Five years ago, Abhay Singh Sachal and a group of his Grade 10 classmates at Seaquam Secondary School in Delta, B.C., made their first video call to the Arctic. On the other end of the line: Abhay’s 23-year-old brother, Sukhmeet, a volunteer teaching assistant, and his class at East Three Secondary in Inuvik, N.W.T. The conversation started with typical teen small talk—asking each other about TV shows, music and school life. But as the teens grew more comfortable, the chat turned serious. Students in Inuvik detailed the legacy of residential schools on their families, including stories of alcohol abuse and suicide. Seaquam kids shared how they felt helpless to do anything about the threat posed by the climate crisis.

Soon after both groups said their goodbyes, the brothers had an idea: what if the conversation, meant to expand the students’ perspectives about life outside their hometowns, didn’t have to end? Students across the country, they figured, could continue to benefit from bridging geographical and cultural differences. They called their organization Break the Divide. Today, it facilitates conversations and coordinates community action between youth all over the world. “It all starts with empathy,” Abhay says.

The students at Seaquam used social media to spread the word about their mission to create eye-opening conversations. Other schools began reaching out, and Break the Divide helped them to start their own chapters, providing resources, such as a list of guiding questions to get the conversation started, and technical tips for video calls. Individual chapters are encouraged to connect with each other based on common big-topic interests, such as mental health, truth and reconciliation actions, and climate change. There are now over two dozen Break the Divide chapters, located across Canada and at schools as far-flung as Taiwan and Bolivia.

A few years ago, students in Cape Town, South Africa, formed a chapter. They wanted to talk about their local water crisis, which had reached a critical level. Meanwhile, students at Abhay’s school were interested to learn more. After their conversation, Abhay’s classmates started a campaign challenging people to conserve water as though the Cape Town crisis were their own. “It goes from little conversations,” says Sukhmeet, “to the big ones.”

Maryam Haroon knows first-hand how powerful that change can be. She joined her school’s Break the Divide chapter three years ago, as a Grade 10 student in Surrey, B.C. Haroon says talking to youth around the world pushed her to gain perspectives beyond those offered in a traditional high school curriculum. She eventually became her school’s chapter president and organized two mental health awareness events, focusing on the challenges of isolation and depression—especially relevant during the pandemic. Now 18 and a student at the University of British Columbia, she continues to volunteer for the organization. “I envision Break the Divide as a new kind of social network,” she says. “It’s a platform that empowers people to connect and then do whatever they’re passionate about.”

Last year, Abhay and Sukhmeet secured funding from Canada Summer Jobs to hire their first employees, enabling them to develop an app that will act as a social platform to connect Break the Divide chapters worldwide. Hundreds of conversations later, the brothers are still optimistic that the core principle of Break the Divide—empathy—can play a central role in how youth tackle the issues that matter most to them. “I hope that we can be part of creating a world where we are all listening to each other,” says Abhay. “Listening with an intent to learn and to change.”

Next, check out how a mentorship program in Toronto is helping vulnerable youth succeed.

I was raised on a mixed farm in the Swan River Valley of Manitoba during the boom years after World War II. I was the third eldest in a family of six boys—no girls. My mom always lamented that she wanted to have a daughter, and that probably explains why my two youngest brothers were born.

We were all expected to help out around the farm with whatever needed to be done. My mom was no exception as she worked at any job necessary, while raising us six boys. While there were seven males on the farm, Mom was the organizer and taskmaster, who made sure everybody did their share according to their age.

In my thirteenth year, an event occurred that in hindsight would dramatically alter how I viewed my mom.

It was a hot summer day and we were busy baling hay for our horses and cows for the winter. As usual, my dad drove the tractor with our square baler and hay rack attached behind it. One of my older brothers, Lorne, and I were assigned to stack the bales on the rack as we went up and down the field. My eldest brother, Leonard, driving our other tractor, was responsible for taking the full rack to our bale shed while dropping off the rack that he had just emptied. Mom remained at home looking after my three younger brothers. She was also there, however, to help Leonard offload the full hay rack as quickly as possible to help keep everything running smoothly. This routine continued all day and into the evening.

