January 1 and it is day 628. Just think in a little over two months we will be entering year three of the pandemic. How much more can we take. How did your month of December unfold?

December 1 and the Omicron variant takes off – oh my God. It has evoked wall to wall worry resulting in new travel restrictions and more urgent pleas to get vaccinated. I have to wait until early January to get my booster unless the wait required is moved back to five months. It is too early to tell if this strain is more dangerous and might defeat vaccine protection but early indications are it is slightly milder than Delta even though it is more transmissible. Another two weeks will tell the story.

Both grandkids get their first Pfizer shots for the “under twelve” - everyone is feeling a little relieved and cannot wait until the second jab.

Our grandkids get their first Pfizer shots

December 6 shovelled wet heavy snow after breakfast and then went curling. My first game in almost two years. The next day I paid for it- every muscle and joint seemed to ache, Tylenol helped.

December 8 got my flu shot today at a local pharmacy. In and out in two minutes – very efficient and didn’t hurt a bit, unlike the Covid shot which gave me a sore arm for three days. Not eligible for my booster shot until January 5.

December 11 Southern Ontario, Quebec and the Maritime Provinces are hit with the northern edge of the weather system that spawned deadly tornadoes in the US. Our lights flickered a couple of times on Saturday night but we didn’t lose power. About 500,000 in Quebec were not so lucking and in a few areas it took three days to restore service, luckily it was very mild.

December 15 The Omicron variant takes hold and is predicted to double every two days. A do not travel advisory is issued which is sure to be ignored by half the population. It seems that even though Omicron may not be as severe as Delta it will readily infect even those who are double vaccinated. Boosters provide much greater protection. Pfizer has developed an antiviral drug that will treat Covid, including Omicron and prevent hospitalizations and death if administered early on. They should get approval to distribute it very soon.

December 16 Record highs today as we hit 14 degrees Celsius (about 56 Fahrenheit) for those who are keeping score. The little bit of snow that fell the previous day has disappeared and the grass is green. Fear not a white Christmas is predicted.

Omicron is exploding and the Quebec Government imposes another round of strict measures to contain the spread. At the same time they reduced the wait period for booster shots and I was able to book on the 18th. The Canadians finally win a game but no one was there to see it as Molson decided to not let fans attend. Saturdays game on the 18th was cancelled, beer sales suffered.

December 18 Got my third jab this morning hoping that is the end of it – maybe, maybe not. Covid seems to be able to spins off variants at will.
Started snowing in the afternoon with 15 cm expected by morning so more shovelling. I am seriously thinking of selling and moving into an apartment.

December 20 The shortest day of the year in more ways than one. Restrictions implemented by the Government on the 16th didn’t go far enough and a new batch were introduced, including closure of bars over the holidays and schools, effective immediately, until January 10. Do you get the feeling we are in a continuous cycle of hope and despair? It looks like things are improving and we will be in the clear soon and then Omicron hits with a vengeance. Quebec has a fully vaccinated rate of close to 90% and yet new cases hit their highest level ever this week. Tougher restrictions to be announced in a few days but enough with Covid I’m done for the month.

Thanks to Warren Mackenzie for his article and stunning pictures. I bet he would like to relive that holiday if he could.

Congratulations to Mary Munson on her book about Cape Breton lore. It is great to see another CCHS alumnus get published. Based on the reviews it should be a very interesting read. I haven’t obtained a copy yet but I will soon.

And thanks to Ian Cobb and Jacquie Pedneault for the Covid Christmas poem. Wish I had it for last month’s issue but better late than never. And to Stephen Campbell for another fine story - he likes to write.

Thanks also to the jokesters, Jim, Rob and Bob for their input. There is so much material one month I might do a full newsletter of nothing but jokes. And my apologies to fellow director Marc Baillargeon, who is legally blind, for the Labrador joke. I couldn’t resist.

On a more somber note, the Association’s board of directors extends their sincere condolences to Dale Wallace, mother of Mark Wallace, who passed away earlier this month. Dale graduated from St. Lambert High School in 1951 and was school secretary at CCHS for many years. Her late husband Ross Wallace graduated in 1952.

As always we are looking for material, don’t be shy send in whatever you can.

