.

Over the mountains north of the city I see storm clouds rising. The rainy season is here. It’s raining up there in the mountains where I don’t live anymore. A silver aircraft passes overhead and banks north away from the black clouds piling up along the horizon. Foreigners heading stateside, I expect. A flock of multicoloured parrots land in the bougainvillea bushes beside the terrazzo porch and begin a cacophonous squawking.

On the cul-de-sac where I live, the casas are beginning to stir. Families are collectively shrugging out from under the lethargy of a comatose night’s sleep. The water vendor cries ?agua, agua.? On the next street over a perro barks, another answers, and the burro standing knee-deep in water brays his displeasure with the neighbourhood dogs.

Hondurans, Nicaraguans, and Miskito Indians haul their wares from door to door attempting to cadge coins from the indolent housewives who examine with practiced eyes the bananas, papayas, pineapples, and household goods for sale. The daily cycle begins anew and slowly but inexorably time slips through my fingers.

I myself am assaulted on my way home from the grocereteria. The streets are in deep shadow with darkness hovering over the rooftops. I hurry along trying to outrace nightfall. Two young men come leaping from the shadows, knock me over, grab my hat, and leave me prone amongst a scattering of broken bottles and spilt milk. Other than my cap and pride, nothing else is taken. I sit on the curb a few moments gathering my thoughts before continuing toward home.

Then, a week later, a Federale, my Blue Jays baseball cap in hand, appears at my door. My name and address are scribbled on a shred of notepaper hidden in the hatband. Those who attacked me were captured conducting a minor crime spree and when the cap was examined the hidden note came to light. I’m bewildered that an official would go to the effort to return a well-worn cap, but he’s curious.

?You have visas to live here?? asks the sargento, playing with the holstered pistol hanging by his side.

Ah, think I, reaching for my wallet: the dreaded mordida.

Suddenly, the lempira isn’t worth much anymore. How to survive on funds drawn in local currency? I see defeat in every co-workers? face. Inflation decimates savings. Property values plummet. But the cyclical nature of this country is what It’s all about. As do the rains, everything has its season. To be paranoid is to be in country; it is to go native. This is the beginning of the end.

A sad fact: as a foreigner I see things coming that I know I’ll never adjust to. I have a different perspective. There are problems that I worry like hell about. I make provisions, take precautions, and tell myself I’ll change and adapt.

Only I can’t. It’s too late. I know my time is past and that what I fear has already taken place. Suddenly my life amongst the bougainvillea is over; I miss it.

There are so many demands upon my energy reserves, as a part-time student/full-time family man, that the last thing I want is another time-wasting irritant.

However, when the money runs out before the bills do It’s time to re-evaluate my stand against sticking to the budget.

I know that as a student I have a limited allotment of resources to utilize in pursuing educational endeavours. My studies consume my time and money and I only have so much of each to spend.

There are other aspects of life to be weighed against my scholastic objectives and these require budgeting also. I devise a system that balances family, career, and school needs so that when my spouse’s day is derailed there’s a sympathetic shoulder for her to lean upon.

When life asks the children to sail against the wind and they want my guiding hand on the tiller, I’m ready to climb aboard. My mentally challenged brother often demands help in navigating his confusing, complicated life.

What will help me manage my way through this complex existence that has suddenly sprung up around me? I turn for assistance to that two-fold budget I designed when embarking on my journey as an Athabasca student.

As well as being a student, I’m a husband, father, and brother. There is a duty to family that transcends all other callings; therefore, my first investment is a Day-Timer. I carry the leather-bound notebook in my pocket and record the hours dedicated to family and friends. As well, I jot down the countless demands that surviving the day place upon me.

My second acquisition as a new Athbasca University student is the AUSU planner. I obsessively record the time spent on my university courses, whether it be reading, studying, or writing. Every scholastic commitment that comes my way is documented in the planner; it records the minutes and hours that the fulfillment of my educational pursuits requires. If I don’t keep track of those precious moments, how am I to measure the extent of my obligation?

Next, I purchase a journal in which to chronicle my working day. I’m self-employed and the hours I spend on business ebb and flow, not like the Pacific tides, which have their regular rhythms, but in sporadic, frenzied bursts of activity interspersed with inertia.

I know now the time demands that family, school, and career impose upon me. Knowledge concerning my commitments is a resource; I utilize it in keeping life balanced.

But my chequebook needs balancing also.

For this purpose a financial budget is invaluable in helping me reach my goals. I have wants and I have needs and there is a marked difference between the two. There are many things I want but don’t need and there are many needs that are non-negotiable. For example, I yearn to acquire the latest version of the MacBook Pro, but can’t afford one, because food and shelter overshadow such a yearning. Yet, with judicious planning, a Mac on my desk can be a reality and here’s how it can be done.