About 8 p.m., we finished the field and thankfully headed home after a hard day’s work. The day’s chores were quickly wrapped up while Mom busily prepared a big supper for all of us at the house. We then all sat down to a hearty meal, of course served by Mom. After supper, we boys all took turns having a bath—the annual 4-H day at the Swan River Fair was the following day and three of my brothers and I were marching in the parade at 10 a.m. Mom cleaned up the table and did the dishes by hand. By 10 p.m. we were all exhausted and ready to get to bed.

Around 1 a.m., I awoke to use the bathroom. As I staggered through the kitchen on my way there, I was bewildered to see that the lights were still on. On my way back I stopped, intending to turn them off. To my utter amazement, there was Mom with her back to me busily ironing. On the table were four neat piles of clothes, including our matching uniforms for the parade. Too tired to care, I simply went back to bed.

The next morning dawned and at 7 a.m., we all got up, ate our breakfast and picked up our pile of clothes to get dressed for the fair. Excited by the prospect of the day ahead, we gave little thought at the time to how smoothly everything went as we headed out the door.

It was several years more before I fully realized the significance of what I had witnessed that night: Mom had demonstrated more clearly than any words could have, what the love of a mother means.

Next, check out these beautiful Mother’s Day quotes.

If These Walls Could Talk…

A story in the June-July 2018 issue of Our Canada, called “Who Will Tell the Story,” by Sandy Morton inspired me to share the story of an old farmhouse near Schuler, Alberta, where my husband, George, grew up.

In 1910, three brothers left their home in Scotland to begin a new life in Canada—Jock, Tom and Davy. Their older brother (also named George) had come to southern Alberta ten years earlier. The south was well settled by 1910, so the three brothers had to look for homesteads north of Calgary, where they each took up two quarter sections of land, side by side. The land was poorer than the rich land to the south, but there were no trees to chop down, stumps to remove or big rocks to contend with. Soon, portions of each quarter section were cultivated as required by The Homestead Act. The yield was okay during those early years, but then the First World War began and the lads felt compelled to go back overseas and fight for Britain. They drew straws to decide who would remain to work all three farms. Jock got the shortest straw, so Tom and Davy went back and joined up.

Crops were good during the war years, but when the war ended, only Davy returned as Tom had been killed in the fighting. Davy was wounded and could no longer farm, but he stayed with Jock. Tom’s land was sold.

The ensuing years were good and Jock built a huge barn for his ten horses, with a loft to store hay. He fell in love with a girl from Minnesota, Margaret, who was visiting her brother in Schuler. The couple was married in February 1921, and Jock had a grand house built for his bride (above left), with two rooms on the ground floor and two bedrooms on the second floor. They turned the original homestead shack into a chicken house, and began a mixed farming operation. Jock and Margaret also planted a caragana hedge around the house, which is still alive almost 100 years later, with very little care given to it.

Jock and Margaret had three children, including my husband George, and the family had several good years on the farm. But then came the Dirty Thirties with its notorious dust bowl wind storms, grasshopper plagues and crop failures. (Here’s what it was like during the record-breaking heat waves of the ’30s.)

The family managed to hang on, however, and by the time the Second World War began, their crops were doing well again. There was still no electricity or running water, but a telephone was installed. The horses were sold and a tractor and machinery were bought. Neither of Jock’s sons were interested in farming, so when Jock was too old to farm, he and Margaret moved to Medicine Hat and operated the farm under a crop-sharing agreement.

Most of the old farm buildings have been taken down, but Jock and Margaret’s house still stands (above right). My George inherited the old place and bought his uncle Davy’s half section from his estate, uniting the land into one farming operation like in the old days. The farm is still crop-shared.

Next, find out what it was like living in Saskatchewan in the 1930s.

I live just west of a little farming and oil-field town called Caroline, Alberta. I was born in Calgary but my parents moved our family to the half-section farm my grandparents owned just northeast of Caroline when I was only three years old. Growing up, I remember following my grandma around the farm, feeding the animals. My favourite was Trigger, an old white horse they had when my dad was a young boy. I remember feeding him his grain sometimes.

I started riding my auntie’s horse, Stoney, when I was ten years old. She kept him on the farm because she lived in the city. I didn’t own my own horse until I turned 16. One of the neighbours had a three-year-old filly they wanted trained, so she became my first project. They offered to sell her to me when, naturally, I fell in love with her. I bought her for $200. I’ve owned at least one horse ever since then; I own three at the moment.

