The Perron Family Holiday Letter 2020

Dear family & friends,

Happy Ho Ho Ho-lidays! This year, Fred and I decided to send out our annual Christmas letter early because we won’t be making our usual trek south for the winter and also time has lost all meaning! Hooray!

Let’s see, what have we been up to this year? Well, salmon fishing was excellent this summer, I had a record tomato crop in the garden, we FINALLY got Fred’s truck bed spray-lined, and we’ve both decided to remove our human skin suits and reveal our true alien forms. Oh, I know what you’re thinking: Why did you wait so long to get the truck bed lined?? Crazy, right?

Life is a little more difficult now that we are no longer confined in our flimsy meat shells but, overall, we’re happy. The timing just felt right, you know? I mean, a year ago, the site of a couple of six-legged, scaled, fluorescent yellow, aliens with tentacles for arms—and mouths at the end of those tentacles (with razor-sharp teeth)—would have caused mass panic, especially on quiet little Quadra Island, but it’s 2020 baby! Nothing surprises anyone anymore.

Well, almost nothing. Yesterday I was picking up some Presto logs for dinner from our local grocery store and some woman started freaking out at me in the line. “IT’S UNNATURAL!” she screamed, pointing at the masks on all my tentacle-mouths. The store manager had to call the cops to drag her out. Poor guy, he felt so bad for me that he tossed in some free votive candles for our dessert. Gotta love small towns.

I do have to say that the events of this past year have really made us reflect on the home planet we left behind to make a better life. I’d share the name of our planet with you but there is no written way to express it and the sound, to human ears, is similar to the screams of a million cats simultaneously getting their tales stepped on while a Finnish death metal band performs a song about a million cats having their tales stepped on. So, let’s just call it Blerf, to make it easier.

Half of Blerf is covered in molten lava and volcanoes spewing molten lava 24/7, and the other half is covered in strip malls. As you can imagine, it’s awful. I still have nightmares about those Cheesecake Factory menus. Even so, when I lived there, I couldn’t understand how sometimes one of our “people”, despondent at the opening of yet another Halloween store, would simply walk off to the volcano side of the planet to end it all in a pool of molten lava…but then I watched Rudy Giuliani on a 55inch HD TV screen sooooo… I get it now.

I get it.

But enough doom and gloom. It’s almost our favourite time of year! We’ve started decorating the house with non-denominational Starbucks cups and singing our favourite carols…”Liberal snowflakes war on Christmas, fa la la la la la la la la!” Celebrating the holidays in our true forms is going to be so special and once we find all our cats, who ran from us in terror, it will be even better.

I would end by saying that I hope our holiday letter finds you well during these difficult times but I’m afraid you might think we’re trying to sell you something. ( We’re not! (Available in ebook and paperback!) That’s just silly. (Volume 1 is free!) Instead, I’ll keep it real and remind you to keep at least one tentacle length away from others, wear masks on all your mouths in public, and for the love of Pete don’t eat at The Cheesecake Factory…ever.

I’m sorry if some of you have a difficult time with Fred and I revealing our real selves but please know that we fled a dystopian hellscape and since arriving on earth we’ve been hardworking, tax paying citizens just like you! Now, I have to wrap this up because Fred says there’s an ice delivery van out front asking for us. Our neighbours must have sent us some extra ice for the egg sacs we fertilized in the hopes of raising a family. So thoughtful. Gotta love small towns!

Happy Holidays from our home to yours!

Kristene & Fred


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All the Beautiful Losers

It seems impossible to believe now but there once was a time when beauty pageants commanded the TV spotlight and families gathered in the glow to see which woman would tearfully accept a crown and ascend to her role as Queen of the Beautiful. In my childhood home, we never missed the Miss Universe pageant, with its miles of gleaming teeth, lacquered hair, and Stepfordesque perfection. Even after I crossed into the teen tunnel of darkness, I still partook of the annual tradition since, for a spike-haired wannabe punk ready to toss her parents’ sacred cows into the bin, these pageants were a veritable snark-buffet.

Long before my teen angst, however, one of my first pageant memories was watching my mom dissolve into tears at the end—as she would do at the end of every pageant, I would soon learn. Mystified, I asked her why she was crying. “Because…I feel so bad for the losers,” she sobbed.

I laughed. “Oh mom, you’re so silly.”

Of course, I didn’t know then where my mother’s deep well of empathy sprang from, and even if I did I’m not sure I would have given her the credit she deserved without a lived experience of my own. My family wasn’t rich and I would never be a beauty queen but I grew up never wanting for much, in a family that loved me, in a world that loved blondes, with the metabolism of a hummingbird on speed and looks that were only a few notches below “popular girl” pretty. My mother’s childhood had been a struggle on all fronts and as an adult she continuously battled with her weight and self-esteem. She wept for those lovely ladies bereft of crowns because she knew how it felt to be passed over, to be a loser.

Looking back, despite any flaws and shortcomings, in the twenty-six years I had with her, my mother gave me a masterclass in empathy. In return, I gave her my disdain. I didn’t see a human whose past suffering opened a window in her heart and allowed her to see more profoundly into the hearts of others, I saw weakness.

I’ve written in these Chronicles about my late arrival to empathy but these past few years, particularly since the start of Covid, have driven home to me not only the importance of empathy in our world but also how eager others are to paint it as weak, soft, and naïve. Let me tell you something about my mother, the best part of her, the strongest and most admirable part of her, was her empathy. I can’t imagine how much courage it took for her to sit in front of that TV screen every year to watch the Miss Universe pageant, knowing she would cry and knowing the rest of us would tease her about it and make her feel like another kind of loser.