Until next month stay safe.

Harvey Carter

Life Member - C'60 - Editor, Alumni Connection

Welcome New and Renewing Alumni Association Members

Renewed Member
Jon Davies Class of 1973 From: Spruce Grove, AB

Thank You to these Generous Donors

Jo-Anne Hanophy (Folkes) Class of 1958 From: Weston, ON

Expiring Memberships

Please renew now.

Memberships expiring in January
Wendell MacLean
Memberships expiring in February
Geoff Brown


Warren Mackenzie wrote to me last month and offered to put together an article about his once in a lifetime New Zealand trip and visit to Lord Howe Island - naturally I jumped at the chance. If you didn’t go south and are hunkered down as another winter storm rages outside, try to imagine the warm breezes, pristine waters and beautiful scenery. Something to look forward to.
Harvey Carter

Editor, Alumni Connection

Warren Mackenzie
Class of 1957

Lord Howe Island, NSW by Warren MackenzieLord Howe Island - A Beautiful Place to Visit

Following our two-weeks of touring New Zealand’s North and South Islands, we planned to briefly visit Lord Howe Island, a tiny crescent of land 782 km (485 mi) northeast of Sydney, considered to be the most remote and arguably the most beautiful part of New South Wales. With the sheer peaks of Mt. Gower (2,870 ft.) and Mt. Lidgbird (2,548 ft.) richly clad in palms, ferns, and grasses; golden sandy beaches; and the clear turquoise waters of the lagoon, this is a remarkable lovely place. The island has been placed on UNESCO’s World Heritage list as a “natural area of universal value and outstanding beauty.” Fodor.

Arriving by a connecting flight leaving Sydney, Patti & I were met at the small airport by someone who apparently was expecting us. Someone we first took as a local bus driver (not driving a bus but rather a large van.) He was dressed in a “T”-shirt, short pants and with ‘bare feet’. This was our first impression of where we had come, and what we might expect.

Our driver took us, and a couple of other arriving island visitors, on what he referred to as ‘a bit of “Cook’s Tour” of the island. He pointed out several shops, restaurants, and rental and tour places, and stopped at the liquor and grocery stores for us to shop. Finally, brought us to a beautiful home, said here is where we would be staying and that he was the owner. Later that day, he returned with fresh fish for us to cook on the BBQ.

Our home for the week by Warren Mackenzie

Our home for the week

Unpacked and went over to Ned’s Beach to swim and snorkel. Lots of fish right at the shore (including red, blue, yellow, turquoise mottled parrot fish, plus several others.

Patti heading over to Ned’s Beach by Warren Mackenzie

Patti heading over to Ned’s Beach

At about 4:30 several people arrived for the daily feeding of the fish by one of the locals.

Afternoon daily feeding of tropical fish by Warren Mackenzie

Afternoon daily feeding of tropical fish

The following day, we woke up to absolutely beautiful weather, and after breakfast decided to hike nearby trails, one of which lead upward until we reached the top of one trail (over 200 metres high), and let us view over one steep cliff.

Kim’s Lookout (One of many views while hiking) by Warren Mackenzie

Kim’s Lookout (One of many views while hiking)

On our way down from the hills we could view in the distance Mt. Gower and Mt. Lidgbird. We kept walking for just over two hours - about 5 km. and only saw 6 other people on the way. We found Lord Howe Island a very restful place, with those either riding bikes or merely strolling roadways, beaches or up in the hills, to far outnumber the islands vehicles.

Mt. Gower and Mt. Lidgbird by Warren Mackenzie

Mt. Gower and Mt. Lidgbird

For the flowing day we had signed up for a Snorkeling Tour, for which we were offered a special 10% discount off the regular price of $50. and ‘Free’ wetsuit rental. The woman in charge said we would be much more comfortable in wet suits so we all put them on. The boat stopped at four different locations in the lagoon, each with different varieties of coral and fish. The coral was the most colorful we’ve ever seen, and appeared as very large clumps of lavender, pale mauve, bright blue and green.

In the last place, (the deepest hole in the lagoon) several sharks about four or five feet long came very close to us (scary), so we got back to the shallower coral as quickly as possible.

