This next story comes from a period in my life when sleep and I were no longer on speaking terms. I’m not sure how it all started, but once insomnia had settled in, it persuaded meto consider all kinds of solutions that seemed perfectly reasonable at two in the morning—but deeply questionable by breakfast.

What follows is a short comic tale involving podcasts, white noise, medical advice of a somewhat flexible nature, and a steadily escalating series of attempts to outsmart my own brain.

Like most of my stories, there’s more than an ounce or two of good, honest truth in it—particularly if you’ve ever found yourself wide awake in the middle of the night, convinced that the answer to your problem is just one more tinyadjustment away.

In case you’re interested, it never is.

I suppose everyone’s a bit vain. Even me, if I’m being honest.

This comic tale explores the uneasy intersection between old-school workarounds and today’s passion for social media—Facebook in particular.

The idea came to me after a visit to my sister in the wilds of Northern Ontario, where keeping in touch via Facebook, Skype, and the like became more than a convenience. Afterthe COVID pandemic turned many of us into virtual shut-ins, staying connected suddenly felt essential. But connected at what cost?

Here, we dip into the quietly insecure world of seniors, where reminders of our youthful good looks have a way of popping up at the worst possible moments. Thank heavens I neverventured into video, or I’d be writing a very different story altogether.

And don’t lose heart—we’re all in the same leaky, aging boat, just waving at each other from different screens. Enjoy

There was a time — not all that long ago — when I believed I had at least a passing familiarity with the younger generation.

I understood ambition. I understood energy. I even understood, in principle, progress.

This story is my admittedly feeble attempt at creating a comedy in which I find myself completely out of my depth on all counts.

What follows is a small, modern — at least I hope it’s modern — tale involving a coffee bar drink with more adjectives than I could have ever imagined, along with a job interview that required me to nod confidently while having only the loosest possible grip on what was actually unfolding.

It begins with an applicant's name that runs backwards then continues with a schedule so fully optimized it leaves no room for punctuation.

It advances through a résumé featuring followers, filters, and an educational trajectory that appears to have taken several creative detours. And somewhere between “easy peezy” and “influencer,” I begin to suspect that the English language and I may no longer be moving in the same direction.

I came prepared to discuss editing — structure, clarity, the quiet discipline of moving a comma one space to the left and feeling triumphant about it.

Nevaeh came prepared to discuss engagement, branding, upward mobility, and the possibility of paid holidays calculated on what I can only assume was a weekly basis.

None of this was hostile. It was simply… disorienting.

There is something uniquely humbling about realizing that the world has updated itself while you were still fairly satisfied with the previous version. That vocabulary has shifted. That priorities have evolved. That confidence now arrives fully formed, even when experience is still buffering.

Like most of my stories, there’s plenty of truth hiding in here among the laughs — especially if you’ve ever found yourself wondering when, exactly, you stopped being the target audience… and started being the historical reference point.

Warm. Slightly bewildered. Deeply self-mocking.

A coffee order. A job interview. And one senior author discovering that modern life may, in fact, require a user manual.

I bring a new Clarence Mills misadventure most Thursdays. If you’ve ever nodded politely while silently recalculating your place in the timeline, feel free to follow along — and let me know you’re out there listening.

After fifteen years away, returning to a southeastern Ontario winter felt almost nostalgic.

Almost.

There’s something about the first winter back that tests a person. Not dramatically. Not heroically. Just steadily. Quietly. Repeatedly.

You begin with confidence. Experience. A sense that you’ve done this before.

You tell yourself that snow is merely frozen water. That driveways are manageable. That age is just a number. That pride is harmless.

And then winter begins negotiating.

This tale isn’t about extreme weather. Nor is it about catastrophe. It’s not — if truth be told — even about a particularly impressive snowfall.

It’s about expectation.

About comparison.

About what happens when you discover that other people appear to have solved a problem you are still treating as a character-building exercise.

It’s about control — and the uneasy feeling that control may be slipping away in small, powdery increments.

There’s something uniquely revealing about winter routines. They expose habits. They expose stubbornness. They expose the subtle line between resilience and foolishness.

At a certain stage of life, one begins to ask sensible questions:

Is this still necessary?
Is this still wise?
Is this still mine to conquer?

But sensible questions are often followed by deeply impractical behaviour.

What unfolds here is not a tale of disaster. It’s a study in escalation. A meditation on pride, patience, and the quiet drama that can unfold in the most ordinary suburban setting.

It’s about the peculiar psychology of waiting.

About the stories we tell ourselves when circumstances don’t align precisely with our expectations.

About discovering that the weather may not be the only unpredictable force at work.

Warm. Slightly stubborn. Deeply self-mocking.

A winter return.
A test of resolve.
And a realization that sometimes the real storm is not the one falling from the sky.

I bring a new Clarence Mills misadventure most Thursdays. If this one feels uncomfortably familiar — or reassuringly absurd — feel free to follow along and let me know you’re out there listening.

A fiftieth wedding anniversary should be safe territory. Golden speeches. Long marriages. Canoe stories retold with improved heroism. Family members rediscovering one another in that warm, forgiving glow that only five decades of shared life can generate.

And this one was all of that.