And that is the smallest and least significant example of my mother’s empathy. We once cared for a former neighbour’s son for a year so that his single mom (still a rarity in those days) could get ahead financially. I’m sure my parents received some financial compensation but it was a big commitment nevertheless. Michael—who was six, the same age as me—lived with us full time, with only infrequent visits with his mother since she lived a long drive away from us. We even took Michael with us on our three-week summer vacation to California. My parents showed this boy the same love and care they showed me, which was a lot.

Ask yourself, would you take a six-year-old into your care for a year? Not for a family member or your dear friend, but for a neighbour and for probably not much more payment than enough to cover groceries and a few expenses? Are you that strong? I’m not.

Empathy is not weakness. Only fools believe that—and I have been that fool.

These days, my head feels like it’s stuffed full of angry bees. I’ve started and discarded more of these Chronicles than I can count. Many more never made it out of my head. One made it all the way to a first draft and died after I shared it with a friend who I suspected might be harmed by the content. I am in a constant state of conflict between the desire to dump all my thoughts onto the page and the desire to be mindful of others’ feelings. There’s too much division as it is and I don’t want to drive the wedge even further.


But I’m also appalled and distressed at the lack of empathy I see and read and hear about. I’m frustrated and saddened by the narrative that has infected a substantial percentage of our society, namely equating a desire for fairness and equality and empathizing with those at the bottoms of our social ladders with weakness. Especially since, thanks to a combination of Covid, unchecked capitalism, and environmental stresses, there are so very many of us at the bottoms of those ladders (whether we want to admit it or not).

I watched an old, overweight, unfit man, who pays a pittance in taxes (when he’s paid them at all), amble out of a hospital where he received the best and most expensive treatment tax payer money could buy and declare that because he is well the rest of us are overreacting about a global pandemic and shouldn’t worry. I watched this and I knew those same people who see empathy as weakness would agree with him and they would carry on endangering others with criminally reckless abandon. They will mock and threaten those of us who take steps to protect those with the most to lose. They will have been emboldened by a leader who wouldn’t know empathy if he groped it at a party.

In 2020, it’s hard to believe that beauty pageants even exist, let alone once commanded so much public attention. What kind of shallow culture parades women around on a stage to be judged on their appearance and parlour tricks like a bunch of trained circus animals? There’s nothing wrong with competition—I’m pretty competitive myself—but some contests have no place in an enlightened society. (And they certainly should not be run by lecherous old men who like to pop into the change rooms unannounced.) I think most of us are ready to let them disappear like the outdated relics they are.

Our society is full of folks who lost a rigged game or who live on the edge of defeat. Maybe it’s time to realize that we’re all losers sometimes and that doesn’t make us any less deserving of kindness, care, comfort…and even a crown or two.

I have shed my share of tears since March—for the sick, for the dead, for the people left behind, for the lonely, for the poor, for the homeless, for the trapped and isolated, for the health care workers, for the essential workers who cannot afford to stay home, for my friends and family, for everyone who has lost something because of the pandemic—including me. If my mother were here today and asked me why I was crying, I would hug her and say, “Because I feel so bad for the losers.”

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This Post Is For One Person

thermometer in snow reading 0 degrees

Waiting for a bus, a woman says to the man next to her, “Wow, it’s twice as cold today as it was yesterday!”

Yesterday it was 0 degrees Celsius. What is the temperature today?

This is the question that changed my life. I’ll save the answer for the end of this post and I’ll skip most of the boring backstory, but that question was the topic for my first essay in my Philosophy 100 class in University.

I did not plan to study philosophy, and would go on to take only one other philosophy course during my tumultuous two-and-a-bit years at Simon Fraser University, but of all the classes I have taken in my educational life that one was by far the most valuable.

Years later, it would also become the most depressing and frustrating.

The subject of the course was “Critical Thinking”. The simplest description I can think of to describe critical thinking is “thinking with your whole brain”. In the real world, what this means to me is that when faced with a statement, a question, an event, or a problem, etc, instead of acting on my first instinct, I stop, take a step back from the immediate response my lizard brain hands me and engage the more evolved parts of my grey matter. Next, I consider both my biases and the biases of whatever or whomever it is I’m dealing with, ask questions, consider all the answers, and then respond accordingly.

The process may sound slow but it doesn’t have to be. Ask any First Responder about the first consideration when rescuing someone and they’ll tell you that you must quickly assess the situation to see if it’s safe to attempt to help. If you rush in to help someone without that assessment, you could end up in the same predicament…and now you become one more person that needs rescuing. You’ve made a bad situation worse. That first situational assessment, even done at lightning speed, is an example of critical thinking. Let me break it down:

  • A person is trapped in a car and badly injured. A First Responder sees that person and knows they need to get to them quickly.
  • Immediate emotional response: Quick! Run to the car and save them!
  • Critical thinking response: That person needs help but I can see there’s a fallen power line in my path that may be live. If I rush in, I could get electrocuted. I will call 911 and wait for help with the power line.

Critical thinking isn’t some elitist, artsy fartsy concept for folks who lounge around and ponder the meaning of life, it is a learnable skill that, in many instances, could mean the difference between life and death. It can also mean the difference between living in a world where we address real, pressing problems with a deep understanding of their complexities and with as much compassion and kindness as we can offer, or living in a world where we are constantly distracted from making meaningful change by hyperbole and lies designed to trigger our lizard brain instincts.

Remember how I said that 100 level philosophy course would become depressing and frustrating? Yeah, that would be the past several years I’m talking about. It was bad enough, pre-2016, when most of the bad logic came from anti-vaxxers, chemtrail believers, 9/11 “truthers”, and other run-of-the-mill phony baloney. But since the election of a human lie machine to the White House, followed by a global pandemic, trying to combat the flood of fallacies by encouraging folks to use critical thinking feels like bringing a knife to a nuclear weapons fight. Sadly, I seem incapable of just putting down my useless little knife, walking away, and surrendering to the inevitable explosion of lies, conspiracies, and propaganda. I blame that Philosophy course. Thanks for nothing, institute of higher learning!

