‘Twas my first COVID Christmas. My suite felt like a tomb.

Neither tree lights nor angels got rid of the gloom.

My face masks lay scattered in every direction,

Lined with filters of carbon for extra protection.

The protocol list had been followed with care,

With the odor of sanitizers filling the air.

I soon found myself almost asleep,

Counting numbers of hand washes, instead of sheep.

Then just at the time I was starting to snore,

I heard at my suite door a clamorous roar.

Though still in my pjs, I peered out in dread,

At a bearded old man who was dressed all in red.


“My name is Saint Nick, and the reason I’m here,

Is your grandkids should know there’s no Christmas this year.

So Facetime Gus/Eva/Ana in Norway and say,

‘The assortment of presents that I already mailed on,

Should be saved ’til next Christmas if the virus has gone.’”

Then before I could speak, he was turning around,

Taking the elevator down with nary a sound. 

I climbed back in bed, but couldn’t sleep at all,

Because of a noise that I heard down the hall.

When I checked what it was, there was no need to ask,

Joe Biden was there with his shades and a mask.


“I hear Christmas is cancelled, and your family is sad,

But here is some news, that should make you glad,

For four years our country has been in a slump,

So on January 20th, we’re going to dump Trump!

Because of this man, the whole world is grouchy,

Especially the scientist, Anthony Fauci,

Anti-maskers and vaxxers will soon sing the blues,

Because Biden is coming, and that’s not fake news.”

I tossed and I turned for the rest of the night,

After Biden, with Harris, had faded from sight,

That left me aflutter, though with nothing to fear,

But I wondered and pondered who else might appear.

THE GHOST OF CHRISTMAS YET TO COME-Canadian Prime Minister Justin Trudeau

Then I heard a voice, saying, “It will only cause trouble,

If you get close to people who are not in your bubble.”

Keep six feet apart, to avoid germs systemic.

Don’t be an idiot; let’s defeat this pandemic.

A vaccine is coming, which should ease your frustration,

But until it arrives, practice self-isolation.

Heed Dr. Tam’s advice, it will help ease the pain,

Then your life as you knew it, will return once again”.


Stay hopeful and healthy, this nightmare will end,

And your days can be spent with more than one friend.

Soon this darkness will vanish, replaced by the dawn,

And your memories of COVID will soon be all gone.

This grandmother is hoping next year will be bright,

So we can worship in church on a Christmas Eve night.

Now with a wink of my eye, and a twist of my head,

This American-Canadian is off to my bed!

Gayle Moore-Morrans

(with thanks to David Carter, for permission to adapt and paraphrase

his original poem: Christmas Spirits-2020.)



The old saying goes: Laughter is the best medicine. In addition, sometimes the strangest things can help one make, or accept, important, even life-altering, decisions. So we found out a few weeks ago. As a result, a new expression has become significant in our lives.

“Get Stuffed!”


First a bit of back-story. I (Gayle) grew up in an American-English speaking environment. To me the term “get stuffed” meant that one was preparing to overeat. Only after moving to Canada in my forties did I learn that “get stuffed” is a British colloquialism meaning, in the politer sense, “go away” or “get lost” or, in the cruder sense, “piss off” or worse. I became aware of the term while enjoying the satirical rants of Scotsman Jock McBile of CBC TV’s Royal Air Farce fame. Jock McBile, one of the most beloved alter egos of the late comedian John Morgan, was a mutton-chopped, kilt-and-sporran-clad curmudgeon, leaning on a cromach and using a thick burr to sarcastically and comically comment on current political and cultural happenings. His frequent climax to any dismissal of the antics of those whose actions met his disapproval was to tell them to “get stuffed!” as he marched off stage, menacingly brandishing his cromach. After marrying my own feisty Scotsman some 14 years ago, there were times when I wondered if Jock McBile’s cousin had come to live with me!


