Bob Newhart immeasurably raised the public image of driving instructors when he unveiled his famous monologue about those brave souls who “face death in a thousand ways and never know if they will return home at night”. In 1955 I started my summer job, driving the famous white Joe Vine Diving School cars with their dual controls around Winnipeg, and Bob Newhart understood. “No, Mr. Wishard, you can’t make a left turn on this street”. I spoke quietly but tensely, holding my side of the dual steering wheel. “That is a one-way street”. “But the cop just made the turn”, he shouted back, still putting all his energy into trying…

David and I met at Tim Horton’s where we had our regular coffee and every morning we compared notes about our activities and interests. He was a photographer by hobby and truck driver by profession. He had a lively sense of humor and a pleasant smile that spread easily over his bearded face. The conversation, on this particular Monday, now a long time ago, had been friendly and casual until he said, “I was saved at a Billy Graham Crusade meeting. Ever since then I have been plagued by feelings of guilt”. That got my full attention on that rainy day and we ordered another cup of coffee. “That is…

After it was established that we had been in the same class seventy years before in our prairie town, he began to tell me his story of the intervening decades after that long-ago grade six experience. His name was Neil and I remembered him playing soccer on one of our in-house teams. He now lived in Vancouver. He had been a moderately successful heavy equipment sales rep, he said, but he had met a new colleague who far outpaced him in salesmanship. He began to observe his new friend and was fascinated by his uniquely unorthodox style. My old buddy began to tell the story while we were sitting in…

The Uber driver seemed discouraged by his present immigrant circumstances. His new family, bright kids, showed promise while he was seeing himself as poor with little promise of the life he had imagined when leaving the poverty, crime, and political instability in his own country. He was near tears.  “Can I tell you a story?” I asked.   “Of course,” he replied.  My parents came to this country just shy of a hundred years ago, destitute, I began. They were young with two children.  By just days they had evaded the grip of the NKVD and Communist Russia where my father was on the party blacklist because he was a teacher…

The old couple, still very much in love, were sitting on their sofa as I entered their home. They were holding hands as their story came out bit by bit. They had been lovers when he went off to war where, as sergeant, he led his company off the landing craft and onto Juno Beach. What was left of his group eventually followed the tanks in the breakthrough into France. The iron ring on his little finger indicated that he had, after the war, completed his profession training. After their marriage they had designed and built their beautiful home in which they had now lived for fifty-two years.  The walls,…

Bob Newhart immeasurably raised the public image of driving instructors when he unveiled his famous monologue about those brave souls who “face death in a thousand ways and never know if they will return home at night”. In 1955 I started my summer job, driving the famous white Joe Vine Diving School cars with their dual controls around Winnipeg, and Bob Newhart understood. “No, Mr. Wishard, you can’t make a left turn on this street”. I spoke quietly but tensely, holding my side of the dual steering wheel. “That is a one-way street”. “But the cop just made the turn”, he shouted back, still putting all his energy into trying…

David and I met at Tim Horton’s where we had our regular coffee and every morning we compared notes about our activities and interests. He was a photographer by hobby and truck driver by profession. He had a lively sense of humor and a pleasant smile that spread easily over his bearded face. The conversation, on this particular Monday, now a long time ago, had been friendly and casual until he said, “I was saved at a Billy Graham Crusade meeting. Ever since then I have been plagued by feelings of guilt”. That got my full attention on that rainy day and we ordered another cup of coffee. “That is…

After it was established that we had been in the same class seventy years before in our prairie town, he began to tell me his story of the intervening decades after that long-ago grade six experience. His name was Neil and I remembered him playing soccer on one of our in-house teams. He now lived in Vancouver. He had been a moderately successful heavy equipment sales rep, he said, but he had met a new colleague who far outpaced him in salesmanship. He began to observe his new friend and was fascinated by his uniquely unorthodox style. My old buddy began to tell the story while we were sitting in…