I’ve probably done something like this before (heavy sigh) but I’ll try again, with the vaguest of hopes that maybe just one person out there will find some comfort in the warm glow of logic and reason.

So, here are some random thoughts and tips I have for that one person, (whoever you are, thank you and good luck) who may want know how to think a bit more critically about this messy world of ours.

  1. It’s okay to be wrong. I know we grow up bombarded by the bizarre message that if you’re wrong and you admit it, you’re weak, but everyone gets things wrong. Learning what you think or believe is wrong and then admitting that and changing is called growth. Growth is good. Even the mere act of questioning whether something you think or believe is right or wrong shows you have the incredibly important ability to evolve and change.
  2. Sources matter. Who would you rather have remove a cancerous tumor from your brain—a brain surgeon or some random person who watched a video about brain surgery on YouTube once and claims that they’re totally an expert even though they work at a gas station and have never even held a scalpel? The more important and personal the task, the more we tend to care about the credentials of the person doing the task (well, for most of us, that is). Try applying that standard to more areas of your life. When you are presented with information—a video, a Facebook post, a meme, etc—look for the original source. What are the credentials of that person or organization? Are they really qualified to speak on this topic?
  3. Sources matter…part 2. Okay, so you track down the source of a video you’ve seen on Facebook about Covid 19 and, yes, the person speaking is actually a doctor. Good enough, right? Oh, but wait, that doctor has publicly stated that gynecological problems like cysts and endometriosis are the result of people having sex in their dreams with demons and witches, and that alien DNA is used in medical treatments and that scientists are working on a vaccine to stop people from being religious. So, no, not good enough. Character and history also matter. A string of letters after someone’s name is not an automatic guarantee that they can be trusted or that they are a credible authority.
  4. Unleash your inner toddler. If you’ve ever ended up in a conversation with a small human where they ask you a question, and you answer that question, and then they ask “Why?”, and for the next ten minutes every answer you give is followed by “Why?”, then you know what I’m talking about. I’ve had numerous debates about conspiracy theories where I take on the role of “never stop asking questions” toddler. In the case of conspiracy theories, you’re probably not going to change anyone’s mind but the more questions you ask, the vaguer and weirder and more defensive the answers become, the more you will know that you’re dealing with a hoax.
  5. Expose your beliefs to daylight. I used to be one of those folks who was anti-chemicals when it came to whatever I ate or drank. Chemicals are bad! If you can’t pronounce it, you shouldn’t eat it! But after some conversations with actual scientists and science enthusiasts I realized that, um, EVERYTHING is “chemicals”. Can you pronounce “Protocatechuic-Acid”? Guess where you can find that evil sounding chemical…in an apple (yes, in an organic, non-GMO, pesticide-free apple). I still believe in eating lots of healthy, whole foods but by examining my beliefs around nutrition, I’ve learned that much of what I clung to as truth was false or misleading and that has allowed me to enjoy more food and suffer from less stress about my health. Big or small, examining our beliefs is part of that whole “growth” thing I mentioned.
  6. Not everything needs to be shared. Look, if you know me, you know I share a lot of stuff on social media—cat photos and videos, jokes, articles I find interesting, fishing pictures, cool science, etc—but you might be surprised at how much I consider sharing and choose not to. Part of thinking critically online is to stop and ask yourself, “Why do I want to share this?” Here are some of my reasons for not sharing that you might want to consider: 1. I like the message but the person or organization sharing the message is problematic and I don’t want to increase their viewership. 2. I don’t agree with everything in the message (ex. I support Black Lives Matter and I oppose violence against protestors but I don’t believe “All Cops Are Bastards” and so I won’t share anything that combines those messages). 3. I can’t verify the facts. 4. The message is designed to emotionally manipulate the reader or viewer in a way I consider dishonest or harmful. 5. I don’t want to shit on people’s harmless fun (ex. I hate a book or movie that lots of fans love). 6. The message is a subject best discussed by people who understand it more than I do (in which case, I will try to be a signal booster for those people).
  7. Ask: What emotions am I feeling and why? Powerful emotions are seductive. The recent variety of reactions to the protests in Seattle and Portland reminded me of watching the news coverage of the Iraq “War” under George W. Back then, Fred and I would scroll between CBC, CNN, FOX, and BBC and marvel at how it seemed as if there were four very different wars going on. What was most striking was how neither CNN nor FOX News ever seemed to show the damage and suffering of ordinary Iraqi citizens or to examine the conflict with any nuance, choosing to keep their focus on The Troops, The Brave Troops, DANGER, TERRORISM, FIGHT FOR FREEDOM, MISSION ACCOMPLISHED, RAWR! Americans, still reeling from the shock of 9/11, were fed a steady diet of high grade media fear and the repercussions continue to this day, when we see the DHS, supposedly created to prevent terrorist attacks in the US, turned loose upon US citizens protesting discrimination and racism. There is absolutely a time for emotions like anger but we still need to ask those hard questions. We need to be sure that our buttons aren’t being deliberately pushed by folks who do not have our best interests at heart. We need to know, when we speak and act, that we do so from a place of all the facts, not hearsay and propaganda.

Thank you, maybe-one-person, for reading all that. I suppose I will continue to be that annoying person on social media who begs people to fact check and consider their sources, etc. waving my puny knife around while nuclear bombs fall. Thanks to that stupid philosophy course, I refuse to abandon the importance of words.