Now, what in the world does that have to do with me making or accepting life-altering decisions? If you have followed my blog, you will know that I started it to publicize the writings of my Scottish-born husband Ian and the books that he and I have produced over the past years. Recently, progress on future publications has slowed as Ian’s health has deteriorated. I’m struggling to continue with editing future books since care giving is taking up most of my time. As things settle down a bit with the provincial palliative care that has recently begun, I’m looking forward to finding more time to get back to editing our next book, Came to Canada, Eh? Continuing a Scottish Immigrant’s Story and, hopefully, progressing to other of our unpublished writings. But first, let me relate our most recent adventure.

Ian had a check-up with his GP to assess if his breathing distress (that had increased after his inoperable rectal cancer diagnosis in September) was being helped by a month’s dosage of morphine and whether it was time to curtail some of the other medications he has taken for other serious long-term medical problems like heart disease, a history of small strokes, peripheral neuropathy, GERD, hypertension and dementia. As the cancer would eventually be terminal, did he need to keep on all the other medications to prevent serious complications from other diseases? In other words, has all the medication become overkill? Ian is content to leave these decisions to me. (A daunting task indeed.) However, I already have lost my late husband to early onset Alzheimer disease and multiple small strokes, so have a bit of perspective to aid me. At the moment I’d prefer Ian not have a stroke that could cause paralysis so I could no longer care for him at home with palliative care until or near the end (which we would both prefer). So we opted for him to stay on Warfarin to aid in preventing a stroke, even though it adds to the bleeding from the incurable rectal cancer.

Next it was time for the clinic’s nurse to administer an annual cognitive test to decide whether Ian should keep on the dementia-slowing drug that he has been on for the last three years. His memory continues to worsen but the regression has slowed on the medication – a luxury that my late husband didn’t have as the drug wasn’t yet on the market when he needed it. Our nurse started the familiar test and I could see that Ian’s awareness of time had deteriorated since last year – “What year is it?” (“Well, it’s later than 1932.” – Smart Aleck – that is his birth year!) “Do you know what month we are in?” – (“Spring?” – hardly!) He could follow sequential verbal directions to take a piece of paper, fold it and place it on the ground, but only remembered one of the three words he had been given and then later asked to recall. “Truck,” readily came to mind but he had no recollection of “velvet” and “church” which he had repeated multiple times just minutes before. He correctly answered a few questions involving numbers and did not do too poorly in copying two geometric figures on a second paper. Then came the last assignment: “Write down a sentence, please.” I smiled thinking of what Ian had written last year. “I love my wife.” This time he readily jotted down a two-word sentence, handing it to the nurse with a smirk. She let out a hoot when she read: “Get stuffed!” There was a twinkle in his eye, though, so we saw it as a touch of sarcastic humour and not a nasty protest at the process.

Ian’s score was only a point below last year’s so I thought he should keep on the drug rather than taking a chance of his memory and abilities getting worse at a faster rate, even though this could also add to his bleeding. The medical staff thought differently, though, and recommended a trial period of 10 days off the drug to see if its absence made a difference. Those 10 days did not go well, however, as Ian had a growing number of disturbing hallucinations and worsening memory. As I still had about a month’s worth of the medication on hand, I started him back on it and will be monitoring him before we see the doctor again to assess whether to continue it. After only a few days, I’m encouraged that the hallucinations have lessened, though I’m not sure about the memory.


As irascible as he gets at times, I’d like to keep my old sassy Scotsman around awhile longer if possible. I’ve also started to tell him to “get stuffed” a few times when he gets carried away. That usually brings a chuckle, followed by a cuddle, which helps to alleviate the grumbling. Here Ian is a few years ago, all decked out to sing at the Okanagan Military Tattoo when he was still able to walk with the help of a cane (instead of a cromach).

Ian summed up his “get stuffed” afternoon with: “If you have a choice, it’s better to laugh than to cry.” The day following his medical exams he was so exhausted after our outing that he hardly got out of bed. At least it gave me some time to do some creative writing and fuel another blog post.

As difficult as care giving is, I’m determined to help Ian in these last years (or months) to make life as positive as possible and try to keep myself healthy and productive at the same time. Thank God for palliative care that offers growing support, as it becomes needed, and for the love and concern of family and friends.



