Dear Reader, I’ve been late posting. So here’s two.

I have been hard at work. All sorts of fun. Keep checking in, progress will come thick and fast now!

Like last year, not much to guess from here. Tomorrow, you’ll see big changes. If I take a photo from the right angle, it’d probably give the game away.

But by all means, feel free to guess.

 Pardon the long pause on the blog—we slowed down in  posting (especially me), then pretty much ground to a halt.

My father, Art Cook, died in the early hours of March 6 at age 75. My parents were finishing up their 20th winter in their little snowbird house in Florida, where they retreated each year for the cold months. Dad had had a history of heart attacks and other major health issues, including an exceptionally scary one the summer of 2003. So while this came out of the blue, and was by no means expected, there were many warning standard signs that hinted to long-term trouble. I’d been taking to giving my Dad a big hug each time we parted—as the situation allowed—simply because I knew he was at risk. He gained weight after each heart attack, worked himself silly, sometimes for an insane number of hours in severe conditions—be it heat, cold or claustrophobic—and then would laze around or doze off. Though the Protestant Work Ethic is a virtue, it has its limits.

I didn’t get a chance to talk to Dad in the last 2-3 weeks. I called about 3 times in those weeks and ended up chatting away to Mom, as Dad was busy shopping, or golfing, or sunning himself at the pool. So he was happy in the final days. I was told later by a golf bud that the one thing he talked of that he did not want was to grow infirmed, weak and helpless as he grew old; he was revolted by the thought of old age homes. I didn’t know this.

More longer lasting was the fallout from his death: they were down south, which meant complexities with every from death certificates, to memorials, to every day bills. My sister and her family flew down so help Mom, and to arrange and participate in the Florida memorial for Dad. Patti fought on the phone with AT&T, who had conveniently forgotten their agreement with Dad for a particular phone plan, and had sent a bill for just short of $1000. They conceded after 90 minutes.

I drove Mom, the car, and much stuff back to Toronto (Dad’s cremains were packed in the back), where we spent much of the next month or so untangling billings, legalities, and finances. Normality started to return. Life was getting back to normal.

Then on June 1, Laura’s sister’s husband Eduardo was killed in a traffic accident in Guatemala while on a motorcycling vacation from Patagonia to Vancouver. He was only 52. He was an engineer and full of boundless energy. They travelled so much and prior to having kids had gone on two spectacular bicycle journeys around the world. Eduardo was always doing something; he could not hold still. Tamo and Midori are now around their 20th year (Tamo a bit more, Midori a bit less) and brilliant and as full of energy as both of their parents.

I was always sad that I didn’t know my Dad especially deeply. We spent enough time together, and we shared some interests that lasted through our adult time together. But there were character aspects to him that I could never see, that he kept hidden from me, maybe others. In the end, I think he wanted that distance too.

I knew Eduardo even less, so what can I say here?

Only that we miss both of them. The true measure of their loss is not the sudden jolt of their death, but the nagging vagueness over weeks and months that a patch is gone from the  fabric of each of our personal universes, no longer there to connect with, just a memory of a viewpoint. The realization that they are remembered in the ways that affected us, delighted us, pissed us off, and puzzled us.