Oh, do you want to know the answer to that opening question?

There is no answer. Why? Because of one simple word…


The word “twice”, in this context, is subjective. The woman feels it is twice as cold. She’s speaking about her personal observation not referencing an actual temperature. You can’t apply a subjective idea to a scientific measurement. That’s the extremely simplified version of the answer I gave in my essay, which gained me an A- (she said, very braggily). It took me some time to find that answer and only my complete suckitude at math eventually led me down the right path. But  that question stuck into my brain the importance of thinking critically about ideas that seem simple and straightforward on the surface.

One word can change everything.

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It’s Just the Flu

Doctor wearing a surgical maskJan 2, 2007, somewhere in Oregon, I noticed my throat was sore. Probably just a cold, no big deal, I thought. This is where the narrator of my life should have said, “But it was not just a cold and it was, in fact, a very big deal.”

That sore throat was the beginning of the worst flu I have ever experienced. I spent the night in a roadside motel in Twenty-nine Palms, California, alternating between lying naked on the tiled shower floor to try and cool down, and putting on every layer of clothing I could find and shivering feverishly under the covers. Today I looked up my blog post from that time and it included the following description:

Sometime in the middle of the night I awoke with the horrible realization that there were approximately 27 hedge hogs dancing the Macarena in my stomach and someone had turned the thermostat down to Antarctic-Degrees-Celsius. On top of that, someone was pouring hot, liquid lead down my ear canals; another someone had set fire to my eyeballs and was inflating them with a tire pump. Meanwhile, Mike Tyson was busy perfecting his right and left hooks on my kidneys. I was in the grips of a monster flu and my sole consolation was that we were in a motel room and not camping on some deserted stretch of nowhere.

Ugh. Yes, I remember it well.

The next day, we arrived at the home of our dear friend Liz, and Fred ran interference to protect our host from the plague. I slept for 24 hours solid. What followed was weeks of misery. When the globs of grossness I was hacking up started coming out bloody, I gave in and went to a doctor (always a scary prospect for a Canadian in the USA). The prescribed medicine helped, but for months afterward—months!—I remained constantly tired and lethargic. I fell into a funk and would later discover that I was one of the lucky few for whom the flu increases the risk of depression. Hooray. I’d never experienced actual, clinical depression before that time but ever since that flu it rears its morbid head when it is least appreciated.

What I had was “just the flu” and it was fucking awful. I suffered for months and the time I should have been spending hiking and fishing and enjoying the Baja countryside and my friends, was spent sick, in pain, or battling depression. And I was lucky.

Let me repeat that: I was lucky.

I was lucky because I was on vacation at the time and had the luxury of a nice place to recover, a husband and friends to take care of me, and I was otherwise young and fit, which made recovery easier. I didn’t miss any work. I didn’t have kids or family members to look after. I was able to afford the prescription medicine that eased my symptoms. But, most importantly, it was just the flu. Yes, the flu kills many people every year—mostly those who are very young, very old, or who are already vulnerable—but for someone like me the virus would be a minor annoyance and the after effects (with the exception of the depression) would vanish soon enough.

I was lucky because it was “just the flu” and I didn’t have to reasonably worry that anyone I’d come into contact with, including our lovely host, could end up dead.

There is a “but”, though.

But…that “just the flu” didn’t have to happen.

Why did I get that flu? Because I’d attended a small house party on New Year’s Eve, with some good friends, and one of their friends chose to come even though she knew she was sick. I didn’t know she was sick. Not when we hugged at midnight, not when we were playing hilarious party games like “pass the orange from neck to neck”, not when we laughed and ate and drank so dangerously close to each other.

All that needed to happen for me to avoid months of misery, and depression that will follow me for the rest of my life, was for a sick person to choose to stay home and avoid infecting others.

Of course I was angry when I found out the cause but I couldn’t stay mad for long. We’ve all been there, right? We feel a little “under the weather” but we don’t want to miss a good time, so we go out anyway. We go to work sick, even we when can afford not to. We shop sick, we go to school sick, we exercise sick. As long as we can, we do. Not because we’re selfish monsters and we want everyone else to be sick, but because we’ve been bottle fed on the idea that illness equals weakness. Because it’s “just a cold” or it’s “just a flu”. We have put a sadly low price on our health and the health of others—and now we’re paying a much higher price for that attitude.

I’ve noticed a steady decrease on social media of the “just a flu” comments around Covid 19. In part, because the virus has shown us how much more pernicious and dangerous it is compared to the usual seasonal flu, in part because I’ve been ruthlessly unfriending people who refuse to accept basic science, and in part because the new hip topic is masks. To wear or not to wear?

The fact is simple: masks help stop the spread of Covid 19 and almost everyone can wear one with no side effects whatsoever. However, once more, waves of misinformation, conspiracy theories, and junk science are creating another infodemic.

You may be on the fence. After all, it was confusing that in the beginning we were told that masks were not necessary and yet now we’re being told the opposite, right? Or maybe you do know that masks help protect others buuuuuut it feels weird to wear one and you don’t want to be looked at or laughed at while you grocery shop. Or maybe you’re looking around where you are and there are no cases so you feel safe, and, sure, you know there are no cases because everyone took the appropriate steps early on but that’s all behind us. (It’s not, but we’ll put that aside for a moment). If so, I ask you to consider my story of “just the flu”.

How would you feel if you were sick for months and you found out it was because someone chose to be around you when they knew they were sick and probably contagious? What would you think about that person while you missed work or couldn’t care for your family or perhaps missed out on an important life event all because they didn’t take one simple step to protect you? What would you think about that person if your illness put you in the hospital or left you with debilitating side effects for life? What would you think about that person if you caught their illness and didn’t develop symptoms but unknowingly passed it on to someone you loved? What if that person you loved died from it? All because one person chose not to take the smallest, simplest action to protect you.

