"In No Particular Order"

"Jutin stepped from the church – and was greeted with the cold bite of Fundy air. He took in deep drafts of it and could taste the ocean salt on his tongue. He looked to the east and saw dawn stretched across the horizon glowing its salmon pink colour. “Red sky in the morning,” Jutin said quietly, “sailors take warning.” He watched his breath disappear into the air then figured he’d better clean himself up before showing himself at May’s. He crossed to one of the forensic vans – and crouching down he looked at his face in the vehicle’s outside mirror. He had to press his cheek hard against the frozen metal of the door to do it. The blood that had seeped from his forehead had frozen a thin line of blood down the centre of his nose. “Charming,” Jutin whispered. With his fingernail he scraped away the crusted blood, then ripped the gauze and tape from his forehead. It was work to apply another piece of gauze and as he performed his triage he heard a car jump to life a street over. He wished in that moment, for a moment, that he were behind the wheel of that car driving to the end of the Neck and then driving straight into the sea. Struggling with a piece of tape he noticed the phrase, ‘objects are closer than they appear,’ written at the bottom of the mirror. It seemed appropriate given the case he was lost in. Straightening up he almost immediately keeled over. Grabbing hold of the van mirror he steadied himself and took a couple of deep breaths, focusing on the ground – he waited for the dizziness to pass, then made his way to May's Restaurant..." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

“If you believe the story – within a year they were all dead. The local authority did nothing for their vigilantism because no bodies were discovered. But one died by fire, two drowned at sea and the other three simply vanished. Never found them. I don’t believe it but there are things that happen around here that are pretty tough to explain. The Minister, for example – you’ve had no luck finding the killer and nobody’s seen anything – how do you explain that? And inside the church tonight – whatever you found there – I know it wasn’t right. How do you explain that?” “This isn’t superstition, Mr. Lill,” Jutin said, an edge creeping into his voice. “It’s about someone who committed some horrific acts. Stuff like this gets elevated to mythic status for entertainment when it’s nothing more than the work of a seamy, pathetic, individual who wants to be recognized for their so called greatness. Thank you for breakfast. I’ve got to get back to work.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

“There are spirits that keep us safe,” Charlie said. “And there are spirits that takes from us. They take and they don’t give back what they took. Me n’ Hump have been able to keep low… but since that Minister came - things have gotten dredged – stirred up. It’s not right. And having your type about hasn’t helped either. And you can’t help. Know it. You can not help. You come here with your investigation to find out who killed who – but that’s nothin’ – even if you do find out – it won’t be over.” Charlie was beginning to sound a whole lot like Jutin’s old partner “We have a very different opinion on that, Charlie. Be that as it may. Who or what are the brothers?” “They’re here now.” He stopped and stared at the ground. “They’re with us. You’ll find out soon enough.” “What are they?” Jutin asked. “On my boat I can feel ‘em pass over or I can feel below my hull sometimes. Makes me feel more lonely. I keep quiet – they pass. I’ve felt ‘em around Humpy most, you know. He doesn’t deserve it. They’ve taken from him already – almost everything.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

“Mr. McCearney - I don’t know what your relationship is with Sergeant Jutin,” Havelt said. “And to be perfectly honest - I don’t really care. You are on a very short leash here, sir - in case you missed that fact. I’m for taking you back with us to Digby right now. I’m sure I read somewhere that lobster season is only half over – it would do you no good to be so far from your boat at this time of the year, I’m sure.” “Well ain’t you a bloody peach? Schooled at L’Arsehole Academy, no doubt. The question isn’t where you take me, Inspector Havelt – it’s am I interested in talking to you at all? And I’m not really too sure on that front. Really I’m not. Nothin’ personal, lads. You see I’ve been holding onto something for most of my life. You hold a thing close for a long time and bring it out to air it can be kind’a worrying – maybe you’ve been holding something that wasn’t worth all your attention. You know what I mean? Maybe it’s all been a great waste of your life, of your time and then you could become a joke to yourself.” He sat back in his chair. “Me speaking my truth could release something that’s holding me together. And I’m not sure I want to give that over to you or to anybody.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"The circus had already come to town once, Jutin thought, and it was only because of the weather and the fact there was no place to stay in Wrights that they'd left again. But they’d be back. And not just because of the Minister – the murder of the woman gave them new copy to broadcast. “Serial Killer” would be the headline and that brings a kind of attention that can flatten a community – rural or urban. Jutin wished he could cover Wrights in a big bubble – protect it from the onslaught that was about to happen. If there was one good thing that could come from the media madness – is that it might embolden the killer – have them drop around to enjoy the chaos they’d created - watch the unfolding events in plain sight protected by the hurly burly. But Jutin knew how to watch for such a person – he knew how to hunt them, how to track them, how to see their stillness, use it against them." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

