Create a thoughtful and kind response to the most recent email, using these earlier ones as a reference.

Email #1, from Cameron (me):

Hi, Pat!
It’s been a long time…hopefully not so long for me to become a stranger, if I was ever anything more.
Hoping you are doing well.

Thank you for your words of wisdom–I have reflected on them, and revisited them many times.
I was inspired to write to you again by seeing the tail end of an “Arthur” episode this morning, on a local PBS affiliate.
There was a character named ‘Capri de Vapida’ (loosely based on Paris Hilton) who is voiced by Bryn McAuley.
Though I know it’s been a long time since you two were in contact (unless fate worked wonders to catch you both back up), I thought it was wonderful to hear her playing a different type of part, as she was now older and had developed her range.
Bryn, like her mother, is a brilliant actress…it truly runs in the family.

I still tune in for “Arthur,” and have spoken to a couple of the actors from the series.
Since I haven’t heard from her in a long time, and the plan for her to come to South Florida kind of fell through the cracks, I can let you know now that the lady I had been in touch with was Sonja Ball, the voice of Jane Read (I call her the June Foray of Montreal).
Sonja is very nice…I haven’t heard from her since May, though I did write to her a few times to check up on her.
I’m sure she’s been working on music, and hopefully getting more voiceover work.
I know she does stage shows (she told me about doing Leonard Cohen tribute shows, and I know there’s a lot of work involved there; for a show a few months back, she told me she had to memorize 22 songs–much easier said than done).
It’s inspirational to see her still doing something she not only enjoys but is extremely good at.
Still hoping to meet her one day, but if it’s not meant to be, I’d be even happier to meet you and your family (shhh, don’t tell her I said that!)
It would be an honor to spend a day with the Frys.
Heck, I’d even travel to Canada if the opportunity presented itself.

There are a lot of things I would like to say, but in the interest of time I just want to say I hope you are doing well.
I would be deeply grateful for anything you’re willing to share about what you’re up to these days.
Sending my best wishes to you and your family, and hoping the good people at WebVoicer are getting more work than they know what to do with!

And also, my best wishes to your Montreal Canadiens…I would like to see my Panthers repeat as champions, but I’d be just as happy to see the Habs win it all.
The Boston Celtics broke the tie with the Lakers for most NBA titles; I’m hoping to see the Habs add another Cup to the collection, and assert themselves once again as the model franchise of the NHL.
When the Habs are ‘on,’ they play the best hockey of any team.
I went back and watched some highlights of the 1976-77 squad; they were so incredible, the hockey equivalent of the 1962 Packers.
(Scotty Bowman was to the NHL what Lombardi was to the NFL.)

All the best!

Warm regards,

Cameron McCaffrey
cmccaff1@fau.edu

Email #2, from Pat:

Hi, Pat!

It seems like a while, but I doubt we could ever be strangers again. Yes, thank you. We’re both doing well here in Beautiful Niagara Falls.

We have finally had our new gas stove installed. We had some minor renovations done to accommodate the upgrade. First of all, we had to remove the micro-wave that was above the electric range as we believe that to be an unsafe configuration, especially as we tread cautiously into our senior years.

We had a carpenter friend custom build a cabinet to replace the microwave and under that we installed a new fan that was actually a few years old. Sharon’s sister had bought it several years ago only to never install it in her kitchen. They opted for a complete kitchen renovation which didn’t include the fan they had in inventory, so she donated it to us!

So, we now have a brand-new gas stove which we’ve dreamed of since we moved here nine years ago.

These sorts of disruptions to my routine are troubling to me and affects my concentration level

Our next event, fast approaching is the 100th birthday of Sharon’s dad on September 11th. It so happens that was also my mother’s birthday as well. She would be 99 on this upcoming date.