What if you were the person who made that choice?

I wear a mask in every indoor public place, and in every public place where I know I can’t safely distance. I wear a mask because it’s easy, it’s safe, and it works. I wear a mask because screw the social norms that have devalued our health and wellness for generations. I wear a mask because even if Covid 19 was “just the flu” (it’s not, to be clear) I don’t want to be the asshole that puts someone else through what I went through in 2007. I wear a mask because some slight social discomfort is worth more than finding out one day that I was responsible for someone’s preventable death. I wear a mask because the more people who do it, the easier it will be for people who aren’t as socially daring as I am. I wear a mask because I want this to end and I want to hug my friends and family and go to New Year’s Eve parties and play silly games and laugh and kiss and dance, and the sooner we all work together to stop the spread, the sooner that can happen.

Covid 19 is not just the flu. A bad flu is fucking awful; Covid 19, unchecked, is mass graves, economic collapse, people you love suffering and/or dying alone, supply chains breaking down, every existing social ill exploding exponentially, hospitals overwhelmed and health care workers in constant danger, borders between friendly nations closed indefinitely.

I am willing to bet everything I own that, even though the stakes were low, if the person who infected me at that party in 2007 could go back in time and choose to stay home to avoid passing their illness to others, they would.


Now the stakes are high.

The choice is yours and it’s a simple one.

Wear a mask.


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The Letting Go


I’m grieving. Again. Not for the dead but for the loss of the living.

Fred says I should get over it, ignore it, not talk about it. There’s a logic in that, I guess. But I keep coming back to this:



“Crazed, crying lowlife”

“Big, fat pig”

“Grab them by the pussy”


“You could see there was blood coming out of her eyes, blood coming out of her wherever.”

And the list is so sadly, enragingly, exhaustingly long. Worse, it’s only one list of many. This one is about women. There are more lists—about Black people, about Mexicans, about the enemy of the week, about Muslims, about the disabled, and on and on.

Those are just the childish insults. The evil is the actions.

I think, If someone called me a crazed, lying, horsefaced pig, what would you do? Would you laugh? Would you defend me? Would you cheer them on and vote them in as the leader of a country?  

A petty, personal line of thought, sure, but how else can I make you see the harm without showing you my wounds? The words may have been directed at a specific individual but, collectively, they apply to all women, they apply to me. I know, without a breath of hesitation, he would say those words to me. You may not care about some stranger far away but you care about me, your friend, don’t you?

Don’t you?

I grieve because the choice is the answer: No, I don’t. 

I can show you facts and you can show me facts and we can argue and debate but I can’t make you care.

I’ve made my peace with the inevitable divide. I know the side I choose to stand on. If this was 1965, I’d be one of the unarmed people marching, not one of the people with billy clubs and tear gas. Even so, there’s an ache in my stomach when I think of the friends I have lost and will continue to lose.

The right thing is seldom the easy thing.

I’m staring out my window at a postcard: majestic mountains topped with snow, clouds so puffy white you want to hug them, a rugged island of dark green forest and steel grey rock, the mighty Pacific Ocean swirling around it all, and, in the foreground, a Canadian flag flapping in the breeze. The symbol of a country built on theft, on murder, on abuse, on the twin devils of colonization and patriarchy. A sordid past with which we have never reconciled.

The divide exists and, as long as we keep pretending our systems aren’t deeply flawed and riddled with inequality and bias, it will widen and grow. I will grieve more losses—good people lost in bad systems, lost to fear, lost to lies and propaganda.

I will let them go.

I will love them and I will let them go.

And I will mourn.

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Dancing in the Dirt That Feeds Us

raised bed garden with young plantsRain is coming soon. I’m in the garden, rushing to fertilize, seed, re-pot, plant and organize before Saturday, when the skies will darken and burst. My six broccoli starts are getting “leggy”–a term I’d only associated with a particular brand of female until three years ago–and I need to get them in the soil before they collapse. Like everything else, I am struck by the thin line between thriving and failing when it comes to these tiny, green lives in my care.

Careful to lift from my legs and not strain my half-century-old back, I heft a bag of potting soil from the ground and carry it inside the rough cedar perimeter fence of the garden, to where six large pots sit waiting. Amanda Palmer speaks to me of art and asking and vulnerability from the speaker I’ve hung on the fence, a gentle voice keeping me company in an acre of alone. Her voice is as lush and soothing as the trees and the hum of passing bees around me. The cats come and go, as cats do—chasing moths, sunning in the grass, stalking each other for sport—and I wonder if they think we created this garden for their entertainment. Perhaps we did.

Somewhere, in an ICU, in a hospital, in a country near or far away, someone takes their last drowning breath and crosses that fine line forever. The people who love them cannot hold their hand or stroke their forehead or plant a kiss on their cheek.

I had to put on my sun hat and I’m wiping sweat from my brow with dirty garden gloves. The large section of turf that has been rototilled has finally dried and I’ll have to hurry and clear as many of the rocks and clumps of sod as I can before the impending storm turns it all to a heavy mud soup. Potatoes wait inside the shed/greenhouse that my husband lovingly constructed for me this spring. I’d always scorned the idea of planting potatoes—why go to all that work when potatoes are cheap and plentiful in the store? Now, those little tubers and their spiky sprouts speak of pragmatism and planning. I’ve seen the photos of vegetables rotting in farmers’ fields. I know the fine line includes trucks, airplanes, ships, farmers. Potatoes are nutritious and keep well in Canadian winters, a smart gardener would learn how to grow them. Soon.