What encouragement old friends can bring, even those who live far away. A recent letter came from Friedemann, a dear friend from my days living in Germany in the 1960s and ‘70s. He had recently lost his wife, Maria (another beloved friend) to cancer and was writing to comfort me after hearing of Ian’s cancer diagnosis. His profound words bear repeating:

“I am really grateful to you for keeping in touch with me and now with the follow-up news on Ian’s health crisis which will no doubt continue to occupy you both. I was sorry to hear that surgery is no safe option for Ian and do hope and pray that he remains without pain and comfortable and that you can both continue to live your interesting lives together.

“I seem to detect a note of optimism in your account–but then you always had what is basically a positive attitude to life, and although I have never met Ian, from your letters I have the impression that he is a person who prefers to see the bright side of life, too–a very healthy attitude (that I sometimes wish I had more of). Perhaps that’s one of the reasons why Maria and you always got along so well, way back in the Heidelberg days. You both might have had good reasons for complaint in your lives, but you always managed to see the silver lining: a result of being embedded in your faith?

“Anyway, I do hope you can both find something to look forward to and enjoy each day. I often think of the petition in the Lord’s Prayer, ‘Give us this day our daily bread’, i.e. give us today what we need just for today (and tomorrow we will ask again).

“A month or so before Maria died she wrote an article for a magazine in which she quoted a poem by a German cabaret artist, writer, author of children’s stories and actor who died in 2005, Hans Dieter Hüsch. The poem apparently appealed to her way of thinking–I imagine also to yours and Ian’s—(In German–which you presumably still read? ):


Ich bin vergnügt, erlöst, befreit.

Gott nahm in seine Hände meine Zeit,
mein Fühlen, Denken, Hören, Sagen,
mein Triumphieren und Verzagen,
das Elend und die Zärtlichkeit.

Was macht, dass ich so fröhlich bin
im meinem kleinen Reich?
Ich sing und tanze her und hin
vom Kindbett bis zur Leich.

Was macht dass ich so furchtlos bin
an vielen dunklen Tagen?
Es kommt ein Geist in meinen Sinn,
will mich durchs Leben tragen.

Was macht, dass ich so unbeschwert
und mich kein Trübsinn hält?
Weil mich mein Gott das Lachen lehrt
wohl über alle Welt.

Hanns Dieter Hüsch


“In English (roughly!):

I’m cheerful, redeemed, set free.

God took my time in his hands,

my  feeling, thinking, hearing, speaking,

my triumphs and despondencies,

the anguish and the tenderness.


How come that I’m so cheerful

in my own small domain?

I sing and dance to and fro

from the cradle to the grave.


How come that I’m so fearless

on many gloomy days?

A spirit comes into my mind

that seeks to carry me through life.


How come I’m so light-hearted

and no gloom has hold on me?

Because God teaches me to laugh

at the whole world no doubt.


“So I hope God continues to give you both your daily bread and brighten your life for as long as God sees fit.

“Cheers and the very best of wishes.

(nicer in Latin: Pax et gaudium–et fortitudo = peace and joy–and strength!)”



001-Location Writing Participants

Gayle is still glowing from a sunny, warm and stimulating morning of LOCATION WRITING, a new experience for her as it was for her two companions, Miss P and Patricia. The occasion, which all three hope will be the first of many, is open to other writers in the Vernon, British Columbia area who may wish to join them in the future. Award-winning local author of the “Mighty Orion” novels, Patricia Donahue encountered Gayle and her friend Miss P at a local coffee shop last week. During the conversation that ensued, Patricia and Gayle lamented the demise of the Vernon Writer’s Group they had both attended last year. Thus was born the idea of starting a new group that would experiment with location writing, meeting once a week at various local venues to write and maybe even discuss their pieces. Topics could pertain to the venue being visited, or they could be about whatever the writers might wish to pursue. They decided to make it as relaxing and experiential as possible with no set agenda. What ensued in their first trial was fun and inspiring. The venue was the Kukhia Cherry Orchard in the BX area of Vernon, on the heights overlooking Swan Lake. Patricia’s invitation was worded as follows:


 Writers of every level are invited to experience writing on location, or Location Writing.