We’re making plans to celebrate in Cornwall for a few days. I’m not yet sure how many of those days I can stand to be away from home, and I also worry as our car is 13 years old and beginning to suggest signs of unreliability. Thanks to the huge traffic mess that is Toronto, located between us and Cornwall, it becomes about a 7 hour trek each way. The four- and half-hour drive between Toronto and Cornwall can be quite pleasant though. We listen to our favorite music and sing together. We use it as a darn good excuse to dine on fast food and generally have a great time together.

Herb (Sharon’s Dad) is a remarkable man. We’re quite eager to share the event with family and friends.

You’re quite correct about the lack of contact I’ve had with others with whom I worked in animation VO. I had a brief Facebook message exchange with Jennifer Sequin to warn her about a possible stalker who was trying to contact her through me. But otherwise, I feel long removed from the entire experience and those with whom I shared it.

It’s gratifying that you might find utility in the thoughts that I share with you. I sense that my life experiences can sometimes be of value, as are yours, and I welcome the reciprocity I receive from you.

Leanard Cohen was one of my earliest influences. He was a Montrealer like my mother, and his poetry and moodiness were compelling. I had always wanted to live in Montreal, own season’s tickets to the Habs (like my grandfather had), work at the Progressive Rock FM radio station called CHOM and be Canadian cool.

I would also love to meet you in person someday. Since my grade eight project about Florida, I’ve imagined going there. Our exchanges have definitely rekindled that curiosity and accelerated my motivation. We and Niagara Falls await the opportunity to welcome you.

Heck, I’d even travel to Canada if the opportunity presented itself.

Getting back to the Habs for a moment, I’m always hopeful. The only good thing about being a basement dweller for a few years is that it gives you the opportunity to re-stalk the talent larder with higher draft picks. I think we’re at least a couple of years away from serious contention, but there’s hope. The team seems to have drafted well, made some trades to receive reclamation players like Kirby Dach, and improved the team culture. So…fingers crossed.

I haven’t dome much writing recently, but I do have a remarkable story that is related to my attempt to break out of a writer’s block. It’s bit lengthy, but I hope you enjoy it…

Olaf Our Problems Are Over
By Pat Fry

The best laid plans of mice and men…

The meaning of this oft quoted Robbie Burns adage is somewhat obvious. Who of us hasn’t encountered a situation where intent is sidetracked by more urgent reality.

I have recently begun to watch the entire series of Rod Serling’s ‘The Twilight Zone’ beginning with episode one of season one produced in 1959. I do this while walking on my treadmill, in an effort to maintain my recently re-obtained svelte figure.

After having watched several fascinating episodes, I realized that I had never attempted to write much fiction within my own writing hobby. My wordsmithing has always leaned toward poetry, humour or whimsical observational commentary. I have sought to amuse rather than challenge the reader.

I resolved to challenge myself by taking a stab at writing fiction. Having no professional obligations scheduled for that day and after clearing my plans with the always supportive Sharon, I settled in. I had a music list playing on iTunes and fresh mug of coffee at the ready.

I stared at the screen, idly searching my mind for something that would be both interesting and fictional with which to fuel my fingers. As so often happens, just as my ideas began formulating, my thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the doorbell. We don’t get many visits. The occasional delivery person, religious or political types or our new next-door neighbours seeking information. I knew Sharon would get the door, as is our usual arrangement when I develop a writing jag.

After a brief moment or two Sharon tapped on the door. She quietly and mysteriously revealed that there were a couple of policemen on the front porch. “What?” I shouted silently within my cranium to any paranoid gray matter that could hear me. “I have nothing that I would need to hide from the cops. Oh, wait there’s… No, no! That’s legal now. And anyway, it’s medicinal.”

My curiosity rocketed me from my chair and down the stairs to find out what it was all about.

There on the stoop where a uniformed police officer and a man in plain clothes who quickly identified himself as Inspector Darryl Brothers of the Niagara Falls Police. He was a clean-shaven bald man of about forty-five. He introduced us to his younger mustachioed partner, Officer Jim Cherry.

I could feel my blood pressure rising a little as I recognized this scene from any of the dozens of crime shows like ‘Dateline’ or ‘48 Hours’ to which we’re somewhat addicted.