Finished with an hour and half snorkeling and heading back to the equipment shop by Warren Mackenzie

Finished with an hour and half snorkeling and heading back to the equipment shop.

Next morning we woke to a mix of blue but somewhat cloudy sky. Not quite as clear as the previous day. We walked to ‘Wilson’s Hire’ to rent a couple of bikes (only $8.00 for 2-day rental). We covered most of the island (approximately 10 km. We viewed high oleander hedges (approx. 12 ft. high), and huge Norfolk Island pines. We viewed lots of little beaches and stopped at Blinky’s Beach, crossed over a dune to see a lovely crescent shaped strip of white sand and waves rolling in. There were only four other people on the beach.

Patti relaxes while enjoying a leisurely stroll on ‘Blinky’s Beach’, one of many beautiful beaches along Lord Howe Island’s shoreline. by Warren Mackenzie

Patti relaxes while enjoying a leisurely stroll on ‘Blinky’s Beach’, one of many beautiful beaches along Lord Howe Island’s shoreline.

In the morning, following packing our bags, we returned our bikes to Wilson’s Hire, and then spent our final hours relaxing around our cottage, showered after lunch and remained sitting around the cottage pool until it was time to head off to the airport. Beautiful views of the whole island and all its beaches as we took off, heading back to Sydney.

View of Lord Howe Island as we take off, heading back to Sydney by Warren Mackenzie

View of Lord Howe Island as we take off, heading back to Sydney.

Mary Munson
Class of 1967

Mary Munson

The Fairies in Cape Breton

Mary writes: After a long career in broadcasting, I have written a book about fairy culture in Cape Breton including stories from the Mi’kmaw, Scottish and Acadian Traditions.

The Fairies in Cape Britain by Mary Munson
Mary Munson retired from the CBC after a 37-year career as a script assistant, producer on local and national shows and documentary producer.  She worked on such well-known programs as Mr. Dressup, Take 30, CBC Compass in Charlottetown, CBC Midday, The Journal and the Health Unit where she produced an award-winning documentary Angela’s Journey.  That was the story of a patient’s experience with metastatic breast cancer. In 2006, she joined CBC Land and Sea, a national program based in Halifax.  In the space of 7 months in 2011 and 2012, she married Dave Cameron, who is also a CBC pensioner, retired from CBC and they moved to Cape Breton where she is now with the local CBC PNA chapter.

The Fairies in Cape Britain by Mary Munson

About the Book:
From the marvellous Wiklatmu’jk of the Mi'kmaq to the lutins of the Acadians and the Scottish fairies, elves and little people—they all come together as Mary Munson shares living traditions from all corners of Cape Breton Island. From the Kluskap’s Cave at St. Ann’s Bay to fairy circles and fairy mounds—through tales and personal experiences—this is a book of powerful evidence from some awfully reliable people who heard the stories, saw the horses' braided manes, and witnessed the little people on the road or dancing out on the ice.

Cape Breton’s fairy life started for Mary with her noted CBC Land and Sea documentary, but the fairies would not let her go.

Beautifully told and laced throughout with tales from the oral tradition The Fairies in Cape Breton is a rich, respectful and satisfying presentation of remarkable elements from this ever-surprising island.

To obtain a copy:
The book can be ordered from capebretonbooks.com

If you are lucky enough to live in Atlantic Canada...it is on the shelves of all good book stores.

Stephen Campbell
Class of 1973

A Week Away from Christmas - 2021

by Stephen Campbell

Stephen Campbell at Christmas

A long time ago a small boy jumped in a 1958 Chevrolet Biscayne with his Father and drove through the snow narrowed streets of Montreal. In those days snow tires were a luxury and they tended to be cheap recaps that barely allowed the vehicle to remain on the road and drive in a straight line. Salted roads were another luxury and the drive was treacherous which made it dangerous…and exciting. The southwest section of Montreal was called Verdun and living in the second-story flat was somewhat of a privilege. The walls were made of cement blocks painted over with layers of Sherwin Williams paint from Point St. Charles and the heat for the flat came from an oil-burning unit affectionately named a Quebec Heater. There was a gas stove in a cramped kitchen and two cold bedrooms that were warmed by the loving hearts of two loving adults in one bedroom and three totally dependent children crammed into the other bedroom.

