Almonte, Ontario
February 6, 2026

Dear Reader,

Today – a dismal winter day – I obliged myself as usual to go for a drive in my automobile.  Initially I was hesitant, given the dull weather and the forecast for snow. But I persisted. I was pensive – even remorseful – so I had a lot to consider. I was feeling sorry for myself, off the map.  I summarily pondered past friendships and acquaintances, including those that one might romanticize with love and affection, feelings that I once had for others; but I quickly succeeded to translate the ambience to displeasure. It is, I find, relatively easy to denigrate past relationships that have dissolved.  There is psychiatric recommendation to do so, “Let bygones be bygones!” Nonetheless it is more abrupt than I prefer.  Which perhaps explains why I lingered upon the subject, as though there were some recipe to revive the nutrition. Yet once I convinced myself of the impropriety of the relationship, I fell upon it with a thud.

From this vexatious beginning, I commensurately subsided into wandering contemplation. Meanwhile I had figured how to conjoin the bluetooth symbol on the car dashboard with Apple Music.  I was treated to a succession of famous classical pieces which I listened to at full volume (having also lately maneuvered the sound controls to advantage). One of the performances was by Van Cliburn. Serendipitously the performance coincided with a video I had received only days ago from the proud grandmother of another young American.

The first International Tchaikovsky Competition in 1958 was an event designed to demonstrate Soviet cultural superiority during the Cold War after the USSR’s technological victory with the Sputnik launch in October 1957, although the field of pianists in the first edition of the Tchaikovsky competition in 1958 was only of regional significance. Cliburn had already won the Leventritt Competition in 1954, the most prestigious piano competition of the era, and had performed the Tchaikovsky Piano Concerto with the New York Philharmonic Orchestra in the following season, but Cliburn wished to participate in the cultural exchanges with the Soviet Union which emerged following the death of Stalin in 1953. Cliburn’s performance at the competition finale of Tchaikovsky’s Piano Concerto No. 1 and Rachmaninoff’s Piano Concerto No. 3 on April 13 earned him a standing ovation lasting eight minutes. After the ovation, Van Cliburn made a brief speech in Russian and then resumed his seat at the piano and began to play—to the surprise and delight of the Russian musicians visible behind him in the film made of his part in the competition—his own piano arrangement of the much-beloved song “Moscow Nights”, which further endeared him to the Russians. When it was time to announce the winner, the judges felt obliged to ask permission of the Soviet leader Nikita Khrushchev to give the first prize to an American. “Is he the best?” Khrushchev asked. “Yes.” “Then give him the prize!” Cliburn was to maintain a lasting relationship with the Soviet leader. Cliburn returned home to a ticker-tape parade in New York City, the only time the honor has been accorded a classical musician. He was hailed in the American media as the man who “beat the Russians at their own game” and restored the pride of America. Arriving at City Hall after the parade, Cliburn told the audience:

I appreciate more than you will ever know that you are honoring me, but the thing that thrills me the most is that you are honoring classical music. Because I’m only one of many. I’m only a witness and a messenger. Because I believe so much in the beauty, the construction, the architecture invisible, the importance for all generations, for young people to come that it will help their minds, develop their attitudes, and give them values. That is why I’m so grateful that you have honoured me in that spirit.

Complimenting this inner dialogue was an email I received from my dear friend Fiona who echoed my own sentiments today – but more buoyantly.

Toronto, Ontario
February 6, 2026

I don’t know about you, but I’m damn sick of winter and good grief, it’s only early February!  In keeping with my New Year’s resolution to find the funny in everything and because I have more time on my hands than usual, being housebound, courtesy of an over-abundance of snow and frigid temperatures (right now it’s -18C and is going down to -39C tonight), I’m concentrating on bringing out the smiles.  And speaking of smiles, I found a brilliant bit of poetry (see end of email) by one of Britain’s once, most-beloved comedians, Spike Milligan, who wrote the Goon shows for BBC radio back in the 1960s and where Peter Sellers got his start.  It was also the forerunner of Monty Python.

Actually, poetry seems to be my go-to stance today because I also found something that counterbalances the madness that passes for news these days and as I haven’t got the stomach to try and even make sense of the levels of insanity that seems to be on a continuous loop, here’s a little poem by Brian Bilston, also a Brit, with the title riffing on that well-known, though somewhat ironic Chinese saying:  “We live in interesting times” which goes a long way to summing up how I’m feeling…..

Praying for Uninteresting Times

Send me a slow news day,
A quiet, subdued day,
In which nothing much happens of note,
Save for the passing of time,
The consumption of wine,
And a re-run of Murder, She Wrote

Grant me a no news day,
A spare-me-your-views day,
In which nothing much happens at all.
Except a few hours together.
Some regional weather.
A day we can barely recall.

Brian Bilston

Oh, look who’s just arrived and is sitting all fluffed up on the edge of my desk waiting impatiently to dictate his thoughts. So unless I want to feel a sharp tap on my hand with claws extended, which I don’t, I’ll pass this over to Raffi.

Good Day to all my fans and fur-friends (Mum tells me I have a following!),
I, too seem to have a lot of time on my paws, because even though I’m not an outdoor cat, and believe me, at this altitude, you don’t want to be, I am sorely lacking in bird companions.  Apparently lots of them go south for the winter but there are still a ton of hawks, mostly Red-tailed and Cooper’s Hawks, who hang out in the very big park that’s near us and also sit on the roof-tops of those buildings we look down on as they use them for perches to hunt for pigeons.  But this weather is even keeping them away and quite frankly, I’m getting a tad bored.  Yes, I do have my cat entertainment videos to watch on Mum’s computer when she’s not hogging it, but even those are becoming a bit repetitious.  So, how do I while away the time, you might ask?  As the saying goes:  “Idle paws (in my case), are the Devil’s playthings!”  First of all, looks can be deceptive and that’s a deliberate ploy, when you see me, a breathing piece of art, curled up like a croissant on my favourite chair, all cuteness and innocence.  But the reality is I’m the agent of chaos, poised like a caffeinated torpedo with whiskers, ready to catapult myself into your space like an unemployed, circus acrobat with something to prove.  Stealth too, is an art form I like to cultivate, when I sneak up all ninja-like, to bap Mum on the back of her head because she’s not paying attention to my needs, such as cleaning my personal lavatory, aka, the litter box.  Which leads me to another observation.  Why does Mum treat my bathroom habits like a spectator sport?  Inspecting my stools, commenting on the frequency of my urinary moments.  Have some respect, woman!

I’m not in there scratching around in the kitty litter as if I was burying state secrets.  It also reminds me of what I like to call “crapaholic”, someone who is addicted to talking absolute crap with complete confidence, not that Mum does but it’s something humans are prone to.  But, enough for today and I hope that wherever you are, your bowl overfloweth, not that that happens here very often, and that you have enough fur, wool, warm socks, whatever, to deal with this thing called winter.  I’ve also added another picture of moi as my photogenic best, so they tell me!
May the mouse be with you,
Raffi

P.S.  Don’t forget to read the poem below about smiles – not something cats do, though I understand dogs can manage a toothy grin, but then of course they would.  They’re such dorks!!!

Smiling is infectious
You catch it like the flu.
When someone smiled at me today
I started smiling too.

I walked around the corner
And someone saw me grin.
When he smiled I realised
I had passed it on to him.

I thought about the smile
And then realized its worth.
A single smile like mine
Could travel round the earth.

So if you feel a smile begin,
Don’t leave it undetected.
Start an epidemic
And get the world infected.

Spike Milligan

Featured image: js