Daniel's Harbour, Newfoundland. 

The rocky terrain; the violent wind wreaking havoc on everyone's hair; the cemetery in the middle of town way up on the hill; the ambulance parked in Rick's driveway Monday through Thursday, and Terry's driveway Friday through Sunday. 

The earth and the sky felt different than any place I'd been. 

We buried my Nan's ashes next to her parents. Her husband was way across the cemetery, the weeds grown over his grave like some sort of movie villain. “Oh Grandfather, what in the hell is going on here, somebody's got to clean you up”. My cousin Heather gardened his plot with her bare hands until it looked almost acceptable. I remember saying the wrong thing, a few times, to relatives I hadn't seen in years. I never know what to do or say at funerals; where to put my hands. We went to a dinner thing, and then each to our respectable lodging. 

Ours was a an old motel with a smoking room. My dad told a story about breaking into the winter house of his aunt Hannah's in Daniel's Harbour and filling his pockets with chicken feed. When he saw her later that day she was onto him, but he couldn't figure out how. He later noticed a hole in his pants, a chicken feed trail following him wherever he went.

What's a winter house?
It's a house set back from the ocean so the storms aren't so bad. It's smaller than your summer house.

April 2016

This weekend I naively spent time in a possible bordello with a terrible man that combed his eyebrows up. Usually intrigued by st...