Each broccoli start is planted deep into the loamy, rich potting soil and I place the pots strategically for maximum sun. I’ve never tried growing broccoli in pots before but the rest of the raised beds are full and I’m maximizing every inch of space I can. This garden won’t be enough to sustain us on its own, but it will supplement what we can buy and it will taste better and last longer in the fridge. Less waste. Money is part of the fine line too.

Amanda Palmer talks about letting fans draw on her naked body and the exhilaration and trust of crowd surfing.

Somewhere, men in vests and boots carry flags and guns up the stone steps of Very Important Buildings. They yell about freedom and rights. Women carry signs with swastikas and demand haircuts and lattes. Somewhere, a government official asks for calm and patience and peace. Somewhere, cooped up too long with an anger we allowed, a husband beats his wife until she crosses the fine line.

One of the everbearing strawberry plants has produced a cluster of small, green fruit. Time to fertilize. I am amazed at the amount of knowledge I have accumulated in just three years. It reminds me of when I was learning to fish—what lure, what depth, what speed to reel, where to find the fish. It’s detective work. I like solving nature’s puzzles. In the garden, I need to know when and were to plant, when to fertilize, how to attract the helpful bugs and keep away the destructive ones, how to get the most bounty out of a plant, how to save the dying. After I Google which combination of fertilizer to use for strawberries (10-10-10 will work), I head to the shed, where the fertilizers are stored. I catch my reflection in the glass.

Under my goofy sun hat, my fine hair sticks out at all angles. Brown smudges my face where I wiped away the sweat. My wire rimmed glasses could have belonged to my gram. A white tank top declares DREAM! in cursive swoops—it’s riddled with holes. My cut off shorts fit more snuggly than usual thanks to too much baking and two months without spin class or running. The “quarantine fifteen” my brother’s girlfriend Dianna joked once.  My green rubber boots, full of sweat, complete the look. I despair.

When did I get so old and…frumpy? When did I stop dying my hair shocking colours and dancing until the sun came up? When did I start learning how to grow potatoes? When did I decide I didn’t need a career of my own? Why did I surrender my independence so willingly? When did I become irrelevant? When did I give up on all my big dreams and ambitions? Who is this woman who spends her days gardening and cleaning and cooking and helping her husband with bookkeeping and talking to cats and learning how to grow fucking potatoes? Why have I never crowd-surfed or let strangers write on my naked body?

Why have I been unable to write even a single short story for months?

Somewhere, a scientist slowly, painstakingly, methodically, works to solve one of nature’s puzzles. Somewhere, a toddler presses their sticky hand to the glass of a nursing home window and their grandfather smiles for the first time in a week. Somewhere, a doctor with eyes full of empathy, wearing a pair of shoes that are actually little works of art, stands behind a microphone and tells people to be calm, be kind, be safe, and most of those people listen and hundreds, possibly thousands, stay on the living side of the fine line because of this.

I look at my reflection and see myself through the eyes of the ones I’ve loved who’ve crossed over that line. They’re laughing because this was all a big practical joke, in the end. The artsy, selfish, overly-dramatic, foolhardy weirdo raised by kind, ordinary people, became a kind, ordinary person…and liked it. My grief, which has become a manageable, quiet background breeze, returns as a thunderstorm. My gut tightens and I sob, for my dad, my mom, my sister. I cry as I mix fertilizer, as I carefully feed the new life that will one day feed us. I cry as I scoop up my cat Serenity and she, as always, wraps her paws around my neck and licks. I cry and laugh as I waltz with my cat, spinning and twirling in rubber boots and baggy shorts, across the patch of dry dirt that will someday bear potatoes.

I cry as Amanda strums her ukulele and sings:

And in my mind
I imagine so many things
Things that aren’t really happening
And when they put me in the ground
I’ll start pounding the lid
Saying I haven’t finished yet
I still have a tattoo to get
That says I’m living in the moment
And it’s funny how I imagined
That I could win this, win this fight
But maybe it isn’t all that funny
That I’ve been fighting all my life
But maybe I have to think it’s funny
If I wanna live before I die
And maybe it’s funniest of all
To think I’ll die before I actually see
That I am exactly the person that I want to be

Somewhere, a middle-aged woman dances in the dirt that will feed her and understands that the future has always been fragile and grieves for everything and everyone that has crossed over that fine line. And though she is not who she thought she would be, she likes who she has become.

*Lyrics from “In My Mind” by Amanda Palmer
Posted in Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness | Tagged , , , , , | 6 Comments

One Door Closes

1st Coconut Chronicle

“We pulled our rig (a U-Haul with all our worldly possessions and 25 foot Mako) out of our driveway in Port Coquitlam on a typically grey, cold, damp B.C. morning. Pat & Joyce rose early to see us off. With a pounding head and a heavy heart I watched our little cul-de-sac, and Pat waving goodbye, grow small and disappear. This was it; years of dreaming and planning and now we would really be on our way.”

~ May 17, 2003, Kristene Perron’s journal

Fifteen years ago Hubs and I walked away from everything—job, friends, family, house, security. It’s easy to look back and see all the mistakes we made. We would return a year later, broke, jobless, homeless, and directionless. Mistakes seem to be our forte. But something happened in that first chaotic year that changed me forever: I re-discovered my love of writing. And here we are.

I’d planned on closing out the Coconut Chronicles permanently on May 17th, the day we left Canada fifteen years ago, for the symmetry and symbolism. That was my plan. I am good at mistakes and bad at plans. The problem was that I couldn’t decide how to end this…this…whatever this is. Iterations of this final Chronicle have been funny, melancholy, bitter, literary (too literary), sentimental, absurd, etc, etc. In the end, it was a quote from Harvey, uttered by a writer friend at the Creative Ink Festival last weekend, that cast the final vote.