 This is a free opportunity to write as you are inspired by your surroundings:

shapes, colours, smells, breeze, view  …

 A casual experiential 2 hours outdoors in nature. A different location each week.

 Bring writing materials – retro? write with a pencil …write using calligraphy …  coloured pens …

July 30th, 10 – 12 noon Be Chekovs in the Cherry Orchard !!


Here is Gayle’s take on the day.

I awoke full of expectation, wishing that my husband Ian would join us for the location writing, but knowing that he was not at his best in the mornings, had pretty well retired from writing and would choose to stay in bed. Since this first session was to be in a cherry orchard, I had to wear my new t-shirt ablaze with cherry-themed “bling.” I also made our morning wake-up smoothies using cherries as an ingredient. Finally heading for the orchard, I picked up my friend at her house and was glad to have her along as she knew the BX area of Vernon a lot better than I did and we found that Patricia’s directions were not exactly accurate.

The orchard was a stimulating venue for writing – rows of trees laden with lush, ripened cherries that grew in thick clusters like grapes – something I wasn’t expecting. We took some pictures while listening to distant voices of U-pick enthusiasts climbing the ladders scattered along other rows and filling their pails. Soon, though, I dismissed them from my mind as we “writers” set up our chairs at various shady spots along one long path between rows of heavily laden cherry trees, just at the edge of the orchard with a fence separating us from a neighbouring apple orchard.

So the writing began! Later we were surprised to find that none of us wrote what we had expected we would write.  Patricia had been prepared to write poetry using coloured calligraphy pens. Instead she filled a couple of torn pages by comparing Chekhov’s iconic play, The Cherry Orchard with what she had gleaned from the orchardist’s life story. He had emigrated to Newfoundland from East Asia at age eleven, spoke with a “Newfie” accent and eventually came to own this wonderful cherry orchard in BC.

When my friend, Miss P had told me about Patricia’s plans, I had responded, “Well, I’m certainly not going to write poetry. I’m not really into that.” To my surprise, I began to write a journaling-type poem about my day. My “bling” t-shirt had inspired me to see the orchard and its surroundings as jewels.

Miss P related that she had initially written some prose about the orchard and then she read us a play-on-words poem using cherries as a metaphor! Very clever!

I certainly enjoyed sharing our quite unique and differing works. For what it’s worth, here’s my poem:

Location Writing – A Gem

by Gayle Moore-Morrans

What a shiny, glorious day!

Soon I will be on my way.

Dressing for an orchard fling,

Donned my shirt with “cherry bling.”

Spun yogurt, banana, peach and cherry,

Smoothies for Ian, more sleepy than merry.

Kissed husband “goodbye”; though writer, too,

He’d rather sleep than write. What’s new?!

Soon my KIA was in motion,

Picked up Friend. What true devotion!

The directions, though, were somewhat flawed,

We found the place, ere nails were gnawed.

Worried now, Patricia had to wait,

Apologetic she made us late.

All forgiven, we parked, unpacked,

Greeted orchardist. No enthusiasm lacked.

Through the rows and rows of trees,

We found some shade and watched the bees

Flitting through the long, jade leaves.

Ah, we loved the God-sent breeze!

Sparkling sky of sapphire blue,

Glistening gems of cherries, too,

Hanging there in ruby clusters

With all the brilliance they could muster.

My blingy shirt, the gem-like fruit,

and nearby topaz apples to boot,

All make me feel that life’s a jewel.

Leaving here will be too cruel!

“Location writing” isn’t really tough,

It’s like a diamond in the rough!

 Photo highlights of the day:


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Three very different writers hard at work:

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Home at last. Sharing the morning and some cherries with the family in our shady gazebo and sunny back garden.