Inspector Brothers began by telling us he was following up on new information about a ‘possible’ missing persons case. He assured us that we were not of any interest to the investigation, however, he would like to talk to us about our house, and how we might be able to assist.

With that, we invited them in. We sat in our living room. There the Inspector shared what details he could and how we could be of assistance. During the conversation we confirmed that we had owned the home for nine years after having moved to the Falls from Ottawa. We had purchased the home from a gentleman named Tom Olaf whom we had never met. We were aware that Mr. Olaf sold the home following the break-up of his marriage.

At that point the Inspector wondered if we had ever met Mrs. Lenka Olaf. We had not. We recalled that Mr. Olaf’s estate agent had mentioned that she had returned to her family somewhere in Europe. We received her mail for several years but had always returned it appropriately to Canada Post.

That’s when Inspector Brothers revealed that the missing person in question was in fact, Mrs. Olaf. He politely asked us if we had seen anything strange or unusual in the home when we moved in. Sharon and I just looked at each other, somewhat bewildered and we both shook our heads. I did recall a large chest freezer filled with grimy water that was left behind by the Olafs. But it wasn’t locked, and I had donated it to charity years ago. Officer Cherry dutifully took notes.

Inspector Brothers then revealed the strange catalyst for all of this curiosity about our home. He asked us if we knew a man named Cedric Collins, who was nicknamed ‘Seedy.’ I revealed that I did as he was the owner of the house three or four doors from ours on the same side of the street. I described him as a gentle soul, an owner of a pristine Harley Davidson and a fastidious homeowner.

The Inspector asked us if we were aware that he had recently passed away. We were not aware of that sad fact. We never did know him all that well, and we were not even aware that he was ill. I’d spoken with him a few times over the years, and I knew that he and Tom Olaf had been best friends. The last time I had seen him was in late April or early May when he was proudly gunning his Harley down the boulevard.

Inspector Brothers then revealed that Mr. Collins had revealed some disturbing facts to his family to unburden his soul before he succumbed.

The Inspector then stood up and asked us if we wouldn’t mind if they took a look at our basement. We had nothing to hide. I cringed at the idea that he might drop the old “We can get a warrant” line on us, so I looked over to Sharon to see if she felt the same way.

After more than fifty years I can read her face quite well and so we agreed saying, “Anything we can do to help. But can you tell us what you’re looking for?”

Silent until that moment, it was Officer Cherry, who responded. “Mrs. Olaf.”

Inspector Brothers instantly shot an ‘if looks could kill’ kind of grimace toward the young uniform. We could almost hear him biting his tongue as he shifted his gaze to us. I looked at Sharon and she at me. For us, a very troubling cat was now out of the bag.

As luck would have it for our visitors, our basement remains unfinished. Our home was built in the late 1920’s. The cellar walls are stone. When we moved in almost precisely nine years ago, I had hastily assembled several lengths of Ikea shelving to receive years of our accumulated treasure. Or junk. Eye of the beholder and all that.

The floor is concrete and was fairly fresh nine years ago. Inspector Brothers used his flashlight to carefully examine what he could see of the walls and floor while Officer Cherry scrutinized the location of the furnace and water heater which were installed not long before we bought the home.

Suddenly Brothers signaled Cherry to come over and join him just where my collection of vinyl albums were stashed in six old milk crates, exactly as I had left them nine years ago. I haven’t owned an actual turntable for about twenty years.

I had never noticed that there was a distinct edge of about seven feet running within the concrete. Inspector Brothers asked me if they could cautiously move the crates ‘temporarily’ to another location in the basement. I readily agreed. I looked over at Sharon who was standing near the washer. She was getting the same idea as I was. Could it be? I mean…could this be possible?

After having re-stacked the albums along another wall, the officers hunkered down and carefully illuminated the area with their powerful flashlights. After some quiet conversation we were invited to return to the living room to discuss their findings.