Driving to the place where the Christmas tree would be purchased was a pleasure. It required a mandatory trip along Wellington Boulevard for its entire length. That street was adorned with string upon string of lights crisscrossing the street from one end of its length to the other. The multicolored lights gave a dreamlike over the ice and snow piled high below them. The adventure began in earnest as the Atwater Tunnel came into view. The long and claustrophobic tube that ran under the Lachine Canal was dimly lit and the road under the Chevrolet was punished by the potholes that had never been repaired. Coming back out into the cold night felt like a sudden explosion of light. The Atwater Market cropped up just to the right at the first exit and we found a parking space in the snow parked the car among all the other parked and abandoned cars in the shadow of the great market. The only traces that people had recently been in any of those vehicles was the hundreds of tracks in the snow made by families moving in unison toward their quest for the perfect Christmas tree.

More strings of lights hovered over merchants burning wood in barrels and warming their hands in the open flames. Christmas Carols played over ancient and inefficient loudspeakers. Other songs were being sung by passersbys. Vendors and Merchants were trying to sell what they had left in their arbors for Christmas. Our mission, everybody’s mission that night, was to find the best Christmas tree of all time. The market was a cacophony of men and women hawking their wares. Refusals were mandatory offers even though we were swimming through a sea of people shouting at us in both official languages. I must admit that the French offers were more intense and passionate, but My Father knew how to politely ignore both. Making our way all the way up the embankment we finally reached The Lachine Canal. Only months earlier ships were plying the dirty waters here and jostling past one another in the cramped spaces left for them. Those same ships now slept comfortably at anchor beyond the frozen canal in Vieux Montreal. The steel rails that lined the canal was the only remaining means of commerce to move around this city until the winter would melt away and free the canal of its ice and snow in the coming Spring.

You have to remember that this was the 1950’s. Diesel engines were reserved for the luxurious transport of paying passengers running the rails from Halifax to Vancouver. Short-run shunts were being serviced by steam engines. Dad was aware of that and headed up the bank of the canal in hoping to see a train off in the distance. Maybe it was fate or maybe it was destiny, but Dad told me to touch the tracks to see if there were any vibrations. Sure, as hell…the tracks were alive. I stole a glance in the direction of My Father’s eyes, and I think that I saw the little boy from The Gaspe Coast hiding distantly in his stare. Far down the track to the west, was the unmistakable bright light and the massive all-encompassing oily plume of smoke and the dangerously violent sounds of a steam engine steadily making its way toward us.

Backing safely away from the tracks we both watched the engine roll past us in a shower of sparks and steam that came from every operating orifice the engine possessed. It was struggling and churning for all its worth and belching smoke into the cloudless night and blocking the stars and the moon as it occupied every part of the universe that it existed in. Coming to an expressive stop it panted and caught its breath. With a tumultuous shout from its very soul, it announced that it was going to back up. Brakemen ran from its caboose and grabbed the large levers that changed the direction of the tracks that would guide the heavily loaded flatcars to where they were supposed to go.

Another salute from the engineer and another loud remark from the engine coincided with a courteous salute from the brakemen. The earth began to tremble under our feet and tons of steel and iron began rolling down the grade past us onto street level. The train seemed endless and blocked traffic coming out from the tunnel that we had just passed through. We were no longer a significant part of the world, and we were reduced to being witnesses of the power and the force of how life was sustained by the unnoticed and the strong forces that invisibly made our lives bearable.

Perhaps it was the cold. Perhaps it was the hour of the night. Perhaps it was the innocence of youth. Perhaps it was the magic of Christmas that we believed in at the time. I do not care to know why that night has affected me to this day, but it does. The songs on the speakers replaced the sounds of the train as it sat quietly on its siding. There were other songs in the air in at least two languages and at least two cultures were celebrating in perfect harmony and the total impact was mesmerizing.

The strength and audacity of that engine and its overpowering voice and its steam and its very loud announcement and the way that it made the earth shake under our feet has remained with me to this day. I remember feeling so small and so insignificant watching the smoke belch out of the smokestack and seeing the line of flatcars with their tons of cargo following the engine down the hill and onto the flat ground that surrounded the Atwater Market. The traffic stopped in every direction and the world paused to witness the delivery of that that evergreen payload.