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Ian 81 Bday cake

We celebrated IAN’S 81ST BIRTHDAY on May 2, 2013 with three other couples who have become very good friends to us since we moved to Vernon five years ago. Here we’ll share a few photos from the party, including one of friend Fernando accompanying us as we sang “Happy Birthday” to Ian. Usually our parties are centered around singing. This party centered around writing, with the theme  “Birthday Limericks.” We suggested that the limericks could center around one of Ian’s favourite things such as writing stories, singing, all things Scottish, his love of dancing or his favourite drinks – Scotch whisky and  good white wine.

LIMERICKS are a special kind of poem. Usually they have a five line cadence with a pattern of AABBA (in other words, the first, second and fifth lines rhyme and have the rhythm dah DAH, dah dah DAH, dah dah DAH; while the third and fourth lines rhyme and have the shorter rhythm dah dah DAH dah dah DAH. Ian is a fan of poetry ONLY when it rhymes. In fact, he claims a poem isn’t really a poem if it doesn’t rhyme. Therefore, the limerick is his favourite kind of poetry.

Bday Boy

Inspired by a fellow blogger (Flammeusgladius aka Tom Riley) Gayle had asked our guests to each write a limerick for Ian as a birthday gift. In thanks Ian has come up with the following limerick. For anyone who isn’t familiar with the Scottish use of the term “the noo”, that means “now” or “at the present time.”

Thanks to all for your limericks true

Heartfelt greetings from all of you.

You can tease, you can praise

And your glasses you raise.

but I’ll stick with coffee, the noo.

Gayle had corresponded with blogger Tom Riley prior to the birthday and, true to form as he puts his whole blog (Flammeusgladius)  into limerick form, he came up with this post on his blog for Ian’s birthday:

Birthday Dram

by flammeusgladius

(for Ian Moore-Morrans)

It’s with joy, and with no trace of sorrow,

That, upon an occasion I borrow

From your family, I drink

This Scotch neat.  And I think

You should add a new birthday tomorrow.

So here are the rest of Ian’s birthday limericks for your enjoyment:

From wife and editor Gayle:GayleIan Bday 81

Dear Ian, you’ve turned eighty-one.

Who says you’re too old to have fun?

We can sing, we’ll sip wines;

And we’ll both write some lines.

And that’s why I love you so, Hon!

From friend Nita:

Now we know that Ian’s Scottish.

As a dancer he was “hottish.”

He’d quick step; the girls would cling,

Then he’d do the Highland Fling.

But tell me, did he ever dance the Schottishe?

From our friend and accompanist Fernando:

Fer playing Happy Bday

Hey, Ian, I will play for you piano.

As long as in my ear you do not bellow.

Gayle has warned me, you sing loud.

When you entertain a crowd.

So go easy now, it’s better to sing mellow.

From Eric (a fellow Scotsman):

He wears a kilt

and sings wi’ a lilt.

He wears a tam

and likes a wee dram.

Now he and his lass

they are top class.

So sing for me

a tune that I luv

A song of my land

And that is “Misty Island.”

 (Note: “Misty Islands of the Highlands” is Ian and Gayle’s favourite song to sing together as a duet.)


From Patch:

Life of Ian

First poverty, then military.

The young Scottish millwright did marry.

Lived all over Canuck land.

Chased Incas with Gayle in hand.

Now as author in Vernon he’ll tarry!


From Gail (and Bill):

A task I’ve been handed for Birthday Boy Ian

He’s the best Scotch drinker that I’ve ever se-en

He’ll top up that glass

While he calls for his lass.

If I got paid for this, it’d be pretty le-an!


There’s Ian the Birthday boy in the kilt

When you hear him talk, there’s a wee bit o’ lilt.

He does talk to the dog

Then falls asleep like a log.

It just must be the way he is built!


If a young Scotsman moved across an ocean

Would it be Ian and would he have a notion

To work really hard and sing when he could

Perhaps write a book and make it real good

Then later drink a Scotch whisky potion?


OK, so we’re not pros at this limerick writing and maybe our meters and rhyming schemes were sometimes a bit of a stretch. But we really had fun and the topics were all very appropriate. We were happy, Ian was happy — what more could we ask for?  A good time was had by all! Once again, Happy Birthday Ian.