A computer-generated spreadsheet is a marvellous tool for taking charge of my income and achieving the alluring financial goals I’ve set for myself. I construct a budget spreadsheet configured to display each expense column in updated totals. I create a want column and, as able, post funds toward fulfilling the family’s current dream. Wants, needs, and income might change, but as they do so does my budget.

By posting each day’s expenditures on a regular basis, I’m able to determine my financial status at a glance and perhaps find that I can post a few dollars into the wants column at months’s end; this is how dreams become realities.

There’s another way of fulfilling my dreams and that is the ubiquitous, potentially dangerous credit card. What a deadly trap I set for myself by using instant credit to instantly satisfy my wants. Credit is useful, but when abused It’s a merciless merchant, who like Shylock, will demand its pound of flesh. I find it less painful and more satisfying to plan and save until I’ve the funds in hand, rather than borrowed, to realize this year’s dream.

I’m a passionate budget advocate, because it makes a hectic life so much easier to cope with. I budget my time and money. There’s time for work, school, and play and there’s funding to meet the family’s needs and wants.

I’m in control again and That’s the way It’s going to stay.

I lean back in the armchair and take a break from my reading of Dickens’s Bleak House and massage my stomach.

I contemplate the contrast between my childhood and the existence that Mrs. Jellyby’s ragged children endure.

Lucky for me to be born to parents whose eyes are fixed, not on the natives of Africa as are Mrs. Jellyby’s, but on me.

Thanksgiving is the anniversary of the day I learned to be truly thankful, and for a few moments I contemplate all that I have to be grateful for. I am fortunate to possess a family of my own. With all that is decently human within me, I will value their needs above mine. This is a legacy that my parents bequeathed to me and It’s one I’ll entrust to my children.

I love my wife and children and they love me back; It’s a splendid equation that doesn’t require any mathematical talent to prove. I know that this sort of love is freely given and that no matter what my moods or failures, the gift remains.

Yet there’s so much more to be thankful for. I’m thrilled to be able to pursue a career and further my education by working and studying at home. I want to be mindful that for many it’s a dream. I’m privileged to live my dream.
Above all, I’m alive. Life itself is a gift to be cherished.

However, the Death Clock never stops ticking. As of this writing I have 929,620,615 seconds left to me.

Nevertheless, time eludes quantification. Whether or not I live my allotted seconds is a matter of chance. Perhaps, several years from now, I’ll die surrounded by family and friends. Then again, this may be my last day or minute or second. Death is a mystery, but It’s a mystery we are all destined to eventually solve.

Ten years ago, I anticipated the Death Clock‘s last chime. I entered the hospital on what was to be a one-way journey, but exited several weeks later on a Thanksgiving holiday. Every Thanksgiving weekend, I recall that joyful journey home; It’s a lesson in gratitude that I’ll not forget.

That’s why this Thanksgiving Day, I lean back in my armchair and remember why I live a life of thanks. I do so because of the numerous wonders that surround me and for all those yet to come.

It’s a tumultuous affair carried out over vast distances interjected with?or so it seems to me?long periods of silence. There are days when my email inbox welcomes me with a cryptic ?There are no messages in this folder? as I wait expectantly for my latest assignment’s return.

Each morning fills my day with good intentions that drain away untested. Distractions, inertia, and procrastination devour my time. I allow complacency to set in, knowing that tomorrow my cup will overflow with good intentions once more.

For a troglodytic, self-employed husband and student, good intentions are as prolific as red-pencilled editorial notations on a manuscript.

Some would even say that a refusal to embrace technology is a form of procrastination. I promise my daughter that I’ll dispense with my quixotic aversion to modernity. She wants me to learn how to use her cellphone so that She’s not embarrassed by my fumbling attempts to dial in front of her friends. I don’t own a laptop, DVD player, digital camera, or an iPod. A shaving mug, brush, and a non-electric razor sit atop my bathroom vanity.

I persist in writing with a fountain pen that stains my fingers blue. I also cook, wash the laundry, and vacuum the carpet because the demands my wife’s career place upon her, combined with my office-at-home lifestyle, make it feasible for me to do so.

As well, I’m studying English literature at Athabasca University and participating in its thoroughly modern approach to education. I am, in some respects then, quite the modern man, but being modern is challenging.

The challenge is in keeping the various aspects of life in balance. My spouse teaches mathematics full-time, studies part-time at Ottawa U, and periodically augments her skills with supplementary courses through Athabasca University. Consequently, our relationship comes under siege at times; therefore, spending a few precious moments communicating with each other is critical.

We walk in the park and I listen carefully as she shares the events of her day. She listens to mine. My career, if I allow it, can be a relentless adversary that wants to consume me. Each workday offers eight hours and when a particularly demanding task crosses my desk, I restrain myself from sacrificing that evening’s stroll. To lose a few minutes here and there appears innocuous, but the moments are irretrievable.

I set my own schedule, but with the demands put upon me by family, work, and school there’s a paucity of time to waste. A family member’s ?I’ve run out of gas? plea interrupts a busy afternoon. A sister begs: ?My mover didn’t show. Will you rescue me?? A friend emails an invite for an espresso at Starbucks.