The origin of the cargo was from Maritime Forests hundreds of miles of track away from that market and had been lovingly harvested and sent to the St. Henri Yards for delivery to the Atwater Market. The smell was pungent when the flatcars passed by in a seemingly military march. An evergreen army marching toward their barracks. One by one the vendors appeared from nowhere to harvest their share of the crop that was assigned to them. Those were shouts that men make when they work joyfully together. There were songs and inevitably...this was Quebec after all…there were curses. One by one the flatcars were emptied, and the trees were carried off to their stalls where they would lay one on top of the other to be adopted by loving families.

I needed to feel that the trees were being adopted because I needed Christmas to be as innocent and as pure as I was at the time. I needed to preserve the essence of Christmas. Nothing about Christmas could be anything other than precious and loving and essentially perfect. I believed (maybe still believe) in Santa Claus. I believed in the Virgin Birth. I believed in the Wise Men from the east and the Shepherds tending their flocks.

I believed in the copious strings of lights that overburdened the streets of Verdun. I believed that the dark streets of the residents of the entire island of Montreal worked together in unison to guarantee that their children would enjoy a better life than they had ever had. I believed in the optimism and the prayers that were being prayed for each one of us. The magic and the light of Christmas and the total envelopment that a united family had at that time of year reinforced my very young belief that the world could never be better than it already was. It may have been that I was naïve, or it may have been that I had not yet experienced life and that I had not yet been tested. I do not care to know the answer to that question. For that moment in time and for many more moments in time…life was perfect.

Dad and I chose the perfect tree and paid the vendor. I will never forget My Father telling him in some language foreign to me at the time that the money that exchanged hands was one thing but that there was another exchange after that. When I finally learned how to understand the French Language, I realized that Dad’s second transaction was personal. He told him that the second payment was for the vendor personally and that he was wishing the vendor a very merry Christmas and a very prosperous and happy New Year. That was a lesson that I learned while young and that I have never forgotten. That tradition is a tradition that I continue to practice out of respect for My father and my respect for every other human being in this universe.

The tree rode home on the roof of the Biscayne and made its way up the slippery backstairs all the way up to the second-story flat. It would thaw out and get decorated lovingly with decorations and lights and tinsel and become an alter…no... a threshold…that we would approach with love and respect.

I am old. I wax nostalgic. I miss the past, but I revere it. I acknowledge its lessons and I celebrate its presence in my history. I consider it a privilege to have been there then. I consider it a privilege to be here now among you all today.

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Forwarded to us by

Jacquie Pedneault (Hammell)
Class of 1963


Ian Cobb

The Night Before Christmas: Covid Edition

Courtesy The Ottawa Citizen - Dec 21, 2021
Click here for original article and video of this being performed.

Many are familiar with the poem A Visit from St. Nicholas, commonly known as The Night Before Christmas, by Clement C. Moore, but Ottawa resident Tom MacDonald has re-penned it for COVID times.

T'was the night before Christmas, but Covid was here,
So we all had to be extra careful this year.
Our masks were all hung by the chimney with care
In case Santa forgot his and needed a spare.

With Covid, we couldn't leave cookies or cake
So we left Santa hand sanitizer to take.
The children were sleeping, the brave little tots
The ones over 5 had just had their first shots,

And mom in her kerchief and I in my cap
Had just settled in for a long winter's nap.
But we tossed and we turned all night in our beds
As visions of variants danced in our heads.

Gamma and Delta and now Omicron
These Covid mutations just go on and on
I thought to myself, "If this doesn't get better,
I'll soon be familiar with every Greek letter".

Then just as I started to drift off and doze
A clatter of noise from the front lawn arose.
I leapt from my bed and ran straight down the stair
I opened the door, and an old gent stood there.

His N95 mask made him look pretty weird
But I knew who he was by his red suit and beard.
I kept six feet away but blurted out quick
"What are you doing here, jolly Saint Nick?"

I said, "Where's your presents, your reindeer and sleigh?
Don't you know that tomorrow will be Christmas Day?"
And Santa stood there looking sad in the snow
As he started to tell me a long tale of woe.