“Most of them, maybe all of them,” Jutin said, “had no idea where they’d died. They were on a flight home from New York to Europe and because of faulty wiring in a VCR or something had wound up dying in an ocean by a town none of them even knew existed, couldn’t have found on a map. But my father’s friend who lived there couldn’t get rid of the image of those dead bodies out there in the sea. It got to a point where he couldn’t get into his boat. I mean they were pulling body parts from the water in their nets. It got so bad - he started to have visions, and he couldn’t even look at the sea without crying. He said it wasn’t a place to work anymore – it had turned into a cemetery. Those people needed to be left alone, he said. He was falling apart – didn't know what to do with himself – so he stopped fishing. He sold his boat and moved inland. But the nightmares followed him.” “Like the Fundy tide,” Havelt said. “Yeah. A bit like the Fundy tide - but the Fundy tide goes back out again – and this tide – it never did – it just kept coming in. Drowning him slowly.” Havelt took out his handkerchief again and went through the same procedure of snapping it open, and carefully refolding it, before putting it away. “Interesting story, Francis. I wonder if you are you talking about yourself there? That these murders are like that for you – a haunting, an incoming tide that will never go out? Are you drowning slowly, Sergeant?” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

My father’s name was John. He was a railroader and had been a farmer. He was really a bit of both – his own man, and an employee riding the rails in the north -hauling freight across the country while watching it go by in a way very view people ever have. My father stood by as me and my 6 siblings grew from little things to opinionated things. His role changed as we changed and it all happened over weekends and afternoons, and summers, and years, eventually leading us all to our current positions. My father is gone now – well in one way – he’s still very much present in me and in my life. I think about him – how he saw the world. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

The footwear he sold was stacked floor to ceiling in boxes and there wasn’t a whole lot of room to sit in the shed but there was just enough. He had a couple of old kitchen chairs and a stool for the customers and he used a wooden box that he’d toe into place and perch himself on whenever he needed to measure your foot. His engineering of the box towers was a bit of a marvel as were the small curvy random aisles that led into the thick of it all. Charlie might disappear for minutes at a time in search of something – you’d watch as shoebox towers wobbled, decreased in size as he removed boxes out of them. But you always knew Charlie was there because he’d keep up his steady patter. There were times he had to leave the shed to find your shoes from the footwear overflow area inside the kitchen of the house. It was the same deal as the shed – shoes in their boxes stacked floor to ceiling. To see Charlie quick-stepping it out the house, over the boardwalk, and back into the shed, balancing a stack of shoeboxes in multiple sizes, colours, and different brands, was a real Yertle the Turtle situation - sometimes like watching the Italian plate spinners on Ed Sullivan. But it was no problem for Charlie – he balanced what needed balancing - and he kept the whole experience going at a mile and minute and always with a smile on his face… --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

