"I SEE DEAD PEOPLE"

At some point in the past two decades, I streamed The Sixth Sense. It must have been a dreary day, probably while I was living in isolation on British Columbia’s Sunshine Coast. It’s not really my type of movie. What sticks with me is an image of teary, traumatized ten-year-old Haley Joel Osment saying, “I see dead people.”

 

Now, in 2026, I can say the same thing. I’m not sure if sixty-one-year-old me is any more composed.

 

Dang social media. My problem these days involves Facebook and Instagram. I’ve fallen into some irksome algorithm that gives me a daily dose of the deceased. 

At first, it was an AI novelty. Each day on Facebook, there would be images of the cast of a movie or TV show from decades ago. The “then” image of Little House on the Prairie’s Melissa Gilbert would be joined sitting on a bench alongside her “now” image. “Then” Melissa Sue Anderson would meet her “now” self. I would linger for the nostalgic stirrings linked to a ’70s series that I watched weekly during childhood, back when there were only three channels to choose from. I’d smile when Alison Arngrim appeared. She played the unlikable Nellie on Little House, but I’d sat a pew away from her at a pro-LGBTQ church in L.A. during the early ’90s. A good person, it seemed, in real life. I’d see then-and-now Matthew Labyorteaux who played adorable Albert. (Still adorable.) 

But then there would be Michael Landon, his “now” image appearing with white angel’s wings, followed by angel versions of Mr. and Mrs. Oleson. Landon died too soon, as we tend to say, at the age of fifty-four while Mr. and Mrs. Oleson (actors Richard Bull and Katherine MacGregor) lived until eighty-nine and ninety-three, respectively. 

 

The next day, it might be the cast of TV’s Knots Landing or Angie or the movie The Lost Boys. Usually, I’d pause and let the whole reel play, intrigued enough to see what Joan Van Ark and Michele Lee look like today and, yes, morbidly curious over who has died. There were surprises and sad reminders. Oh, how I loved Doris Roberts in Angie but so much more so in Everybody Loves Raymond.

 

I’d become tense during each reel, bracing for whose AI image would don angel wings. Being as I’d scroll through Facetime while I was groggy and still had bedhead, it was a downer of a way to begin the day. I knew I needed to shake off the sudden knowledge that Eight Is Enough’s Adam Rich, aka Nicholas Bradford, died in 2023 and the reminder that Malcolm-Jamal Warner from The Cosby Show died last year from accidental drowning, but somehow that felt disrespectful, too. How could I go out and grab an oat milk latte at a local café and write on as if these posts about celebrity deaths could be brushed off as some perverse form of entertainment?

Thankfully, my favourite series, The Mary Tyler Moore Show, never came up since everyone but Joyce Bulifant (Murray’s wife, Marie) and Lisa Gerritsen (Phyllis’ daughter, Bess) would have angel wings. Too much death even if it was a show that debuted fifty-six years ago.

 

This nostalgic novelty became too much for me. I’d scroll past and beg the algorithm to recognize how quickly I skipped over these posts. Please, no more angel-winged celebs in my daily feed! There was no benefit. Did I really need to see what Michael Gross, the dad from Family Ties, looks like today? (No angel wings…whew.) 

 

During the past couple of weeks, Facebook, Instagram and Twitter seem to have upped the posts regarding famous people who have died. Some of it may have been stoked by the fact Lindsey Graham and Sam Neill trended for days after their deaths. These social media platforms picked up on the fact that the public was curious about certain dead people, whether beloved or reviled. Suddenly, it seemed that other posts were being boosted regarding deaths of folks who’d had some time in the public eye…a band member from a group I’d never heard of, a player for the Blue Jays in the ’90s, TV and big screen actors whose time in the spotlight preceded my birth. 

 

I can see the operators of Facebook and Instagram frothing and running their hands together, back and forth. They want dead people…we’ll give them dead people!

 

But, gosh, please count me out. All this death gets me thinking of my own demise. It’s a terrible way to start the day, making me want to climb back up the stairs—I can still do that—and hide under the covers.

