I Hadn’t Seen My Addict Father in Years—Then I Ran Into Him on the Street

Two weeks ago, I was back in my hometown of Sault Ste. Marie in northern Ontario. I was there for a week that was bookended by two separate weddings of childhood friends. In between the nuptials I spent my time ambling around the recovering steel town, soaking in feelings of nostalgia and The National-style melancholy.

During one of these joint-assisted strolls, I was fantasizing about running into my dad, who still lives in the city.

Comic-Con hits 50: from fandom hotel basement celebration to greedy Hollywood hangout

The sprawling convention today draws Hollywood A-listers like Arnold Schwarzenegger, Patrick Stewart and the cast of “Game of Thrones” to its frantically hyped panels, where billion-dollar franchises are launched.

But the first iteration — the brainchild of an unemployed 36-year-old comic collector and his five teenage acolytes — drew just 100 people to a seedy hotel basement down the road in March 1970.

Radio silence: how the disappearance of rural stations takes America’s soul with them

At a time when local newspapers are vanishing, the loss of a radio station leaves a community with another cultural and informational deficit

Quentin C. Aanenson – Unsent Letter to Jackie: December 5, 1944

Dear Jackie,

For the past two hours, I’ve been sitting here alone in my tent, trying to figure out just what I should do and what I should say in this letter in response to your letters and some questions you have asked. I have purposely not told you much about my world over here, because I thought it might upset you. Perhaps that has been a mistake, so let me correct that right now. I still doubt if you will be able to comprehend it. I don’t think anyone can who has not been through it.

I live in a world of death. I have watched my friends die in a variety of violent ways…

Sometimes it’s just an engine failure on takeoff resulting in a violent explosion. There’s not enough left to bury. Other times, it’s the deadly flak that tears into a plane. If the pilot is lucky, the flak kills him. But usually he isn’t, and he burns to death as his plane spins in. Fire is the worst. In early September one of my good friends crashed on the edge of our field. As he was pulled from the burning plane, the skin came off his arms. His face was almost burned away. He was still conscious and trying to talk. You can’t imagine the horror. 

So far, I have done my duty in this war. I have never aborted a mission or failed to dive on a target no matter how intense the flak. I have lived for my dreams for the future. But like everything else around me, my dreams are dying, too. In spite of everything, I may live through this war and return to Baton Rouge. But I am not the same person you said goodbye to on May 3. No one can go through this and not change. We are all casualties. In the meantime, we just go on. Some way, somehow, this will all have an ending. Whatever it is, I am ready for it.

Quentin