He said he'd been stuck at the North Pole alone,
All his white collar elves had been working from home,
And most of the others said "Santa, don't hire us!
We can live off the CERB now, thanks to the virus."

Those left in the toyshop had little to do.
With supply chain disruptions, they could make nothing new.
And as for the reindeer, they'd all gone away.
None of them left to pull on his sleigh.

He said Dasher and Dancer were in quarantine,
Prancer and Vixen refused the vaccine,
Comet and Cupid were in ICU,
So were Donner and Blitzen, they might not pull through.

And Rudolph's career can't be resurrected.
With his shiny red nose, they all think he's infected.
Even with his old sleigh, Santa couldn't go far.
Every border to cross needs a new PCR.

Santa sighed as he told me how nice it would be
If children could once again sit on his knee.
He couldn't care less if they're naughty or nice,
But they'd have to show proof that they'd had their shot twice.

But then the old twinkle returned to his eyes.
And he said that he'd brought me a Christmas surprise.
When I unwrapped the box and opened it wide,
Starlight and rainbows streamed out from inside.

Some letters whirled round and flew up to the sky
And they spelled out a word that was 40 feet high.
There first was an H, then an O, then a P,
Then I saw it spelled HOPE when he added the E.

"Christmas magic" said Santa as he smiled through his beard.
Then suddenly all of the reindeer appeared.
He jumped into his sleigh and he waved me good-bye,
Then he soared o'er the rooftops and into the sky.

I heard him exclaim as he drove out of sight
"Get your vaccines my friend, Merry Christmas, good-night".
Then I went back to bed and a sweet Christmas dream
Of a world when we'd finished with Covid 19.

Note: Ian Cobb has ordered 200 more copies of his book My Headwinds to Freedom from the printer. To obtain a copy: E-transfer $50 to his e-mail address at  cobbiangrant@yahoo.ca - This includes shipping, tax and handling. Please include your full mailing address.  Or pick it up at his home for less - call first. 63 Village Dr., Belleville ON. K8P4K2 - 613 968 9807

Alumni Association

Reunion 2022

Your board of directors met on December 14 to discuss the latest news about the Covid pandemic and how it might impact a May 2022 reunion. While we are still hopeful, the surge in Omicron cases is causing some doubt about viability, so much so that we have pushed back the initial registration date to February 1. If there isn’t marked improvement and a clear path forward we will consider moving the event to mid-September. A further update will be provided in next month’s issue.

Happy New Year

Something to think about

Years ago, anthropologist Margaret Mead was asked by a student what she considered to be the first sign of civilization in a culture. The student expected Mead to talk about fish hooks or clay pots or grinding stones.

But no. Mead said that the first sign of civilization in an ancient culture was a femur (thighbone) that had been broken and then healed. Mead explained that in the animal kingdom, if you break your leg, you die. You cannot run from danger, get to the river for a drink or hunt for food. You are meat for prowling beasts. No animal survives a broken leg long enough for the bone to heal.

A broken femur that has healed is evidence that someone has taken time to stay with the one who fell, has bound up the wound, has carried the person to safety and has tended the person through recovery. Helping someone else through difficulty is where civilization starts, Mead said.

We are at our best when we serve others.


Mark K. Wallace
Class of 1987

Mark Kenneth Wallace

Mark Kenneth Wallace passed away peacefully, surrounded by his family on November 28 at his home in Jacksonville, Florida, after a courageous battle with pancreatic cancer.
Mark was born on June 10, 1969 in Saint Lambert, Quebec. He attended Chambly County High School there and went on to earn a bachelor's degree from Laurentian University in Sudbury, Ontario.

Mark returned to the Montreal, Quebec area and married Josée Boudreau in 1994 and they welcomed two children, Kelsey and Matthew.

Mark began his professional career at the Canadian National Railway Company's (CN) headquarters in Montreal, Quebec in 1995 and spent over 15 years there in various roles, ultimately ascending to the position of assistant vice president of Public Affairs.
After leaving CN in 2010, Mark and his family moved to the greater Toronto area where he worked as head of Investor Relations for Husky Ignition Molding Systems and later as a client partner at Longview Communications.

