Tuesday, April 25, 2006



We moved into our present house in 1986 and we immediately noticed the regulars. One of them was this kindly gentleman we always called Russell's father as that was his dog's name. He would walk on our boulevard on the way to the park with Russell every day around 5 in the summer and earlier in winter. Russell's father always carried the leash in his hand but I never saw him attach it to his dog. In 1996 Russell died and soon after his master moved out of his house on Cartier Street. A few years later Rosemary spotted his picture in the Vancouver Sun's obituary and she said, "Look Russell's father died." When I mow the lawn on the boulevard I often think of Russell's father. What comes to mind is Mexican poet, Homero Aridjis's (right) words:

"Invisible ancestors
walk with us
through the back streets
car-noises
the stares of children
young girls's bodies
cross through them
Weightless and vague
we travel through them
at doorways that no longer are
on bridges that are empty
with the sun on our faces
we too
move toward transparency." Homero Aridjis - Letter From Mexico