It’s funny – how you land in people’s lives, and they in yours. We share some space and some time then as quickly as it started, it’s over. We disappear from each other. But every once in a while - maybe for five minutes, fifteen years later - on a hot August afternoon you step back in and share that life again. I’ve always thought time is a trickster – grabs memories willy-nilly from the vaults, puts them together with the experience I’m living in, and not afraid to reach into a future I might be imagining – swirls everything together – leaving me in all time and no time at all. For a few moments in Mike’s Milk me and Mrs. Morin dropped into that time – we made contact, we embraced, and then we went our ways – never to see each other again. And as the Trickster Time continues on in their work - it has taken me another thirty years to remember the experience – to be once more dropped into no and all time – to relive a memory as if it had just happened. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Change is surely happening - on the streets, in the woods and oceans, in the skies above us. It’s happening within government in silence or explosion, often both, and it’s a constant. We have the unique opportunity to go beyond checking a box, signing a petition, marching in the streets. We have a very real opportunity to change our “social, legal, political and economic distinctions for equal access and entry points to privacy, property, protection, prosperity and personhood.” We can become a part of “a massive citizens movement to bring about systemic change…” “…in our structures, institutions and in the ways that we think, especially about work, deservedness, representation, redistribution and even the proper role of government.” While life is a series of natural and spontaneous changes as Lao Tzu suggests, and something we shouldn’t resist; as it only creates sorrow - it’s time to let reality be the new reality - to let things flow with us participating in a global citizens movement… When you talk about change… --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Jutin’s cellphone chirped – it was Peter Michaels’ parole officer, Nick Brown. “So – where is he now?” Jutin asked after it was explained that the killer hadn’t shown up for work or for his last parole meeting. “We’re not sure,” Nick said. “He knows he’s on thin ice to falling back inside.” “OK. So when was the last time anyone saw him?” “Two weeks ago – it looks like. But we’ve just become aware of his absence.” “And why is that?” “He’s been calling in sick at work and his appointment with me was for today – and he didn’t show up.” Jutin’s stomach twisted then torqued back into position. “What’s his work?” “He’s articling to become a lawyer.” Jutin’s stomach did another somersault. The Michaels he knew was no lawyer but prison can change a person. The Michaels he knew had his grade ten with a PHD in street knowledge and a keen desire to do damage to people. “We’re notifying the public,” Nick said, “and a Canada-wide warrant is being issued for his arrest tonight. You’re my first call, Sergeant, as soon as we have anything.” Nick Brown’s Canada-wide warrant and his telling Jutin he’d get the first call if they had anything – did nothing to ease his concerns. Peter Michael’s was the right height for the man outside the window, and he certainly had the imagination to perform the elaborate murders going on in the Digby Neck. Jutin thanked Nick Brown and pressed the red button on his phone to end the call. He let his mind run to Peter Michaels and a shiver went through him, a shiver that traveled down his legs hung around the soles of his feet buried in the moist socks. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Some people I only ever knew as Mister, or Missus or Miss, Sir or Ma’am. I might know their last name to tag onto it - but it wasn’t always necessary, required, or even wanted. The less said by the younger ones the better was the overriding vibe. There were guys in smocks I’d call Doctor, and priests in frocks that I’d call Father. Nuns in habits were known as Sisters, and men from the local constabulary, Officer. There were other names given to the olders. Mister Komar, for example, became Akela once a month during Cubs, and his assistant, Mister LaChance, was Bagheera. Dunc Ellis was Coach pretty much all the time. The olders would call me whatever they wanted. Sometimes they’d use my full name to make a point, to get my proper attention, to include my heritage in whatever the news - good or bad – that they felt needed imparting. There were plenty of Hey Yous, and Son was used (by almost anybody) Lad, boy, him, that guy, were also in there - and sometimes I wouldn’t be called anything. We youngers were often seen as partially formed animals standing in front of the genuine McCoy taking whatever was being dished out. My father would call me and my brothers, you fellas, even if we stood before him alone. We were known as ‘you fellas’ – a trio of young lads – interchangeable, foolish, too often in situations of our own making that could require a firetruck or police officer. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"John died when he was almost 93 years old. He was born and raised on a farm in Utopia, Ontario. He lived through the time before and the time of - the telephone, the automobile; he saw changes in our society over nearly a hundred years of an active life. He used to take the train to school – catching it across one of the farm fields his family worked. He went to Central Collegiate (gone now) and attended the Ontario Agricultural College before it became the University of Guelph. He left the farm following a rough year during the depression and took his wife, Isabel, and their three kids to town. He secured a job on the railroad – the CNR. He had a variety of positions for the CN and eventually worked his way to engineer. He saw the transition from steam engines to diesel and lived long enough to hear about the crew-less train that ran across 1000 miles of Canadian track. He and Isabel had 7 children in all." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"Jutin opened his eyes, what seemed like a moment later, and checked his watch – 3:30 AM. Micheline was asleep on the other side of the bed. He listened to the clock groan in the kitchen and the low intermittent booms of the storm outside the window. But there was another sound in the apartment. He slipped from bed and quietly made his way toward the bedroom door. The dishes were still on the table; CD’s lay strewn on the living room floor. The outside door was open and bumping gently against the frame. Jutin checked the bathroom and hall closet before going to shut the door. As he closed it a plain white business envelope came free of the letter slot and fell amongst the shoes and boots. Jutin quickly opened the outside door and was met by a blast of weather. Whoever had dropped the envelope had done it after midnight and long enough ago to have their footprints buried under new cover. They’d followed him and while he and Micheline were making love had dropped off the mail. They were being more aggressive with a shorter distance between contacts. A chill ran through Jutin – a shiver that had as much to do with his nakedness, as this person’s haunting." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Havelt left Jutin in the limbo of listening to an ocean sound created by the pressure of the phone to his ear. The scene in the attic of the doghouse crept across his thinking like a slow-moving spider. The methods of killing were so brutal – filled with passion. Self-loathing? And who was the woman? Why was she chosen? Was there a connection between her and the Minister? How long had she been dead? Was it really a scene from Shirley Jackson’s short story?’ Or, had Jutin got too caught up in his own cleverness? And the new thing to feel sick about was the semaphore signal – where would that lead? What did CAP or EPA mean? Peter Michaels let out of jail early – was there a connection to him? --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"In the story of the old lady who accidentally swallows a fly - things get out of control pretty quickly. In order to deal with the fly she swallows a spider but then realizes the spider needs to be dealt with so she swallows a bird. The bird, she figures, can be gotten at by a cat – so that’s the next thing she swallows. But that doesn’t sit right so she follows the cat with a dog. Things go even more haywire when she inexplicably swallows a cow to get the dog, and then a goat to eat the cow, and a pig to get the goat. And in wild desperation she finally ends the whole scene by swallowing a horse - and because of that, “she’s dead of course.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