My parents had friends who knew some people who owned race horses, so when I turned 19, I was introduced to them and went to work as a groom for a thoroughbred trainer at Stampede Park in Calgary. It was here I met my future husband, Larry. We worked for different trainers at first, but eventually ended up working for the same one—Don Gilkyson.

Larry and I started our family in 1994 and moved back to Caroline in 1996, where we raised our three daughters around the people and community I love.

This is where my horse Marshall (above, centre) comes in. He was a Mother’s Day gift to me two years ago. He is a three-year-old quarter horse and a class clown. I began training him this past summer, and he’s doing very well.

Marshall has two stablemates, which are both quarter horses as well. I’ve owned Piper (above, left) for 12 years. She is the one I taught my daughters how to ride on. Deejay (above, right) actually belongs to our youngest daughter, Lindsay. Deejay has been part of the family for four years now. I love them all dearly.

Next, check out the majestic wild horses of Alberta.

For the Love of the Game

I grew up in the tiny but mighty (back then) town of Hedley, British Columbia. The town’s two gold mines and two mills drew workers from around the world before, during and after the Great Depression.

Any boy who could skate could join the Hedley scrub hockey team in the late 1930s. With no official coaches, the boys’ abilities improved by playing shinny—not through drill practices. Some of the dads with previous hockey experience, and who showed up in town for mining work, volunteered tips at irregular intervals. Occasionally, even the company superintendent shared his hockey expertise. Other times, the butcher’s helper leaped onto the ice. The boys would shout, “Hey, Syd, show us how to do stuff.” He’d stickhandle, zoom around and shoot past the startled goalie. My brother Donnie would shout, “Hey! When Syd skates backwards, I can’t catch him!”

Syd would reply, “Okay, boys, let’s play the game. They’re fired up now.”

Adult volunteers would take turns refereeing, but they didn’t have to work too hard, as the ice had no blue line, red line, crease line—or any other lines. Any spot was a faceoff spot. Mostly, the referee whistled to signal time, or when the puck arced over the wooden fence. He’d ignore minor infractions. But body checking, checking into the boards, slashing, high sticking and fighting were disallowed because only the goalie, my other brother, Alex, could brag of having padding at company cost. He and a couple of others wore padded gloves. Otherwise, the boys’ uniforms consists of toques, sweaters and knitted mitts, as well as trousers with newspaper stuffed up the pant legs.

When Donnie, a right winger, took a turn at being captain, he goaded his teammates into playing harder and skating faster through any zone—his only offensive strategy.

The rink, of unknown dimensions, was built on a pond partially comprising runoff from the mill, and featured a couple of floodlights. The one penalty box gate opened onto a snowbank, which served as seating. But it was seldom used and there were few injuries because games were weekend “friendlies” with scrub teams and from neighbouring towns.

Family and friends, who attended evening home games without fail, stood ankle-deep in snow at the railings and whooped as loud as any Hockey Night in Canada crowd we’d hear on our static-filled mantle radio. A volunteer stood behind each goal and help up a hand when the puck slid, wobbled or flew into the net. Another volunteer scraped the ice with a makeshift Zamboni made of boards nailed to a two-by-four.

Our team’s trips to surrounding towns, Blackburn, Princeton, Copper Mountain and Keremeos, each no more than an hour’s drive away, were composed of car-pooling dads, the few who could afford a sedan big enough for players to cram into; coupes with rumble seats lose their appeal in sub-zero temperatures.

I recall my friend Finlay’s 1937 Hudson Terraplane with swooping fenders and a bulbous rear end, as well as my dad’s dented Ford with the cracked windshield. Frozen ruts beneath fresh snow showed their true nature when the cars skidded and fishtailed along narrow mountain roads. Flat tires were not unheard of.

The Hedley rink at the town’s heart thrived due to the skaters’ shack. Its worn benches lining the walls appeared plush to tired players and spectators alike. The potbelly heater full of cracking and spitting frost-coated wood warmed noses and toes. Some of the miners who rode the skip into town on weekends enjoyed the banter with rink rats of all ages. There were no flashing scoreboards, twirling towels or thundering music to celebrate our team’s win, just glowing hearts amid the falling snowflakes winking in the lights.