 

There are many days when I still feel like I’m in my thirties. Other days, that is but a wish. But whatever the sentiment of the day, I’d like to think I’m a couple of decades away from saying, “All of my friends are dead.” Maybe I’m kidding myself. By golly, I’ve already outlived Michael Landon, Malcolm-Jamal Warner and little Nicholas Bradford! Perhaps it’s a good time to update my will.

 

Three days ago, I got another Google Alert that another one of my namesakes had died. (That’s what I get for having a common name. I’ve died countless times and been arrested for heinous crimes.) 

 

Let death be off the table for this week. Let me scroll really, really fast past any announcements and tributes. Let the algorithm determine I’m a cold, heartless man who doesn’t want to mourn and has no propensity for nostalgic downturns. I know that, on average, 150,000 to 180,000 people in the world die each day—oh, dear, what will Googling that do to my social media feeds?!—but let me put my head in the sand, ignoring all that loss just like I’m ignoring the lingering pain in my right knee from Saturday morning’s jog. Let me be vibrant and alive. Let me pretend I’m thirty-four…or thirty-nine and a half. Let me spend the next seven days blissfully ignorant of any new activity in The Grim Reaper’s logbook. Bring back that video with a moose traipsing through a sprinkler! Show me more recipes with cottage cheese as a main ingredient in entrees (blech). Allow me to “like” my friend David’s new speedboat in peace.

 

Let me live without death seeming like it’s lurking everywhere. 

HOME OR AWAY

“It’s so nice to be home.” I hear so many people say it. It feels like I’m supposed to say it, too. But my mind is muddled.

 

Even under normal circumstances, I’m not sure I can make the expected statement. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve discovered how much I love to travel. My partner, Evan, calls me Gulliver. Most often, it feels I’d rather be away than at home—even with the glitches that come and only feel worse when in unfamiliar places. On this most recent stint away from home, Evan and I dealt with three days of flight cancellations in New York City and I had car issues on remote areas of highways far from any significantly populated locale. (When I finally took my car to a dealer in Denver, they quoted me $6,000 in repairs. The book value of my aging Mini Cooper isn’t even that much!) 

 

I returned to Vancouver three days ago after two months and three days away. Admittedly, I felt relief when I crossed the border, reentering Canada after so much time in the U.S. It wasn’t the politics that I was glad to be away from; rather, it was the steep exchange rate that made me squirm every time I bought a coffee—or anything—on American soil. My bank account has taken a huge beating…even without shelling out money for all the “needed” car repairs. 

 

I both smiled and groaned as the stations on my car radio suddenly played an inordinate number of Canadian songs. Canada has laws requiring that 35% of music played is Canadian. Not only does that mean continuing airplay for classics by Alanis Morissette and Corey Hart, but there are also mediocre ditties by acts that are entirely unknown in any other country. 

 

I felt shame, sadness and anger as I neared my condo in what is known as Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside where unhoused people camp out on sidewalks and people with serious drug addictions openly use lighters and glass bubble pipes to get their next high. Trash is strewn all over. Even passing through Portland and Seattle on the way back—cities reputed to have similar problems—the scope of this crisis appears so much greater in Vancouver, a place that regularly ranks high on lists of Most Livable Cities.

 

Bryce Canyon National Park

As I unloaded the car and unlocked my door, there was no smile. Not once since I’ve been back have I thought, “I’m so glad to be home.” At first, I thought it was just because I was exhausted from five days of driving back from Colorado, a journey that still managed to include exploring three national parks and a significant detour to do a jog on a favourite beach on the Oregon Coast. 

 

Pure joy comes from jogging
Nye Beach on the Oregon Coast.

Except for that darned exchange rate and the fact that living out of a suitcase grew tiresome (socks and underwear seemed to get sucked into the deepest, darkest depths of my Samsonite), I’d rather be in Colorado still. 