“In this world, Elwood, you must be oh so smart or oh so pleasant.” Well, for years I was smart. I recommend pleasant. You may quote me.

I have tried, for fifteen years, to be oh so smart in these Chronicles. I will never run out of subjects I want to talk about but it’s time to channel my ideas and opinions into my work. It’s time to close this door and I want to do so by being oh so pleasant. Why? Because you did me the honour of reading and responding to my words all these years. Because you spoke honestly and respectfully in your public comments and private messages about my words. Because, whether you knew it or not, you helped me hone my craft and develop my voice. Because life is hard and unforgiving and the least I can do is act with grace and kindness.

My next plan is to slowly step away from much of my online life—not forever, but for now. I have spent three years struggling through grief and depression (and menopause hell), desperately hoping and searching and waiting for the old “spark” to return. Well, the old spark is dead. Losing my dad and my sister and moving away from my wonderful Nelson community and friends killed that spark. I can say that now. But a spark is not a singular phenomenon. I feel a new spark flickering and I’m going to fuel the hell out of that tiny flame and see if I can’t start a proper bonfire.

To everyone who has read The Coconut Chronicles over the years, thank you. There is no greater gift to a writer than an engaged reader and you have been that and so much more. Thank you to everyone who ever took a leap and contacted me privately to share a piece of your secret world, your fears, your hopes, your dreams—you are courageous and beautiful and I hope I was worthy of your trust. Thank you to the critics who challenged me and kept me honest. In a world that grows ever more divisive, it is heartening to know we can still respectfully disagree. Thank you to those who let me know when I offended or hurt them. Words are powerful tools (weapons) and writers must learn to wield them responsibly. Thank you, thank you, thank you all for showing up and reminding me that community matters and we are not alone.

I will check in here for a short while to respond to any comments that may come in but that’s it.

And now I have to pack up my rig and drive away.

Fifteen years. It’s been one hell of a ride.

The End

Posted in Family & Children, Friends, Grief and Mourning, Health and wellness, Love, News and politics, On Scribbling, Travel | Tagged , , , , , | 6 Comments



Packing up has begun over here at the Coconut Chronicles. Slowly, I am organizing posts and putting them into boxes. I seal them with tape and mark in black felt pen “Bahamas”, “Florida”, “Ucluelet”, “Baja”, and so on. There are other categories: “Posts that unintentionally hurt a friend”, “Posts that inspired someone to take a risk”, “Posts that were too personal and made my husband uncomfortable”, “Posts that were heavily edited so I/we wouldn’t lose my/our job”.

Sorting through all this, my emotions waver between “I’m so glad I kept a record of that time in my life” and “Oh man, why did I write about that?”

Through all my posts, one fact comes through clearly to me: I need to write.

You see, I don’t just remember the time and place and events of each post, I remember how I felt as I wrote. I remember how compelled I was to write down my thoughts, how I agonized (in the best possible way) over which words to use, over metaphors and analogies, over which parts of the story to put in and which to leave out. Even the most amateur posts I’ve written I tackled as if I might be awarded a Pulitzer Prize for my work.  I remember this and my heart shrinks and withers in my chest. Why? Because that part of me is broken.

I still write and I will keep writing because…I don’t know why. Because that’s what I’m good at? Because writing is what I know? Because without writing I don’t know who I am?

You may think I’m wallowing or being melodramatic to say that I have not been the same since my sister and my dad died but that is the bitter truth. That burning drive I woke up with every day to write, write, WRITE has not returned since I lost my family. My grief has changed, lessened, become manageable. Time is doing its work in that department. I rarely cry these days, at least about the loss, and for the most part life goes on. Except for one of the most important parts: the writing part.

I keep faking it. That is to say that I do what I know I’m supposed to do but everything behind my actions has changed. All the writer problems I never used to worry about have arrived like a gang of party-crashing hoodlums. I procrastinate. I find myself staring blankly at the screen for minutes at a time, waiting for my brain to wake up. And when my brain doesn’t wake up I scroll through Facebook or Twitter or distract myself with articles or clean up files on my computer. On the worst days, I give in to the malaise and read a book or watch Netflix instead of tackling the manuscript that needs me. I doubt myself and my talent. I question why I ever thought I was any good at this. I’ve become a cliché.

For a while, these Chronicles were my refuge. At least in this space I could find the energy to translate thoughts and feelings into words, but once I realized my thoughts and feelings were now mostly made of anger and outrage I started avoiding the Chronicles too. It has been a month since my last post. I keep telling myself that I want to write a few uplifting posts to close out this blog but then…meh. Why?

The bare bones truth is that I’m clinging to self-discipline. My only hope is that by doing what I know I should be doing eventually I will come back to “normal”. That’s all I’ve got, the routine and the little voice in my head that yells at me to keep my ass in the chair and push through this.

Some days I don’t know if that will be enough.

There’s another voice that yells at me. It tells me that it’s been two years and I’m a weak, sniveling baby for not getting my shit together yet.

Some days that voice wins and I go do laundry and eat ice cream and hate myself a little.

So here we are folks, with me wishing I could close out the 15th and final year of the Coconut Chronicles with some dazzling words of wisdom and inspiration, and failing spectacularly. If you’re reading this and thinking, “Jeebus, just say goodbye and get it over with already”, you’re not alone.

Like I said, I’m faking it.

Pouring out my heart here is part of the routine. Here I am, naked, showing you all the worst parts of myself. Not because I want to but because maybe if I do what I’ve always done then memory will take the wheel.

If I’ve learned one thing being married to a real life MacGyver, it is that there’s a way to fix just about anything, no matter how broken it appears.

