This Caption Corner pic was featured in the July issue of More of Our Canada. Kerrie Smith of Carleton Place, Ont., sent in the photo and writes, “This is my son, Grant, searching very hard for minnows at Murphys Point Provincial Park.”

Send your clever one-liners through the comments below or by sending it in through Our Canada’s submission site (please identify it is an entry for Caption Corner)!

Power in the Blood features several songs from your back catalogue, including “It’s My Way,” the title track from your debut album, which was released more than 50 years ago. Why revisit the past?
Most people grow up with the idea that things become obsolete. That’s just marketing. Good songs are good songs. I came up in the 1960s, when people were singing songs that were hundreds of years old. The reason they’ve lasted is the same reason an antique chair lasts: because people treasure it, because it’s beautiful, because it remains useful to several generations. 

You became known during a period when folk-based protest songs and popular music dovetailed. Is there space for songs of dissent in the current pop climate?
The ’60s were a special time. Students ruled and we were writing what was in our hearts and heads. With the Internet, I think it’s the closest we’ve been since then. The Internet is free right now. You can hear brand-new artists, music from the Mississippi Delta, people singing folk songs from Scotland. That’s how it was in the ’60s: a narrow window of opportunity for artists to communicate directly to people who wanted to hear what they were giving. To me, that’s beautiful. 

We’re at a watershed moment for First Nations issues in North America. When you hear, for instance, Stephen Harper saying that missing and murdered indigenous women are not “sociological phenomena”-
They’re not a sociological problem for him! It’s more like a nuisance when he has to hear about another dead Indian.

As a pioneering First Nations activist, what do you want to relay to the current generation of advocates? 
No. 1, don’t burn out. At the very least, you deserve a meal, a bed and a bath in your day. You have to take care of yourself or you’re not going to last and you won’t do any good for anyone. All it will be is an ego trip. Don’t do that.

It’s been five decades since you won Billboard magazine’s Best New Artist award-
And I’m still the best new artist!

You know, with the Grammys, there’s a so-called “Best New Artist curse”-musicians who win promptly fade into oblivion. Evidently Billboard doesn’t have the same problem.
You can’t take any of it too seriously. Part of the secret to my longevity in show business is that I have a life outside of it.

You’re in your 70s and obviously thriving. What’s your secret?
I live on a farm in Hawaii, and that allows me to do a lot of the work I really like. I have animals. I’m always outdoors. I have great organic gardens, and I grow food and give it away. Aside from that, I take ballet and flamenco classes. My natural carriage comes from dance, but it’s based on strength in my middle section that’s kept me healthy. You know the place right under your rib cage? I think that if you keep that strong, it’s just a godsend to the whole rest of your health.

Power in the Blood is available May 12. 

This Caption Corner pic was featured in the June/July issue of Our Canada. Sent in by Trevor Jones of Dundas, Ont., he writes, “Our daughter, Sharon, takes hundreds of pictures of wild birds while out birding and recently captured this finch enjoying a drink of tap water.”

Send in your funny one-liners through the comments below or by sending it in through Our Canada’s submission site (please identify it is an entry for Caption Corner)!

Maj Gagnon of Craig’s Flat, N.B., writes, “I found this item at a yard sale. It’s made of silver and opens and closes like an accordion. It also has a small container on one side. I have no idea what it’s used for. Help!” Do you have any ideas?

Submit your answers in the comments below or by sending it in through Our Canada’s submission site (please identify it is an entry for What Is It).

You begin your new book by saying that one day you woke up and you were 65. How did that happen?
Being bipolar means you tend to live in the now. I never thought of myself as old, even though I have seven grandchildren. And then it just hit me. I have a limited number of years in front of me-what am I going to do to make them wonderful?
The message of my book is, Let’s get ready. Let’s make a great legacy, a great final act.

You also talk about how women over 50 start to disappear, while men don’t.
We do-as much as we try to keep ourselves looking young by stretching our faces and puffing up our cheeks. We have a chance to change the world in a significant way by not becoming invisible-but we can also be aware of the benefits. I don’t mind not being the person everyone looks at when she walks into a room. I’ll never get catcalled again.

What is the one piece of money advice women over 60 need to know?
Get a financial adviser! Maybe we’re scared of being scammed, but most advisers are extremely reputable. Don’t try to go it alone thinking you’re a financial wizard.