Next, read the heartwarming story of what it was like growing up with hockey in Durham, Ontario.

This story begins in the mid-1990s when my wife Jane Allen and I were living in London, Ontario. Despite living in Ontario, where either the Toronto Maple Leafs or the Ottawa Senators are usually front and centre, it did not deter me from being a number one Montreal Canadiens’ fan. To begin with, as a young fella, I remember listening to the Canadiens’ games on the radio with my dad. It was the 1940s, when Rocket Richard was taking off in his career—I was hooked. The Montreal Canadiens were my team from then on.

Anyway, back to London. My wife was in the air force and was posted to London at HMCS Prevost (a naval reserve division), while I, as a retired Army guy of 32 years, as well as being retired from a nine-year stint as a real estate consultant in Dartmouth, Nova Scotia, moved there along with our daughter, Amanda. We took every opportunity to explore the area and orientate ourselves in our new surroundings. One time at a yard sale, I noticed a sign that read “Montreal Canadiens Ave.” and I just had to have it. As soon as we got home, it was proudly displayed in our backyard.

In 2001, we left London and moved back to Nova Scotia—Truro to be exact. Jane retired from the air force after 27 years of service, and I retired (for the third time) from a security firm where I had worked for about four years. We moved into a home in Truro with a 100-foot double-car driveway—an ideal place to install my sign!

It just so happened that my birthday fell around that time and I received an identical sign as a gift. It looked even better now that I could display the same sign on both sides of the sign pole.

I received many comments about my sign from passers-by, however, not everyone around Truro is a Canadiens’ fan and I sometimes received warnings that the sign must go—all in jest of course. This was especially true during the playoffs; I cannot repeat what was hung on the sign the morning after a Canadiens’ loss to another team! For better or worse, my sign became a real conversation piece.

After five years, we sold our house and moved to an apartment, still in Truro, but that brought an end to enjoying my “Montreal Canadiens Ave.” sign being hung outside my home.

It was not the end of the sign itself, however. A close friend of mine, Jack Roy, a retired navy guy, loved the sign as much as I did. He and his family were also fanatical Montreal Canadiens’ fans so off it went to Harvey Station, New Brunswick. Regretfully, Jack passed away a few years ago and we all still miss him terribly, but the sign is still displayed in their Harvey Station home.

If you visit the Maritimes, as you approach Fredericton, look for the exit to Harvey, and follow that road for about 15 minutes. Eventually, you’ll come upon my old sign on the left-hand side of the road, at the entrance to their driveway—Montreal Canadiens Ave.

Next, find out what it was like growing up with hockey in Durham, Ontario.

From 1957 to 1964, I was a medical officer and general surgeon at the Grenfell Mission Hospital in St. Anthony, Newfoundland and Labrador. While there, I made numerous medical trips by sled dogs and snowmobile along the southern Labrador coast from Forteau to Red Bay. I preferred riding with the dog teams because it was a time of quiet reflection compared to the noise and cold winds on a snowmobile. An added plus to travelling with the sled dogs was that they don’t have mechanical breakdowns!

Stops were made at various small communities along the stretch of the coast, including the Point Amour Lighthouse. I always called on Jeff Wyatt, the keeper of the lighthouse, not only to check up on his health but to chat over a cuppa tea at his home. Among the many tales he’d relay to me, there was a time when the British naval vessel, the HMS Raleigh, ran aground at the Point in 1922. Jeff helped salvage the vessel and he brought home many artifacts from the ship.

A steep climb to the top of the lighthouse gives a spectacular panoramic view of the historic L’Anse Amour and Forteau Bay. During one visit, I turned to take in a final view of the lighthouse and snapped a photo with the sun behind the dome. Now hanging on a wall at my home, this photo serves as a reminder of wonderful times from the past.

In St. Anthony, there were clinic boats that were left on a dry dock during the winter. The Colonel Leonard was a vessel we used for local coastal medical calls where there were no roads. There was also a larger vessel named Maraval that was equipped with X-ray and medical supplies and equipment. It was used not only along the northern peninsula of Newfoundland but also on the Labrador coast for medical care and TB surveillance.

The surgical cases I encountered during my time in the operation rooms at St. Anthony’s ranged from the simple and mundane to the most unusually complicated emergencies. Our surgical team was experienced, well organized and our efforts brought gratifying results.