The Uber driver seemed discouraged by his present immigrant circumstances. His new family, bright kids, showed promise while he was seeing himself as poor with little promise of the life he had imagined when leaving the poverty, crime, and political instability in his own country. He was near tears.  “Can I tell you a story?” I asked.   “Of course,” he replied.  My parents came to this country just shy of a hundred years ago, destitute, I began. They were young with two children.  By just days they had evaded the grip of the NKVD and Communist Russia where my father was on the party blacklist because he was a teacher…

The old couple, still very much in love, were sitting on their sofa as I entered their home. They were holding hands as their story came out bit by bit. They had been lovers when he went off to war where, as sergeant, he led his company off the landing craft and onto Juno Beach. What was left of his group eventually followed the tanks in the breakthrough into France. The iron ring on his little finger indicated that he had, after the war, completed his profession training. After their marriage they had designed and built their beautiful home in which they had now lived for fifty-two years.  The walls,…

Bob Newhart immeasurably raised the public image of driving instructors when he unveiled his famous monologue about those brave souls who “face death in a thousand ways and never know if they will return home at night”. In 1955 I started my summer job, driving the famous white Joe Vine Diving School cars with their dual controls around Winnipeg, and Bob Newhart understood. “No, Mr. Wishard, you can’t make a left turn on this street”. I spoke quietly but tensely, holding my side of the dual steering wheel. “That is a one-way street”. “But the cop just made the turn”, he shouted back, still putting all his energy into trying…

David and I met at Tim Horton’s where we had our regular coffee and every morning we compared notes about our activities and interests. He was a photographer by hobby and truck driver by profession. He had a lively sense of humor and a pleasant smile that spread easily over his bearded face. The conversation, on this particular Monday, now a long time ago, had been friendly and casual until he said, “I was saved at a Billy Graham Crusade meeting. Ever since then I have been plagued by feelings of guilt”. That got my full attention on that rainy day and we ordered another cup of coffee. “That is…

After it was established that we had been in the same class seventy years before in our prairie town, he began to tell me his story of the intervening decades after that long-ago grade six experience. His name was Neil and I remembered him playing soccer on one of our in-house teams. He now lived in Vancouver. He had been a moderately successful heavy equipment sales rep, he said, but he had met a new colleague who far outpaced him in salesmanship. He began to observe his new friend and was fascinated by his uniquely unorthodox style. My old buddy began to tell the story while we were sitting in…

The Uber driver seemed discouraged by his present immigrant circumstances. His new family, bright kids, showed promise while he was seeing himself as poor with little promise of the life he had imagined when leaving the poverty, crime, and political instability in his own country. He was near tears.  “Can I tell you a story?” I asked.   “Of course,” he replied.  My parents came to this country just shy of a hundred years ago, destitute, I began. They were young with two children.  By just days they had evaded the grip of the NKVD and Communist Russia where my father was on the party blacklist because he was a teacher…

The old couple, still very much in love, were sitting on their sofa as I entered their home. They were holding hands as their story came out bit by bit. They had been lovers when he went off to war where, as sergeant, he led his company off the landing craft and onto Juno Beach. What was left of his group eventually followed the tanks in the breakthrough into France. The iron ring on his little finger indicated that he had, after the war, completed his profession training. After their marriage they had designed and built their beautiful home in which they had now lived for fifty-two years.  The walls,…

Bob Newhart immeasurably raised the public image of driving instructors when he unveiled his famous monologue about those brave souls who “face death in a thousand ways and never know if they will return home at night”. In 1955 I started my summer job, driving the famous white Joe Vine Diving School cars with their dual controls around Winnipeg, and Bob Newhart understood. “No, Mr. Wishard, you can’t make a left turn on this street”. I spoke quietly but tensely, holding my side of the dual steering wheel. “That is a one-way street”. “But the cop just made the turn”, he shouted back, still putting all his energy into trying…

David and I met at Tim Horton’s where we had our regular coffee and every morning we compared notes about our activities and interests. He was a photographer by hobby and truck driver by profession. He had a lively sense of humor and a pleasant smile that spread easily over his bearded face. The conversation, on this particular Monday, now a long time ago, had been friendly and casual until he said, “I was saved at a Billy Graham Crusade meeting. Ever since then I have been plagued by feelings of guilt”. That got my full attention on that rainy day and we ordered another cup of coffee. “That is…