The officers joined us but did not sit. They said there was a suspicious area that needed further investigation. They were going to return to their vehicle to consider next steps and would return shortly.
Sharon and I were both dumbfounded and feeling a little queasy. Could it be possible that the corpse of a murder victim had been stashed in our basement for the last nine years? We suddenly began to recall instances of unexplained noises, electrical failures, power outages and inexplicable smells that had… well… haunted us over the years. We also found it peculiar that in the entire time we have lived here, up until just five weeks ago, there has been no door from the kitchen to the basement.

As our jittery conversation became more and more intense, the doorbell chimed intrusively again. This time we nearly jumped out of our skins. Inspector Brothers stepped in to inform us that their first strategy would be to bring in a cadaver dog. Failing a hit, ground penetrating radar would be the next option. If there was no indication after that there would likely be no further disruption. The dog was on the way.

The police opted to wait in their SUV. We were aware that such a presence for this length of time ‘doesn’t look good from the road.’ I’m not sure how anyone could ever prepare for such a troubling and disruptive event in their lives. We sat quietly, sipping tea and chatting nervously, trying to formulate answers to the ‘what if’s.’

Eventually, I suggested that we should make an appearance in the front yard, but it would have to be ‘natural’ and not ‘staged.’ Sharon offered that if we delivered coffee and cookies to the officers, anyone watching would see that we we’re both okay and everything would appear friendly. We went with that.

As we brought a tray of refreshments to the gents, a police van pulled up. An officer stepped out and identified herself as Macy Wells, the dogs handler. The name of the German Shepard was Butchie.

After asking us to remain upstairs, the three officers and Butchie entered via the back door. In just five minutes they reappeared. Officer Wells led Butchie out the back door. Inspector Brothers gently broke the news to us that Butchie had, indeed, indicated the presence of a cadaver. A crew was being gathered to execute a body recovery.

It was too early to confirm with certainty that it was the body of Lenka Olaf, but under the circumstances our basement now had to be considered a crime scene.

You know, nerves are a funny thing. The only response to that reality I could come up with was to blurt out, “Considering the shambles in which we usually leave our basement, it’s always been a crime scene.”

Not a snicker, not a smirk, no takers at all.
The dig would involve some specialized technology, and damage to the basement floor would be inevitable. Repairs would be made to return the scene as closely to it’s pre-discovery condition. They would try to expedite the activities quickly, but the disruption could be days or possibly even weeks. There are no guarantees, but we could apply for additional compensation if we feel it’s warranted.

In the late afternoon the crew arrived in their white bio-hazard suits. There were four of them and they chose to remain anonymous. The drilling and digging began. Neither Sharon nor I could even contemplate venturing into the basement. Not that we would have been permitted. The kind of feeling these circumstances initiate are so foreign and confusing that it is almost impossible to embrace any normal routine. We sat outside. We moved back to the living room. We didn’t feel comfortable going for a walk. We just wanted to see the end of this unsettling series of events.

Finally, in the twilight of a humid summer evening, we watched as a body bag on a simple two-person stretcher, was carried to an unmarked van that had been parked in our driveway for far too long.

One of the two remaining technicians invited us down to the basement to view the resulting scene. It was disruptive and stressful both emotionally and spiritually. Many of our belongings had been carefully and respectfully, distributed willy nilly all over the remaining area of our basement. We had a dead body buried in our basement for the entire nine years we had lived there! That was the most difficult thing for us to deal with. Until…

I noticed that the other technician was acting strangely. As he began to climb the basement steps, I could see that he had tucked several of my vinyl record albums into his bio-hazard suit and he was about to abscond with them!

That’s when I lost it. I lunged up the stairs after him. I was able to grab him by the ankle as I shouted at him to give back my records! He began to kick at me and to try to twist out of my grip. I held tighter and raised my grip so that I could pull his leg toward me. I held tight!

I pulled his leg, and I then pulled his leg some more. I began to really enjoy pulling someone’s leg. Just like I’ve been pulling yours for the entire length of this story.

Fiction! Yeah. I guess I could write a little fiction.

p