“What are you talking about, Liz?” Jutin asked. “The Amish in 1919 made a decision not to have electricity because they felt it would be too much conforming with the world. For them the world stopped right there. 1919 - any advancements after that were not of interest. I’m a religious gadfly, you see. I have respect for thought that makes sense to me. If you could come back as any five cultures – religions, from anywhere on the planet, whatever, what would they be?” “Not sure. You? “A Mennonite, Rastafarian, Ukrainian, Italian around the time of Michael Angelo. “What’s up with that?” “Mennonite because of their inquiring mind – best questions come from the Menno – in my opinion. Rasta laugh, sing and dancea lot and would take some of the earnestness out of my Mennonite – smoke great ganga too. Ukrainians – the ones who stayed over there through all the wars – because of their sad stories and love of food and celebration – attention to the detail in ritual too. Italian because I love them. And Mr. David sculptor because I’d want to work with him on his art and try and understand his connection to God.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"One morning after a three-mile trek they came to a small clearing. Jutin’s father told him to sit down on a log and shut up. He was surprised when his old man sat down quietly beside him. Jutin expected a cuff for some real or imagined transgression but when none came, he began to fidget. His old man frowned and brought a finger to his lips – made a quiet shhh sound. More by accident than design Jutin slowly became aware of the sounds of the forest. The more he listened the more he could hear. He was soon able to discern where the noises were coming from and what was making them. He relaxed and as he did the experience of listening got richer, more refined. It wasn’t until the cold and damp settled into his bones that he was aware of anything else. That night, his old man, plastered on rum, looking scary in the firelight, told him, “Learn that you’re nothing, Frank – accept it – and you might have a chance to learn something. Sit quiet when you can,” he slurred, “and listen – then you might hear the world talking – telling you things - if you’re not too stupid to hear it, that is.” Jutin thought about sitting quiet for the murderer – trying to catch his noise in the cacophony. Not the noise he was making with his videos and Polaroids – that was all pre-planned, all for show – no, Jutin wanted to hear the real noise he made when the bastard didn’t know he was being observed. He brought his index finger up and stared at it for a while then banged off an email on his cellphone to his daughter in Togo. He wrote about the blizzard – and told her not to worry about her mother – all problems on the east coast were on account of the weather. He sat back and chewed on the pen some more - thinking about driving his car off a cliff." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

“But when Buddy called me and told me what you were up to - there was something that happened last night that was odd…” Melanie squeezed her legs together and began to fiddle with a turquoise ring on her little finger. “You know the expression – an angel flew over my grave?” Jutin sat quietly allowing Melanie the time she needed to sort through the memory that was disturbing her. He watched as the images of the memory came back into focus, her face tensing in the recognition. “I’d just come from the back room and I saw… Well actually - I looked out the window, and when I did this person in a parka, their hood was up – they had a dark scarf covering most of their face… they moved in from the shadows a little bit. It was like they were waiting for me to return or something.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