 

Biking back in Vancouver

It’s not because I think Colorado is better than British Columbia. I have a clear preference for being in Canada where everything feels more understated and where my introverted nature doesn’t seem to stand out as a “problem.” I have established routines here that I discovered help me be more productive as a writer. Yesterday morning, I arose at sunrise (5:15 a.m.) and hopped on my bike to cycle around the city’s crown jewel, Stanley Park, as three cruise ships entered the harbour. I only had to share the seawall with the occasional jogger and oblivious Canada geese. I extended my ride through False Creek, past Granville Island and into the more pristine neighbourhood of Kitsilano, stopping a few times to snap pics of flowers in bloom that I hadn’t seen while I was away. Yes, I enjoyed the excursion and appreciated the city. That had been the point. I needed to create my own Welcome Back boost. 

 

Meeting a couple of Evan's
new neighbours

But still, my head and heart continue to think of Colorado. Of course, it’s because that is where Evan lives. During my two months in the state, he transitioned to a new job which required a stressful housing search and a move from Denver to the Roaring Fork Valley, an area best known for the resort town of Aspen. I knew this move was a possibility in the fall and, at that time, I came across a CNN article which stated that Aspen was the most expensive place to live in the U.S. Evan lives twenty-five minutes away in another charming small town, but the move resulted in a raise in his rent and a significant downsizing with sixty percent of his belongings going into storage after giving away so many other possessions. 

 

Fitting in a hike after 
Evan's workday

This is the second time I’ve helped Evan move from one place to another in Colorado. This latest move felt so much bigger. The move a year and a half ago had only been several hundred feet, from a shaded apartment to one with more sunlight and a balcony. Being there for most of the process this time made it seem like our move. It’s his place, to be sure. While I had a shelf in the bedroom closet and another in the kitchen at his Denver apartment, I only left four shirts on hangers in his new studio. There simply isn’t room for me to leave more. 

 

Biking the local canyon

Still, that little studio, so beautifully adorned with a more curated collection of All Things Evan, feels more like home than my loft space in Vancouver. I was settled there for only nine or ten days before the long road trip back, but Evan and I tried out a Thai restaurant on Main Street (four blocks from his home), ate twice at a Middle Eastern place and stocked up on plants from the local nursery. I checked out several coffee shops as possible writing spots, I worked out with the locals at the rec centre and I biked up and down the valley, getting to take in the area in more intimate ways than one can ever do in a car. With one main roadway running through the valley, I already feel more grounded there than I ever did in Denver. I like it better, too…for the more scenic bike paths, for scenery in general and for the fact that I have a clear picture of Evan’s life there until I get to return in October.

 

Yes, three days back and I’m already looking ahead. As small as it is, that charming studio apartment feels like where I belong.   

DON'T RUSH ME

I love a good bargain. But I’m not sure how I feel about saving three bucks yesterday. 

 

As it turns out, some of my father rubbed off on me. He probably wouldn’t believe it. As a kid, I hated how thrifty he was. He worked his whole life as a doctor and, from a very young age, I knew we were privileged. We had a pool in the back yard, a ski boat at our cottage and we travelled from Ontario to Florida for two weeks every March. Still, my father would go out of his way to find restaurants where kids ate for free. We’d eat at Howard Johnson’s on Wednesday nights because they had all-you-can-eat clams. (Nothing made Dad prouder than when we’d ask for more.) He insisted on being in charge of grocery shopping and, on his rare days off, he’d spend half the day driving around town, hitting five grocery stores, stocking up on what was for sale at each place. 

 

During my teens, my mother would take my siblings and me clothes shopping and the sale racks were always the first stop. To my parents’ frustration, I’d turn my nose up at anything marked down. I figured if the price had to be slashed in order to get the item out of the store, there had to be something wrong with it. Why would I try on things that people didn’t want? To this day, I can’t stomach going to factory outlet malls. I still contend things marked down in a Tommy Hilfiger outlet store were never ever on a rack in a regular store and were never ever offered for the “original” sticker price. I’ve had friends and exes, however, who’ve gone bug-eyed shopping in outlets, holding up a hideous sweatshirt in clashing colours, exclaiming, “Look! It’s 70% off!” 