Accompanying me on my coastal visits to the communities was a nurse stationed at Forteau. She knew who the most critically ill patients were that I needed to visit first. Eventually, a clinic was set up where all the folks who wanted to see the doctor could go.

A lot of people would come to the clinic in need of a tooth repair or asking for an extraction, as there was no corrective dentistry during those times. I got tutored by the resident dentist at the St. Anthony Hospital, who taught me which forceps to use and how to give local anaesthetic injections.

The dental chair I used during those visits was actually a kitchen chair placed at the corner of the room by a window, with a coal oil lamp used as a light source. A pillow behind the head rest served as support. Those needing further medical care or evaluation were sent by the Mission aircraft back to St. Anthony.

Decades later, I’m still reminded of how welcoming the people of Newfoundland and Labrador are. This quality of theirs is known by all who come to visit or live there. The hospitality shown by the people of Gander after the grounding of aircraft during the 9/11 tragedies is just one wonderful example of the compassion and friendliness found in the province.

My wife Erma and I made our last trip back to “The Rock” in 1998. I should add that Erma and I met in St. Anthony while she was a school teacher at the Grenfell Elementary School. During our last visit, we visited the homes of old friends and of some of my former patients. We were greeted with open arms, and shed tears at our departure.

Next, read the heartwarming story of how one woman in Petty Harbour is bringing Newfoundlanders back to their fishing roots.

I got it. My husband Rich and I never wanted a dog either. We didn’t have them as children, and our children never wanted them as children. Dogs had bad breath, they never cleaned up after themselves, and we all had strong feelings about where they put their noses and what they did when we weren’t looking. Twelve years ago, while looking after my sister’s shaggy Havanese, Mojito, he ran away, ate a bird and then threw it up on our rug.

“We are never getting a dog,” I told Rich afterward.

But in the early days of the pandemic, doggies were everywhere and, unlike people, we could cuddle them. Dachshunds were our favourite. Rich found Glennie on Kijiji in March—half Chinese crested powderpuff, half dachshund. Translation: the mother was a long-haired beauty and the father was a scrappy escape artist.

We brought our darling, barely a kilogram, home to meet Joey. “She seems nice,” he said, giving her a cursory pat on the head, “but I don’t want a dog.”

He would come around. How could he not come around? We came around! He didn’t come around. He refused to have anything to do with her, even though she climbed all over him while we watched Jeopardy! and licked his feet and played with his socks.

We respected his boundaries, but one night, four months after Glennie had taken up residence in our Toronto home, Rich and I had dinner plans and Joey was getting picked up by three friends to go to a cottage. That meant there would be a one-hour window in which Glennie would have to be left at home alone. In preparation, Joey took her for a walk, picked up after her (progress!), then told her it was time for him to go.

When he opened the door to meet his friends outside, Glennie escaped. Joey took off after her, afraid she’d run into the street, and immediately tripped on the porch, ripping his chin open. Glennie ran back and jumped on his head. We rushed home and waited with Joey’s friends while he went to the hospital to get his chin examined.

Sitting in the living room, we looked curiously at the full laundry basket in the middle of the floor.

“Joey wanted to show off how Glennie chases her leash around the basket,” his friend explained. “He thinks she’s pretty cute.”

Probably not anymore, I thought. Joey came home, thankfully okay, his chin glued back together. No doubt it would take more than glue to get him and Glennie back together, though. He picked up his bag for the cottage and slung it over his shoulder.

“Let’s try this again, guys,” he said to his friends.

Glennie’s nails ticked shyly across the floor. Joey paused.

“Oh,” he said. “It’s you.”

Glennie licked his socks, trying to apologize.

“I’m okay,” he said to her, bending down and rubbing—not just patting—her head. “I really am. See you Monday, Glennie.”

Trope, meet true love? Maybe once Glennie learns how to do his laundry. Starting with his socks.

Next, read the heartwarming story of how a new puppy helped this family through the pandemic.

Among the remaining mysteries of breast cancer is a very basic one: its causes. It’s not unusual for women to develop this form of cancer without having a single one of the known risk factors.

Many of the breast cancer risk factors identified so far—particular genes, family history, late menopause, dense breast tissue and so on—are beyond your control. Nevertheless, there are a few preventive steps you can take.