'Something told him the order was important. “The photographs are in a sequence. Initially the woman is standing. She’s wearing a knee length brown skirt, white blouse and sweater, hard to tell her age. Her hair is curled. She’s blonde. The first few pics are taken from the sideview, can’t see her face. Then as the photos progress, she begins to crumple, her face always turned from the camera. The last two shots have her lying on the ground on top of a red checked tablecloth. There’s a wicker picnic basket beside her head. The final image, if I’m reading this right, is a close up of what was her face – it’s pulverized, unrecognizable, and there’s blood everywhere.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

As we come out of isolation - bring an open heart and an open mind, know that a good idea can come from anywhere, and lets not let disagreements be an excuse to fall away from the conversation. Stay with it, look again, try again - like you might with someone in your own family. Lets get along so we can get along - lets have discussions about useful structures, supply chains, our limited resources, and that we don’t own the joint – that we share the place with so many other beings. Because in this light we have a chance to see things differently, we have a chance to change the course, not just for now, but for next generations, and for the betterment of our very dear one and only home. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Gemini Award (Canadian Screen Awards) winner Lou Pomanti is one of Canada’s most accomplished [producers, composers, musicians, and musical directors. Lou’s original music and performances are featured on soundtracks and recordings heard all over the world. Lou studied music at Humber College in Toronto in the Jazz Program. He was the recipient of The Duke Ellington Scholarship Award for Arranging. Get your funk on - get barefoot, loosen your spine, let your shoulders drop, and move and move some more... --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Jutin pushed on. “The story is about this small town and a bizarre practice that goes on there. Once a year in June the community gathers in the town square. They each draw a piece of paper from a box. One of the pieces, one piece only, has a black dot on it, the rest are blank. Anyway, this woman, a Tessie Hutchinson, could be our Hutch, pulls out the square with the black dot on it. She’s in shock, complains the process is rigged – she resorts to begging – but in the end she’s stoned to death by the rest of the community. It’s pretty disturbing. This woman did nothing wrong, was married with three kids going about her life, but because she drew a piece of paper from a box with a black dot on it she was stoned to death. It’s random. Her own family participates in the stoning. There is a suggestion that the sacrifice is necessary in order to get a decent crop.” “And what pray-tell does that absurd sounding tale have to do with our burning Minister?” Jutin considered the image of Tessie Hutchinson from the story for a moment - then said, “My fear is nothing.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Jennifer Warrens: Jenny sings Lenny in her version of Leonard's Famous Blue Raincoat - followed by Leonard Cohen singing his song by himself - enjoy. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

This song is a drift that I've always loved. And dear Laura Smith crossed beyond the curtain not so long ago - gone but not forgotten. RIP LS. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

LISTENING TO STONES: “There is an unspoken language that makes it possible to bridge every worldview, a language that can be learned through dialogue—the willingness to set aside preconceived ideas and listen not only with your mind but with your heart. And if the way forward begins with a commitment to genuine dialogue, it teaches that the exchange of conversation must not only occur between human beings but also between all the creatures and plants and spirits that connect us to and with the earth.” He talks about the power of listening – learning from the world because we are only one part of a much greater, intricate, and delightful whole. “Only when the rocks begin to know you,” he says, “will they tell you their story. This goes back to the notion that a dream is not a one-way thing. It goes both ways.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"Jutin dropped his head and thought for a moment. “I don’t know if deal with it is the way I’d describe it. A guy I worked with – retired now – used to say crime had two starting points and in the worst of them had no end. For the perpetrator there was his beginning point, when he performed the deed. But for the rest of us, our start was from far off, from off in the dark. The investigation is the journey toward understanding. Solving the crime, if that happens, is the most confusing part – because you’d think that would be the end of it. But it never is. It isn’t until you’re far far away again that it’s OK. And even then you still worry. And that’s why people die, Jutin, he’d say – so that they don’t have to remember anymore.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"Charlie slumped in the kitchen chair. “Oh, jesus - that booze did me no good at all. Just made me feel sick. Don’t know why I poured it. Had that bottle over a year. No need to open it. Until now...” Charlie started to push a small puddle of tea around on the table with a spoon. “Humpy…Darwin. He’s a heartbreaker, isn’t he? There are times when I’m out fishing when I think about not coming back – just like Amy done. Just goin’ ‘til I run out’a gas. Drift away…Your line of work – you ever want’a do that?” “Sometimes,” Jutin said." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