Posted in Friends, Grief and Mourning, Life, On Scribbling | Tagged , , , , | 6 Comments



I’ve been thinking about last words, about what I’d like to pass on in my final few Coconut Chronicles. I don’t know if it matters. It’s likely, in the long run, it won’t make any difference to anyone but me. But it does matter to me, how I end.

The theme that keeps pushing itself into my brain is “choices”. Not all choices are equal but it’s difficult to know which choices matter most.

We operate under the assumption that we’ll know when there’s an important choice to be made. We imagine those moments as dramatic as someone pressing a gun to our head and demanding we choose A or B. In that scenario, with death as the ultimate price, we imagine we will dig deep and find the courage to make the right choice no matter the cost. But the truth is that gun-to-the-head decisions are rare. The choices that matter are often so small we hardly think about them until long after the moment has passed.

More than two years after her death, memories of my sister surface at the strangest times. We had an odd and often tense relationship in our adult lives. Our eventual friendship was hard won and came about mostly because I learned to get over myself and love Kelly for who she was and not who I wanted her to be. Because of this, the majority of my happy memories of time with Kelly take place before she left home, when I was eleven, with only a handful occurring in adulthood, after I was in my late thirties and beyond.

One of those later-in-life happy memories happens to be one of those almost-too-small-to-notice choices. I was staying with friends in Surrey while Fred was working on Godzilla. Kelly was in Burnaby for work as well. A rare occasion for us to be so close geographically. Our cousin had offered Kelly  free passes to an annual culinary event in town, “EAT! Vancouver”. Kelly asked if I’d like to go with her.

It would have been easy to say no. I’d have to take the bus, and then the Skytrain, to meet her, and that would be a hassle. I was busy working on one of the Warpworld manuscripts and should have been using my time to finish that. And Fred and I didn’t have money to blow on frivolous stuff like a food festival. And what’s the big deal, after all? It was just a food festival, if I chose to say no there would be other events for us to attend together in the future.

I said yes.

There was a time I would have found an excuse to say no or I would have said yes but with a caveat, like I had to leave early or something. But this time I chose to say yes. No caveats, no excuses.

Kelly and I took the Skytrain downtown so we wouldn’t have to drive and could, thus, each have some drinks. From the minute we connected, it felt like an adventure. We were doing something new together!  We wandered through the many stalls, sampled all kinds of food, sampled a few adult beverages, bought the odd goodie, and just laughed and talked and had the kind of good time all sisters should have.

Kelly and Kim

Cousin Kim (L) and Kelly (R) at the EAT! Vancouver festival


It was the smallest choice, saying yes, but the memory of that night is one that I hold closest and dearest now that Kelly is gone.  One fun night, just the two of us being friends and sisters. If I had said no—an easy thing to do—I would have missed out on that memory. If I had chosen to say no, I would have had to carry the regret of not having even one memory of my sister and me as adults doing something fun together, just the two of us.

Big changes, big decisions, don’t usually happen in one fell swoop, they happen in a thousand tiny yes’s and no’s.  Look back at the path of your life, and consider all the seemingly unimportant decisions that brought you to where you are now. This, I think, is part of what makes most black and white judgments so fallible. Our lives are not a single sentence, they are epic sagas made up of millions of words, every word a choice.

If there is a lesson I have picked up in my brief time on this rock, it is that there are really no small choices. Every day, everything I say and do puts me closer to the person I want to be or pulls me further away. I am changing by degrees. Knowing this, the question becomes: Who is the person I want to be?

Letting go of this space is part of that question, another choice made. I may not know exactly who I want to be, yet, but I know who I don’t want to be. I don’t want to be the person who clings to “comfortable”, who falls back on habit, who chooses the same well-worn path when there are other paths to discover.  I don’t want to be the person who keeps saying no when there are good reasons to say yes.  I don’t want to be a person who waits for the gun to the head to make the tough choices.

What are the choices you need to make? Who is the person you want to be?

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The Time Has Come…

Lately this space has not been a welcoming one for me. I used to love my Chronicles. I loved them while Fred and I were traveling and this was a place to record our adventures. I loved them when we were lost and struggling and this was a place to share my fears and uncertainties. I loved them when my writing career began to blossom and this place was where I connected with friends and peers about my work. I loved them when I was grieving and this place was a repository for my sorrow.


This place is a minefield. The gumballs rolling around in my cranium are filled with rage and frustration but to let them spill is to crush friendships and to infect this space with negativity.

And yet…

Anything else, in this space, this place where my deepest thoughts are allowed to roam free, would feel dishonest.

So I’ve tiptoed. I’ve placed a gumball here and there, hidden the angriest bits with pieces of pretty language. Even then, I can sense the rising tension.

I walked away from this place once before. Calmed down. Reassessed. Revamped. Returned. I don’t think that’s going to happen this time.

I think I’ve outgrown this place. I’m ready to move on to something new. I’m not sure what that will be yet, though I have some ideas. What I do know is that when the thing that used to bring you joy starts to make your muscles tense just thinking about it, then the time has come to say goodbye.

I’ll probably post a few more times before “the end”. I don’t like loose threads. There are still some words to say, and people and places to remember. May 2018 will be the 15th anniversary of my humble Coconut Chronicles. I’m proud of that. The average blog has a lifespan of about 4 months before it’s abandoned. And while this wasn’t always a “blog”, I’ve been sharing my thoughts with an audience since Fred and I arrived in the Bahamas in 2003.

So, don’t wave goodbye just yet but know that I’m starting to pack up, with the ghost of my dear, cranky old Emily to help.


Posted in Friends, General, Life | Tagged , , | 5 Comments