How to Lower Your Risk For Breast Cancer

Drink lightly

Epidemiologic studies around the world have found that the more alcohol someone imbibes on a regular basis, the greater the increase in risk. “This link is quite well-established now, even though it’s not one of the cancer facts that’s getting much attention,” says Kevin O’Hagan, a spokesperson for the Irish Cancer Society.

Even two drinks a day increases the breast cancer rate compared to abstaining, though only by seven to 16 per cent. (By contrast, a BRCA1 gene mutation like the one Angelina Jolie carried can increase a woman’s risk by up to 2,900 per cent.) A possible explanation: alcohol raises estrogen levels, which promotes some types of breast cancer, while lowering levels of essential nutrients, like folate and vitamin A, that protect against cell damage.

Be wary of hormonal treatments

Extra estrogen and progesterone exposure are also the reasons why women should give careful consideration to hormonal treatments—including hormone replacement therapy and birth control pills. There is good news for pill users, however: a woman’s breast cancer risk returns to baseline levels by the time she’s been off the pill for about 10 years. For many women, one or both of these treatments might be worth the modest increase in breast cancer risk, given the benefits of contraception and menopausal symptom relief.

Move more

When it comes to gaining a modicum of control over your risk, staying active is key. Exercise’s protective effect against breast cancer requires further study, but research has shown that even as little as 2.5 hours of brisk walking a week could reduce the chances of developing the disease by around 18 per cent compared to a sedentary lifestyle. (Find out what happens to your body when you start walking 10,000 steps a day.)

Remember that breast cancer prevention management isn’t an all-or-nothing endeavour. Nobody lives risk-free, nor is that a realistic goal. But being aware of potential hazards means you can take action—getting mammograms before age 50, say—if you have several risk factors.

Now that you know how to lower your risk for breast cancer, find out 30 cancer symptoms you should never ignore.

Mandie Crawford is a Calgary-based behaviour consultant and president of Roaring Women Ltd., a women-in-business association. She has survived the empty nest several times, when her young children went to live with dad, then after they came back and left again as adults. “It’s never easy,” she says, “As parents we often bury ourselves so deep we forget to look at the big picture. I had to ask myself who I was apart from being a mother.”

Crawford, who teaches life skills and speaks about empowerment, advises parents to look at their empty nest as an opportunity. There is an undeniable feeling of emptiness once children leave and it is important to acknowledge it, she says.  But “the fact is there is also a much bigger community we belong to.”

Recognize there is no instant fix for empty nest syndrome

We are a quick-fix society, says Crawford. People want to feel better immediately and it just doesn’t work that way. Allow yourself to take all the time you need.

Reconnect with old friends and siblings

Crawford says that once their kids leave home, many adults tend to reestablish relationships with their own siblings. Your old allies can be your best allies in this new stage in your life.

Redefine yourself

We tend to go through life with labels that define what rather than who we are, says Gillian Leithman, who speaks to Montreal parents about the empty nest syndrome in her role with a retirement planning firm. She suggests you find out who you are beyond the title on your business cards and your role in your family.

Redevelop your relationship with your spouse

Take advantage of the increased time you have for each other, but recognize that the dynamics have changed and that while there are things you will do together, there are also things you will do apart, says Crawford. Talk openly about your expectations. Understand how you each view your relationship and find the balance between these two.

Find your passion

Take a course, volunteer, explore new hobbies or launch a new business. See your empty nest as the opportunity it is, advises Leithman.

Renegotiate your relationship with your child

Your baby might be gone but in her place is an adult with whom you can develop an equally strong but more mature and possibly deeper connection. Respect your child’s independence, says Leithman, and try to find new ways to connect: a date for lunch, perhaps a weekend trip together or maybe just a weekly chat via webcam.

Leithman says the best advice she can offer is to plan. This is a milestone event and preparation is everything. Interestingly, she finds that women tend to be more cognizant of this impending change and therefore better prepared. “Men don’t seem to acknowledge the transition as much and regret seems to be the major repercussion of that,” says Leithman.

Leithman also suggests that parents see this as the opportunity it is. “You have more time, more money,” she says. “Take advantage of it. Now your sole responsibility is you.”

Struggling with those “woulda, coulda, shoulda” thoughts? Don’t miss this expert advice on how to stop living in regret.