“It is a secret both in nature and state, that it is safer to change many things than one.” Francis Bacon said that. Right now many things are changing at a rate we haven’t seen before – well not in my lifetime anyway. People are coming out of their silos working together to come up with solutions to our immediate situation, and looking ahead to what a post-pandemic world could look like. Decisions are being made in a dizzying time zone and there are mistakes and some things are being walked-back, but it hasn’t stopped the need for immediate action nor the decisions that go along with it. I read today that back in March the head of a national union, the CEO of a national business organization, and the Prime Minister were on a call discussing a plan for labour, business, and how the government could assist the challenges. This meeting wouldn’t have happened in February – the mistrust, the anger, I’m too busy, would have stopped it from happening. The government would have struck a committee to look at it and maybe in four years if they’d survived the next election something might happen. Or it might not. But February 2020 is not March 2020 - two different time zones, two different worlds. This time is bringing us together in ways very few imagined. Can we keep this up? Not necessarily the dizzying pace - but the collaboration between those not used to collaborating outside their herd? --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"Without warning Humpy turned and ran at Jutin, his full weight driving the detective to the ground. Jumping up, Humpy performed a peculiar dance. His eyes disappeared into his head, the lids quivered; his mouth hung open, fists sawed the air like driving pistons, his body doubled over and straightened as if keeping time to a fast beating drum. He leapt over Jutin’s body, slammed into the wall and fell to the floor. He rolled front to back, front to back, until he crashed through the open door of the bathroom, banging his head off the base of the sink. He immediately clutched his forehead and blood seeped between his fingers. Jutin, holding his damaged ribs, watched as Humpy slowly lifted himself and with blood from the wound on his head drew a bizarre looking mustachioed jack-o-lantern on the bathroom mirror. He then walked over and calmly sat cross-legged beside Jutin, his chest heaving from the exertion, blood from the wound on his head running down his nose and forming a small puddle on the floor between his legs." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Jutin listened as she locked the door to her apartment then he turned to the window of the diner and watched as a tornado of snow swirled down main-street. All the doors were locked now – Jutin thought. Rural world was like an innocence project – people living happily with their neighbours held in a blanket of security - whatever evil was going on in the world it was going on far far away – it would never come to their community. And then it did. The project suddenly turned sour with a single incident and then the innocence was lost, replaced by fear, mistrust, anger and locked doors. Hands were held over faces, like children do, if I can’t see you, you can’t see me - blinding them from the reality of what was really going on. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"We have come to a time of heartache for many people in our own country and I feel it keenly. I am deeply sorry. So I say now out of compassion and great hope, we do not have to have a calamity to learn to live more sanely. We do not have to live every year at the next year’s cost. If we set our intention and make a commitment our land and our people can heal. The healing of one cannot be separated from the healing of the other. What we need is already here." Mary Berry from the Berry Center in Kentucky. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

The experience showed me the place differently – a place I thought I knew. But what we’d just experienced was only a small part of a much greater. Consider more to know more – it said to me. It was a reminder to listen, to see, and to feel, to come out of my cocoon and come to my animal senses – senses evolved with the winds, the waters, and the many-voiced terrain. It was a reminder to understand we share this place, and to always consider the many other natures alive in this place. We are travellers passing through, on our way along, on our way up and on our way down. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"Charlie lit the cigarette and took a deep draw - coughing as he exhaled. He took a moment to pick a piece of tobacco from his lower lip then said, “you come here like some sorta crusader – gonna make everything alright, fix the matter – is that it? And when it’s over and done, as if it’s ever over and done, whatever the shape of things, you’ll ride off to your next mission leaving God knows what in your wake.” Charlie took another draw of his smoke. “Does any of that strike you as odd, Sergeant Jutin?” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Everyone in Wrights was proving to be very good at showing Jutin the exit. “Where does Charlie live?” Jutin asked as he teetered on the threshold between the warmth of the diner and the bitterness of the out of doors. “Last house this road. You won’t lose your way as long as you always keep to the right,” she said pointing to the main drag, “down at the end there. Always keep to the right at whatever the fork.” Jutin stepped into the storm. The door was locked and the lights inside the restaurant went out a moment later. All was far from right in Wrights. A burning man tearing through your streets will do that to a community – it’d send anyone running for cover. Who wouldn’t be afraid the same thing might happen to them. People just wanted to wish the bad news away – and God help the man, like Jutin, who had nothing better to do than keep the story in front of their frightened faces. Village of this size, people didn’t so much stick together as they collectively mistrust outsiders. And that was enough to keep a truth from surfacing sometimes. Jutin put his puny collar up and decided against chancing the drive. Half way to Charlie’s house he wished he hadn’t been so damn sensible. Passing the United Church he decided to trudge up the unshoveled walk in hopes the door might have been left open. It wasn’t. He’d have to wait for the custodian’s return. As he made his way back to the road he could hear the angry ocean crashing on the shore. It was working in concert with the thunder and chaotic swirls of flying ice battering anything and everything in its path. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