You claim that Jack Nicholson, your former flame, would make an ideal partner. Care to expand?
He’s a charming rogue who values his privacy. Many women have reached the point where they don’t want another marriage if it means being back in the homemaker role. Finding a partner who wants romance, companionship and someone to travel with is more appealing than sharing a laundry basket.

Many Canadians feel they know you. To what extent does your public persona line up with your real self?
People always say to me with astonishment, “You’re just like you’ve always been.” Was I supposed to go through some metamorphosis? My life has changed many times, but I believe we each have our own spirit and that mine is open and warm. I love the position I’m in now, where I am able to make a difference as a mental-health advocate without having people watch my every move like they used to. First I was known as Pierre’s wife, now it’s as Justin’s mom. But I’ve had time to become myself in between those two roles. 

Speaking of Justin, there is a lot of talk about what he has in common with his father. What does he have in common with his mother?
His humanity, his personableness. Justin is very loving. His father had an extraordinary intellect but was shy about reaching out to people.

A year ago you said you had trouble imagining Justin at 24 Sussex. Do you still feel that way?
Oh, no. These huge things in life just take a little while to process. My concern is as a mother, because I worry about Justin’s safety and the safety of his family and I know the world they’re entering into. But I want all of Justin’s dreams to come true-and anyway, these days I’m more interested in his children.

The Time of Your Life: Choosing a Vibrant, Joyful Future is available now.

Ava Scarlett squinted, and a wrinkle formed on the bridge of her nose. It wasn’t a fair question, of course, but I was curious. And on one blazing day last summer, torturing my young daughter with existential questions seemed like just the way to spend an afternoon. As her mother, I have a solid sense of her true nature, but you can always learn new things about your child through how she makes the tough calls, by the words she chooses.

“So,” I asked, “which would you rather have? All the Barbies or all the cake?”

My daughter is seven years old, and like many kids her age, she has a red-hot love of Barbies. I sometimes wish she didn’t love them so much. I sometimes worry about what Mattel’s plastic princess and her straight, blond hair and unrealistic measurements will do to my biracial daughter’s developing psyche. But then I remember myself at her age, when I played with them, too. I look nothing like Barbie, and neither does Ava Scarlett, but I like to think I emerged from childhood relatively unscathed.

My daughter is seven years old, and like many kids her age, she is fascinated with cakes of all kinds. But it’s not about eating them-or not solely. She wants to be the person baking amazing shapes and colours, the one crafting elaborate decorations made of icing and fondant. She watches YouTube video after YouTube video with an almost religious fervour, winding her brown curls around an index finger by the glow of the iPad. Unblinking, her eyes shine as she watches chocolate get whipped into glossy ganache.

Ava Scarlett turned, staring at me intently with her answer in mind. And it was good. “Why can’t we have both and share with everyone who wants?”

My daughter always splits her cookie in two so her brother can have some. She offers me her last bite of cucumber, even though it’s her favourite vegetable. She scatters drawings and love notes around the house for everyone who lives here, sliding them under bedroom doors or leaving them on side tables. She wants us to know how much she cares for us-each of us. And those layer cakes, those madeleines, those rainbow-coloured confections? Once they’re out of the oven of her imagination, she makes her way down the list of loved ones who will get to have her dream cakes and eat them, too.

Truth be told, we don’t bake a whole lot in our house, not nearly as much as we talk about baking. But given the opportunity, Ava Scarlett is satisfied by the task of stirring. Today, it’s dinner: she has declared herself in charge of beating the egg in which we’ll dredge the chicken breasts before covering them in bread crumbs.

Carefully, she carries her little white chair over to the fridge. The chair isn’t heavy, and she’s now big enough to lift it easily-no more dragging it across the floor, no more scratching the finish, no more scolding. She’s got this.

Peering into the wire basket of brown and white eggs we keep in the fridge, Ava Scarlett has a question of her own.

“Can I choose any egg I want?”

“Of course.”

She takes a long moment. “I think I’ll choose a brown one, because I love my mother.”

I blink-Ava Scarlett often doesn’t want to acknowledge that she is also brown. I remember wanting to be a standard-issue Barbie when I was seven, too, which is really just a way of saying, “I don’t want to feel different.” My own mother, in an effort to encourage empathy, was quick to ask me to “imagine what that must feel like,” when discussing the day’s news. But I just wanted to fit in.