 

Suckers, I say.

 

Still, I can be stingy with my money. I walk extra blocks to avoid meter parking. I know where to find the cheapest gas in town. Much of what winds up in my grocery basket is on sale and, yes, I stock up when that is the case. I know the prices of most things I regularly buy and I often do without particular food purchases until the items are on sale. Except when it comes to clothes, saving money brings satisfaction. 

 

So when I showed up to do a gym workout at the recreation centre in Evan’s new town, I expected to pay ten dollars. As a compulsive gym goer even when I travel, I know ten bucks is a decent price in terms of drop-in fees. (I’ve paid as much as thirty for a day pass in places like New York City and Toronto. Fifteen to twenty seems to be the going rate.) When I stepped up to the counter at the entrance, the young person I presumed to be a high school student working a summer job told me the fee was seven dollars. 

 

Huh. I was pretty sure I’d seen the rate posted as ten dollars when I went to the website. Maybe it was her first day and she was confused. Maybe I was the one mistaken, confusing the pool drop-in fee for the gym fee. Whatever the case, I tapped my card, smiled and proceeded to the gym floor. I was happy but still cognizant of the fact that, before Evan’s move from Denver last week, I went to the gym for free since his old apartment building had a spacious, well-equipped facility. Was I saving three bucks or was I seven out of pocket?  

 

Working out at any gym for the first time goes slower than normal. I have to navigate the space. What leg machines to they have? Where are the dumbbells? Are weights stated in pounds or kilograms? Why don’t they have a fly machine? I’m also not used to the people presently working out. I watch them more, picking up on the gym etiquette, trying to stay out of the way of the regulars who no doubt don’t want their routines interrupted as I search in vain for the second fifty-pound dumbbell. 

 

All this meant my mind was plenty distracted while I worked out until I was finished with the weights and sitting on an exercise bike. As I pedalled, I thought more about my seven-dollar entry fee. I felt sure I hadn’t been mistaken about seeing the rate as ten dollars online. Did they run a special on Mondays? Did the young worker just feel like making her own rules? After all, my greeting had been friendlier than usual. Perhaps I’d been rewarded for my kindness. 

 

And then an awful thought hit me. Maybe I had been given a special rate, but not on account of it being Monday. What if they had a discount rate for seniors and she’d taken one look at me and decided I was an oldster? No ID check, no questions asked at all. What if she’d concluded I was obviously over sixty-five?!

 

Half an hour before going to the gym, I’d gotten a long overdue haircut. Later in the day when Evan came home, he immediately said, “The cut takes ten years off you.” So basically, even after a possibly younger looking haircut, I still looked 65+. 

 

Yes, I will admit that I have serious issues about growing older. I won’t be one of those people resorting to Botox and plastic surgery simply because I’m squeamish about anything medical. I have a history of fainting. I avoid knives and needles at all costs. So basically I have to rely on a very unscientific finger crossing and hope I will look young for my age.

 

I recognize that, to a seventeen-year-old summer employee, everyone over forty looks old. And, as someone who is sixty-one, I must look really old. Quite possibly, ahem, sixty-five. 

 

Still, I drove into town first thing this morning and bought blond mustache and beard dye to mask my white facial hair for the next five days or so. I am vain enough to be okay with dyes…no knife nor needle involved.

 

Even better, the dye was on sale. My father wouldn’t understand the whole hair colouring business—a totally unnecessary expense—but I’d like to think he’d be proud I didn’t get duped into paying full price. Let there be some value in that.

 

Before lunch, I opened the dye kit and generously brushed the goop into my beard, mustache and sideburns. I showered to rinse it out while washing my hair with Go Blonder conditioner. After a light lunch—low-fat yogurt and granola—I headed to the gym. Behind the counter sat a guy in his early twenties. When I told him I wanted to pay for a gym drop-in, he said, “Ten dollars” and pressed a few buttons so I could make payment with my credit card. Three extra dollars today, a forty-three percent increase. I smiled broadly after tapping the machine. Sometimes a bargain is just not worth it.