I think we all see things a bit differently in this unique time on planet home. Physical distancing in line-ups is giving us a different perspective on some of the others we share the space with - a vantage we haven’t much thought about before. Being told to stay home has us making adjustments – some are routine, some a bit more drastic. A lack of physical contact is a new reality for many. I got told a story yesterday, on Zoom, about a woman who fell while pushing her cart full of food in a grocery store parking lot. Two people rushed forward to offer her aid. Her reaction: DON’T TOUCH ME! THE VIRUS! stopped all the action. She didn’t have covid19, nor did the people who came to assist. One of the two, respecting her request, turned away - while the other fellow, continued to come forward and helped her back to her feet. She was most appreciative that he did that in spite of her shouting for him to keep away. After helping her up he took a few steps back and they had a talk. She said she hadn’t been touched in a month - and in her time of need it was a stranger who touched her. It brought her to tears. He stood by silently – then a moment later said: I didn't think about the virus until you said it. I just reacted. I guess I need to work on my reactions… but I like to think if this happened again I’d still come forward or someone might come forward for me. They then went there separate ways – I’m sure changed by the experience. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

A thermocline is a thin but distinct layer in a large body of water in which temperature changes more rapidly with depth. In the ocean, the thermocline divides the upper mixed layer from the calm deep water below. I offer some thoughts from the calm deep water below in this time of a very mixed upper layer… starting with Maya Angelou... --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"There were two types of people, he figured – those who lied a little bit and those who lied all the time. You can try and change all you want but you’ll wind up heartsick and dead anyway. On this he was in complete agreement with his Aunt Annie – destiny was writ long before you sucked your first breath. It was simple - just follow the path you’d been given and then die, hopefully with a little dignity. The only problem to this way of thinking, and really the only obstacle he had to overcome, was that he had to share the planet with six or seven billion other people – all with their own line of inquiry, all with their own path, their own version of events. And those people sometimes needed to go right through him to complete their destiny… like whoever was responsible for setting the Minister on fire in Wrights Landing." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

My family is nine people – seven children, two parents. I was born second from the end – in one way an enviable position, and in another, the rough end of the stick. By the time I showed up my parents, I mean it stands to reason don’t it, that they would’ve learned the basic skills of raising children… They’d’ve practiced with the ones who had come before – right? Those lessons, I believe, would have been forged in the fires of hell - completed following much experimentation – with the results applied on us youngers. The trial and error was over, my friends, the nuance/subtlety gone, the path forward well trod – the dos and don’ts clawed into the stone tablets. Another way of putting it – my parents had learned what Jesse Winchester had discovered – that there’s always time “to let the rough side drag, to let the smooth side show, while you pull that load, everywhere you go...” Well… that was the upside... --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

"Jutin stayed to finish his tea hoping that the story might change in the re-telling. It didn’t. A man had been beaten, doused in gasoline at the Wrights United Church and set on fire. He ran down the main street for all to see, followed by a man named Darwin “Humpy" McConald. He stumbled to the end of the dock and leapt into the ocean. He was rescued and flown to a hospital in the city where he lay in a coma, burns to over ninety per cent of his body. It didn’t look like he’d pull through." --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