These are honourable defeats, but they remind me why I envy my mentor, father-figure Adam. He rents office space somewhere in town. The room is, according to Adam, small and dingy with a crack-checkered window that looks out over an industrial wasteland. His office is sparsely furnished with a desk, chair, and bookcase, file cabinet and the ubiquitous coffee pot. There’s no telephone, but he avails himself of a computer. His name isn’t on the door or occupant list.

Adam spends his days immersed, without interruption, in his writing life. I envy him. However, he confesses that there are days when he envies me.
?You’re lucky,? Adam says. ?It wasn’t possible to combine school with working at home when I was young.?

He’s right, of course. I am lucky. My student/career/home life is exacting and sporadically arduous. I appreciate, however, the opportunity to learn under the guidance of skilled, readily available tutors. Clarity is the gift that these educators give me. My world view is clearer and maturer.

Periodically these responsibilities are daunting. I sometimes complain about the demands juggling family, career, and school place on me, but the rewards are incalculable.

Charles Dickens states my sentiments succinctly. As he proclaims in his novel A Tale of Two Cities: ?It was the best of times, it was the worst of times . . . [but] we had everything before us . . .?

The courtyard’s metal gate crackles when opened. It’s early in the a.m. The day’s heat will build, until my nostrils fill with a metallic smell.

I hear the water vendor’s groaning cart roll downhill toward the creek at the bottom of the ravine, where the mule will push his muzzle beneath the water’s surface and drink.

The night watchmen sit outside the tiendita where they sip Coke and watch the gringos pass by in the morning light. I hear the church bells of Santa Maria call the faithful to Mass. A tiny, yellow taxi traverses the cobblestones and spews a cloud of noxious fumes that hang in the still air.

Over the mountains north of the city I see storm clouds rising. The rainy season is here. It’s raining up there in the mountains where I don’t live anymore. A silver aircraft passes overhead and banks north away from the black clouds piling up along the horizon. Foreigners heading stateside, I expect. A flock of multicoloured parrots land in the bougainvillea bushes beside the terrazzo porch and begin a cacophonous squawking.

On the cul-de-sac where I live, the casas are beginning to stir. Families are collectively shrugging out from under the lethargy of a comatose night’s sleep. The water vendor cries ?agua, agua.? On the next street over a perro barks, another answers, and the burro standing knee-deep in water brays his displeasure with the neighbourhood dogs.

Hondurans, Nicaraguans, and Miskito Indians haul their wares from door to door attempting to cadge coins from the indolent housewives who examine with practiced eyes the bananas, papayas, pineapples, and household goods for sale. The daily cycle begins anew and slowly but inexorably time slips through my fingers.

I myself am assaulted on my way home from the grocereteria. The streets are in deep shadow with darkness hovering over the rooftops. I hurry along trying to outrace nightfall. Two young men come leaping from the shadows, knock me over, grab my hat, and leave me prone amongst a scattering of broken bottles and spilt milk. Other than my cap and pride, nothing else is taken. I sit on the curb a few moments gathering my thoughts before continuing toward home.

Then, a week later, a Federale, my Blue Jays baseball cap in hand, appears at my door. My name and address are scribbled on a shred of notepaper hidden in the hatband. Those who attacked me were captured conducting a minor crime spree and when the cap was examined the hidden note came to light. I’m bewildered that an official would go to the effort to return a well-worn cap, but he’s curious.

?You have visas to live here?? asks the sargento, playing with the holstered pistol hanging by his side.

Ah, think I, reaching for my wallet: the dreaded mordida.

Suddenly, the lempira isn’t worth much anymore. How to survive on funds drawn in local currency? I see defeat in every co-workers? face. Inflation decimates savings. Property values plummet. But the cyclical nature of this country is what It’s all about. As do the rains, everything has its season. To be paranoid is to be in country; it is to go native. This is the beginning of the end.

A sad fact: as a foreigner I see things coming that I know I’ll never adjust to. I have a different perspective. There are problems that I worry like hell about. I make provisions, take precautions, and tell myself I’ll change and adapt.

Only I can’t. It’s too late. I know my time is past and that what I fear has already taken place. Suddenly my life amongst the bougainvillea is over; I miss it.

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Re: IS IT TIME TO ABOLISH THE MONARCHY? By Mandy Gardner

Mandy Gardner suggests, in her article Is It Time to Abolish the Monarchy, that by remaining a “willing member of the Commonwealth” Canada “retains an identity apart from the U.S.” I suggest that Canada establish an identity that is not encumbered with the remnants (psychological and physical) of a newly patriated country. To say no and live with the consequences is an important aspect of growing up.

Until Canada can say “no” without hiding behind Mother’s apron the country will continue searching for that elusive character known as the Canadian Identity.

Greg Ryan