Editorials

It was Sunday evening and Mom, Dad, Lisa and I were having our usual dinner of pot roast, baked potatoes, peas and Grammy McIntyre “buns.” Pepperidge Farm fruit tarts, probably raspberry, were warm and ready for that scoop of maple walnut ice cream; one of our favorite desserts.

He had been planning his escape for years; constantly talking himself right into believing he was happy with his life. Now, he sat in his muddy dooryard with Princess tucked under his right arm, the lower half of his body shaking in perfect sync with the rough idle of his ancient Toyota pick-up.

I am going to write once again about cancer; that devious monster that swoops down upon us with no reservation. As one who has walked through the battlefield, my words are strong, direct and honest. Cancer knows no limits and refuses to discriminate.

It was late 1952, and my father was returning home after spending two years on the battlefields of Korea. He found himself in an unfamiliar city, waiting for the bus that would bring him even closer to his wife, his family, and northern Maine.

It was mid-April with the usual hints of Spring; streams of meandering snow, lukewarm sun, muted blue sky, and deceitful shimmers of ice that barely skimmed the pavement. My Goldendoodle, Barney, was 4 months old and we were on our way to my office in Presque Isle for his first visit.