It’s 7:25 AM, any random weekday. Puddy is on the bed, purring and pacing. Simon (9) has a blanket pulled over his head, pretending that this isn’t happening. It’s as if it’s the first time I’ve ever asked him to get up (I do it every day). A monologue/song is usually required, made up on the spot. Here’s an example. Simon (yelling): “Go away, Dad! I don’t want to get up! School sucks! I don’t like you!” Stuart (yelling back): “Well, I don’t like you either!” (There’s a pause, and a little face with shocked expression pops out from under the duvet) (softer) “I don’t like you, Simon. I love…

I’ll never forget September 4, 1984. It was a Tuesday — a day that would later be called Landslide — and I was working the closing shift at MacLean’s, a one-cashier country grocery in Winsloe, PEI. Tuesday was a slow day at MacLean’s. Harvey the butcher usually left at 6 or earlier, the meat case fully stocked after the weekend grocery rush. Demand for hardware or painting supplies usually peaked in the morning, and the post office in the back was only open “government hours” — although owners Heath and Phyllis would go get your mail for you anyway if they happened to be down getting smokes from their apartment…

I really wish I knew when it’s the right moment to harvest tomatoes. I have four different varieties growing on my third floor deck: The ubiquitous Big Beef, familiar Homstead, and a collection of cherries and grapes including tiny orange Golden Girls — each cherry-sized tomato easily outperforming brawny big beef in all categories of flavour and acidic punch on the palette. I planted half of them in upside down four-post planters from Lee Valley Tools, and the rest in colourful felt garden bags from Gardener’s Supply in Burlington, Vermont. The upside-downs did well at first but dried out more easily. The floor bagged plants are, by contrast, still lush…