I give my daughter a quick smile and ask her to climb up on her chair and crack the egg into the glass dish. She does her best, then reaches in to pick out pieces of the tan shell I know she selected to express her love for me and our family. In this moment, I choose to accept her comment as a generous one. Ava Scarlett’s driving desire is for people around her to be as happy as possible. She wants things to be smooth. These days, though she’d rather be a Barbie than a brown egg, she’d never want me to feel abandoned by her. This little apple hasn’t fallen very far from my tree. It’s amazing what your children mirror back.

I hand Ava Scarlett a fork. “Did you know that eggs come in all kinds of colours? Different shades of white, different shades of brown, speckles. I’ve even seen pale-green ones. They’re all exactly the same on the inside, though. Just like people.”

“I know.”

“Okay,” I reply.

Ava Scarlett stops talking, grips the fork and focuses on beating the egg into a yellow froth. I can almost hear the gears in her head turning my words over and around. Of course, eggs are the same on the inside, just like people, she’s thinking. I know she understands this, but I will remind her as often as I can, as often as required.

Why can’t we have both and share with everyone who wants?

Like my mother before me, I want my child to try putting herself in others’ shoes. Empathy is a trait worth nourishing. To consider others-from how they feel to what they might want or need-is the kinder way to move about the world.

Ava Scarlett is generous and considerate, and I hope she’ll continue to be. I also want to make sure the act of giving isn’t wrapped up in a desire to be liked or to curry favour. My job is to reassure my Barbie- and cake-happy daughter that she’s enough, just the way she is, both brown egg and white.

John Nielsen of Portage la Prairie, Man., writes, “The big city really does have a heart! I snapped this photo from the upper level of a tour bus while visiting downtown Toronto.”

Send in your funny one-liners through the comments below or here (please identify it is an entry for Caption Corner)!

No electric mixer was as strong as my mom’s hands. Slipping her gold rings off with a clatter into a ceramic dish, she’d massage a mixture of flour, water and salt. Kneading the roti dough on the counter, she’d separate it into small orbs and flatten them into near-perfect triangles without a rolling pin. Then, with her short fingers and talon-like red nails, she’d pinch at the rotis and flip them directly onto the stove’s element.

“How do you do that?” I asked her, wincing at the heat hitting my eight-year-old face. “Doesn’t it hurt?”

She laughed and tossed the smallest of the batch, a palm-sized paratha, onto a plate for me. The tips of her fingers were callused and numb after decades of touching dir­ect heat. “Oh, you get used to it.”

I have a photo of my mom close to my age, 24, posing for a portrait a few months before she left India nearly four decades ago. When I was younger, I hated this snapshot. Everyone would marvel at how much we looked alike: thick mess of dark hair, round nose, strong chin. I have my dad’s cheekbones, his smile, like a straight line drawn across his face, but I got everything else from my mom-whether I wanted it or not.

I grew up surrounded by girls named Ashley and Jessica, with hair the colour of straw, beak-like noses and delicate abdomens. I wanted to look breakable and flimsy, rather than broad-shouldered and coffee-coloured like my mother. You likely know this, but it took me a while to figure it out: it’s difficult to change literally everything about the way you look.

The older I get, though, the more I see her all over my body. And the more I like myself. The skin on my shoulders feels like hers: as a child at the swimming pool, I’d climb onto my mother like a baby koala and rest my cheek on her cool, soft flesh. Our frown is the same, too-crumpled disgust settling right between our eyebrows. But most striking is how my hands are aging into hers. I’ve stolen countless of her rings, and I’ve started growing my nails out, long and circular, often painted red, glowing against my olive skin, just like hers have always been. The nerve endings in the tips of my fingers are dead from stove burns and from sticking my fingers directly into my attempts at rogan josh and aloo gobi.

My mom’s hair is a shock of grey now, and she has a small sunspot on her cheek (the same place I’m getting one, too-thanks, Mom). But in my head, she’s stuck in her 20s, in that photo. And the older I get, the more it’s an unexpected comfort to know that wherever I am, I see her somewhere with me, her hands wrapping over mine, making them our own.

Towering cliffs overlooking Georgian Bay

Being a neighbour can mean so much more than simply living next door to or around the corner from someone. Whether it’s the result of an act of generosity or a bond forged over years, neighbours can play an important role in our lives.

In our August issue, Reader’s Digest will publish a selection of memoirs about remarkable moments or relationships between neighbours.  For full details, click here.

* Text submissions should be between 50 and 450 words.
* Photo submissions must be large format (as large as available), 300 DPI, JPEG or TIFF, and include a description (max. 75 words).
* Deadline for submissions: April 24, 2015
* Publication date: July 12, 2015