The Digby Neck in Nova Scotia is an isolated finger of land jutting out into the Bay of Fundy. Sparsely populated, only two miles wide and thirty miles long, it’s home to the highest tides in the world. But all is not right on the Neck. The Minister of the United Church in Wrights Landing is beaten, doused in gasoline, and set on fire. Detective Francis Jutin of the RCMP is called in – and what begins as a brutal assault investigation turns into the hunt for a sadistic killer. Hindered by violent winter storms, struggling with a frightened and suspicious village, Sergeant Jutin plays catchup following a bizarre set of clues. Clues that lead to more bodies and a final twist that could cost him his life. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

On a Saturday in wherever this finds you in the world spin these five classics from Frank and enjoy... --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Solo sailing around the globe, the Long Way, 92,000 bathtub toys are washed overboard and wind up on the shore of Sitka, Alaska, the Testaccio District of Rome and Thich Naht Hahn's thoughts on being mindful while doing dishes - all in one chapter + a great song by Lou Pomanti called After Hours. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

First experiences are often not realized when they occur because we are too busy trying to get used to the first of everything. Fear can be a part of it, our conditioning to figure out the rules is a distraction, but if the experience is prolonged, there is an opportunity to get into the cloud, the silence and the grace of it – to find the buoyancy in the medium, the taste and the smell and the community of it too. I walked away from the road until I found a dry grassy spot. I unrolled my sleeping bag – put on another sweater and an extra pair of socks and my toque, then crawled in and zipped up. I was out there somewhere in Yugoslavia staring into a starry night that reminded me of looking up to the light at the surface of the Bay from 40 feet below. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

So can a new math work? Do you have an equation we can put up on the board? Like my grade 12 math teacher, Dunc, who went at every problem with the same gusto – sometimes getting it wrong, sometimes getting it right – it never stopped him from getting at it. Fellow student, Hick, was there to assist, sometimes to lead, sometimes to simply rejoice with the rest of us. And somehow through all of it, and against incredible odds, I somehow managed to pass grade 12 math. Surely if I can do that – pretty much anything else has gotta be possible. Whatever the math, whatever the equations, that lead us to 21st century systems that are capable, inclusive, and democratic I think we have a shot at lining up the problem in the chapter with the answer at the back of the book... --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

When I first heard the term a perfect storm I thought it an odd juxtaposition of words. I don’t anymore. As defined by Webster’s a perfect storm is an event in which a rare combination of circumstances drastically aggravates the event. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

“Ancient times were the youth of the world.” Francis Bacon said that in 1623, an ancient time to now but not as ancient as the ancient times he was talking about. Puts into perspective - the ancients weren’t really ancient to each other, and what they offered us at the dawn of our modern world was recorded in all sorts of ways – in poem, in song, in scripture, paintings on the wall of a cave. How far have we traveled since then? I wonder. With stacks of books written by moderns and ancients in private and public libraries from Antarctica to Resolute Bay, from Easter Island to Istanbul, with music created in every age declaring right from wrong, working to explain the feelings in a moment, and offering whimsy galore, with comments given at the first hunt to the words of the last sermon, to the most recent political broadcast, how’s it all going? “I would address one general admonition to all,” Bacon said, “that they consider what are the true ends of knowledge, and that they seek it not either for pleasure of the mind, or for contention, or for superiority to others, or for profit, or fame, or power, or any of these inferior things, but for the benefit and use of life, and that they perfect and govern it in charity. For it was from lust of power that the angels fell, from lust of knowledge that man fell; but of charity there can be no excess, neither did angel or man ever come in danger by it.” --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Shake the Dust by Ansi Mojgani + Deep Lake by Bruce Cockburn. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Ferron is playing a house concert tonight in Toronto - March 6th 2020. And you can hear her music on line or catch her live in concert halls, at Festivals and inside houses. Live music is better. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

Some songs for your spirit: Woke up this Morning by Ruthie Foster, Way Down in the Hole by the Blind Boys of Alabama, A Change is Gonna Come - a Sam Cooke tune sung by Jarvis Church, Angel by the Queen of Soul, and the Staples singing The Band's The Weight. Turn it up. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message

A good traveler, says Lao Tzu, has no fixed plan and is not intent on arriving. He goes onto say that the usefulness of a pot comes from its emptiness. Empty yourself of everything, he says, let your mind become still. --- Send in a voice message: https://anchor.fm/peter-smith05/message