Mark then joined the Canadian Pacific Railway (CP) in 2012 in Calgary, Alberta where he spent four years serving as vice president of Corporate Affairs and Chief of Staff.
In 2017, Mark moved to Jacksonville, Florida to hold a number of senior positions at CSX until ultimately becoming executive vice president of Sales and Marketing before stepping into a strategic support role in 2021 while he underwent cancer treatment.
Mark was an active member in the community, spearheading CN's support for children's hospitals across Canada by raising millions of dollars through the CN Miracle Match program. He was instrumental in CP's support of heart health across North America. Mark most recently served on the Board of Directors of Wolfson's Childrens Hospital in Jacksonville, Florida.

Mark is survived by his dearly beloved wife of 27 years, Josée Boudreau; his treasured children, Kelsey and Matthew; his mother Dale Morrison; sisters, Kathryn (Bill Toohey), Sharon (Yves Paquette); brother, Peter (Susan Galardo); mother-in-law, Gisèle Lachapelle (Serge Pigeon); brothers-in-law, Marc Boudreau (Nancy Daigneault), Pierre Boudreau; and, many nieces and nephews. His father, Frederick Ross Wallace, preceded him in death.

The family will hold a private memorial service to celebrate Mark's life. Donations can be made in lieu of flowers in Canada to the Cedars Cancer Foundation for Pancreatic Cancer, and in the U.S. to the MD Anderson Cancer Center through Mark's memorial page, or to Wolfson Children's Hospital at wolfsonchildrens.com/give

Published on December 11, 2021

And Finally...

What’s in a Name

Best friends graduating from medical school at the same time decided they would open a practice together to share office space and personnel.

Dr. Smith was the psychiatrist and Dr. Jones was the proctologist; they put up a sign reading:

Dr. Smith and Dr. Jones: Hysterias and Posteriors

The town council was livid and insisted they change it.

The docs changed it to read: Schizoids and Hemorrhoids

This was also not acceptable so they again changed the sign to read Catatonics and High Colonics - no go.

Next they tried Manic Depressives and Anal Retentives - thumbs down again.

Then came Minds and Behinds - still no good.

Another attempt resulted in Lost Souls and Butt Holes - unacceptable again!

So they tried Nuts and Butts - no way.

Freaks and Cheeks - still no good.

Loons and Moons - forget it.

Almost at their wit's end, the docs finally came up with:

Dr. Smith and Dr. Jones - Specializing in Odds and Ends

Everybody loved it!


Statistically 6 out of 7 dwarfs are not Happy

My neighbour knocked on my door at 2:30am this morning, can you believe that, 2:30 am?
Luckily for him I was still up playing my bagpipes.

Paddy says “Mick, I’m thinking of buying a Labrador. “
“Don’t do it” says Mick “have you seen how many of their owners go blind?”

My girlfriend thinks I’m a stalker.
Well she’s not exactly my girlfriend yet.

Postal workers get no respect

There was a man who worked for the Post Office whose job was to process all the mail that had illegible addresses.

One day, a letter came addressed in a shaky handwriting to God with no actual address. He thought he should open it to see what it was about.

The letter read:

Dear God,

I am an 83 year old widow, living on a very small pension.

Yesterday someone stole my purse. It had $100 in it, which was all the money I had until my next pension payment.

Next Sunday is Christmas, and I had invited two of my friends over for dinner.

Without that money, I have nothing to buy food with, have no family to turn to, and you are my only hope.

Can you please help me?


The postal worker was touched. He showed the letter to all the other workers. Each one dug into his or her wallet and came up with a few dollars.

By the time he made the rounds, he had collected $96, which they put into an envelope and sent to the woman.  The rest of the day, all the workers felt a warm glow thinking of Edna and the dinner she would be able to share with her friends.

Christmas came and went.

A few days later, another letter came from the same old lady to God. All the workers gathered around while the letter was opened.

It read:

Dear God, 

How can I ever thank you enough for what you did for me? Because of your gift of love, I was able to fix a glorious dinner for my friends.

We had a very nice day and I told my friends of your wonderful gift. 

By the way, there was $4 missing. 

I think it might have been those bastards at the post office.  


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