After it was established that we had been in the same class seventy years before in our prairie town, he began to tell me his story of the intervening decades after that long-ago grade six experience. His name was Neil and I remembered him playing soccer on one of our in-house teams. He now lived in Vancouver. He had been a moderately successful heavy equipment sales rep, he said, but he had met a new colleague who far outpaced him in salesmanship. He began to observe his new friend and was fascinated by his uniquely unorthodox style. My old buddy began to tell the story while we were sitting in…

The Uber driver seemed discouraged by his present immigrant circumstances. His new family, bright kids, showed promise while he was seeing himself as poor with little promise of the life he had imagined when leaving the poverty, crime, and political instability in his own country. He was near tears.  “Can I tell you a story?” I asked.   “Of course,” he replied.  My parents came to this country just shy of a hundred years ago, destitute, I began. They were young with two children.  By just days they had evaded the grip of the NKVD and Communist Russia where my father was on the party blacklist because he was a teacher…

The old couple, still very much in love, were sitting on their sofa as I entered their home. They were holding hands as their story came out bit by bit. They had been lovers when he went off to war where, as sergeant, he led his company off the landing craft and onto Juno Beach. What was left of his group eventually followed the tanks in the breakthrough into France. The iron ring on his little finger indicated that he had, after the war, completed his profession training. After their marriage they had designed and built their beautiful home in which they had now lived for fifty-two years.  The walls,…

Bob Newhart immeasurably raised the public image of driving instructors when he unveiled his famous monologue about those brave souls who “face death in a thousand ways and never know if they will return home at night”. In 1955 I started my summer job, driving the famous white Joe Vine Diving School cars with their dual controls around Winnipeg, and Bob Newhart understood. “No, Mr. Wishard, you can’t make a left turn on this street”. I spoke quietly but tensely, holding my side of the dual steering wheel. “That is a one-way street”. “But the cop just made the turn”, he shouted back, still putting all his energy into trying…

David and I met at Tim Horton’s where we had our regular coffee and every morning we compared notes about our activities and interests. He was a photographer by hobby and truck driver by profession. He had a lively sense of humor and a pleasant smile that spread easily over his bearded face. The conversation, on this particular Monday, now a long time ago, had been friendly and casual until he said, “I was saved at a Billy Graham Crusade meeting. Ever since then I have been plagued by feelings of guilt”. That got my full attention on that rainy day and we ordered another cup of coffee. “That is…

After it was established that we had been in the same class seventy years before in our prairie town, he began to tell me his story of the intervening decades after that long-ago grade six experience. His name was Neil and I remembered him playing soccer on one of our in-house teams. He now lived in Vancouver. He had been a moderately successful heavy equipment sales rep, he said, but he had met a new colleague who far outpaced him in salesmanship. He began to observe his new friend and was fascinated by his uniquely unorthodox style. My old buddy began to tell the story while we were sitting in…

The Uber driver seemed discouraged by his present immigrant circumstances. His new family, bright kids, showed promise while he was seeing himself as poor with little promise of the life he had imagined when leaving the poverty, crime, and political instability in his own country. He was near tears.  “Can I tell you a story?” I asked.   “Of course,” he replied.  My parents came to this country just shy of a hundred years ago, destitute, I began. They were young with two children.  By just days they had evaded the grip of the NKVD and Communist Russia where my father was on the party blacklist because he was a teacher…

The old couple, still very much in love, were sitting on their sofa as I entered their home. They were holding hands as their story came out bit by bit. They had been lovers when he went off to war where, as sergeant, he led his company off the landing craft and onto Juno Beach. What was left of his group eventually followed the tanks in the breakthrough into France. The iron ring on his little finger indicated that he had, after the war, completed his profession training. After their marriage they had designed and built their beautiful home in which they had now lived for fifty-two years.  The walls,…