It was generous. It was affectionate. It was filled with the kind of laughter that comes from knowing people for half a century… and still liking them.

Their home reflected it too — thoughtfully improved, tastefully updated, comfort layered upon comfort in a way that suggested long-term planning and quiet ambition.

Nothing dramatic. Nothing controversial. Nothing that should, in any way, permanently alter a man.

And yet.

There are moments in life when something entirely ordinary presents itself with such calm authority that you fail to recognize the threshold you are crossing.

You assume you are merely observing.

But you’re not.

You’re adapting.

You’re recalibrating.

You’re raising your standards in ways that cannot be undone.

The danger with incremental improvement is that it sneaks up on you. It whispers. It reassures. It feels civilized. Sensible. Deserved, even. Until you step back into the wider world and discover that your expectations have quietly mutated.

What once felt adequate now feels crude.
What once felt neutral now feels hostile.
What once passed without comment now demands protest.

This episode is not about scandal. Nor is it about conflict. It’s not even about family drama. It’s about comfort. About escalation. About discovering — at an age when you thought your preferences were fixed in stone — that you have been subtly, and perhaps permanently, spoiled.

It’s about that uneasy realization that modern life, once sampled at its higher altitudes, does not willingly release its hold.

I bring a new Clarence Mills misadventure most Thursdays. If this one leaves you smiling — or reassessing the comforts you’ve come to rely on — feel free to follow along and let me know you’re out there listening.

Before we go any further, I feel compelled to state that this epic saga is about a young boy being completely outmatched.

Not by ideology. Not by doctrine. Not even by original sin. But by something of such disproportionate scale that, in my mind at least, it belongs in the same general category as David and Goliath.

On one side: an undersized youth with naïvely good intentions, limited physical strength, and absolutely no grasp of the rules of engagement.

On the other: a challenge of biblical proportions.

What followed was less a religious experience than a one-sided personal debacle conducted in full view of a very attentive congregation.

There are formative moments in childhood that gently shape your character. And then there are the ones that publicly sandblast it.

My Early Adventures with Christianity is not a meditation on doctrine. It is a chronicle of spiritual humiliation delivered beneath vaulted ceilings and preserved forever in the memory of a five-year-old who suddenly discovered that faith sometimes comes with an audience.

This is the story of disproportion. Of being very small in a very large room. Of confronting something very large while being very small. Of realizing, mid-effort, that what seemed manageable in theory has become a slow, unfolding spectacle in practice.

There is a particular species of embarrassment reserved for childhood — the kind where you can feel every pair of eyes recalibrating toward you. Where silence thickens. Where amusement begins as a tremor and then ripples outward. Where you sense, long before you fully understand, that you have become the morning’s unintended entertainment.

You begin with determination.

You transition to strain.

You graduate to visible struggle.

And then — worst of all — you become aware that people are enjoying it.

Giggles. Titters. Neck-craning curiosity. The unmistakable sound of restrained laughter losing restraint.

It is in that moment you begin to conduct rapid theological assessment.

Is this character-building?
Is this divine testing?
Is this what they mean by carrying one’s burden?
Or is this simply what happens when scale, optimism, and red church carpet collide?

Humiliation has weight. It slows time. It amplifies sound. It magnifies effort. It makes a short distance feel endless and an ordinary action feel epic.

And when you are five, there is no irony to shield you. No self-awareness to soften the blow. There is only heat in the cheeks, sweat on the brow, and the dawning suspicion that dignity may not survive the morning.

Yet memory, as it ages, becomes generous.

What once felt catastrophic now reveals itself as comic.
What once felt like public exposure now reads as small-town theatre.
What once threatened faith now simply deepened perspective.

This is not a crisis-of-belief story.

It is a story about being very earnest, very determined, and very outmatched — all at once.

About discovering that religion, like childhood, can involve more exertion than expected.

And about learning, many decades later, that the most spiritually instructive moments are sometimes the ones that leave scuff marks behind you.

Warm. Unsparing. Deeply self-mocking.

Old-fashioned storytelling. Best heard out loud.

I bring a new Clarence Mills misadventure most Thursdays. If this one struck a chord, follow along — and let me know you’re out there listening.

There comes a moment in every young man’s life when he decides it is time.

Time to step forward.
Time to take responsibility.
Time to join the ranks of those who shave.

In this Clarence Mills tale, youthful ambition meets cold steel and unwavering confidence. After all, how difficult could it be? Warm water, a steady hand, and a product literally labeled “safety.”

Now honestly, I ask you, what could possibly go wrong?

What follows is a story about pride, imitation, and the earnest determination to appear just slightly more grown-up than nature intended. It is also a gentle reminder that certain skills — however inevitable — may require practice.

And perhaps supervision.

There is courage here. There is technique. There is visible evidence.

If you’ve ever attempted adulthood a little too soon…
If you’ve ever learned a life lesson the hands-on way…
If you’ve ever faced your peers while quietly hoping they wouldn’t notice…

You may feel very much at home here.

Clarence Mills has witnessed many rites of passage.

Few have left quite such a mark.

I try to bring a new Clarence Mills misadventure most Thursdays. If this one strikes a chord or two, feel free to follow along — and let me know you’re out there listening.

There is nothing quite like returning back home to your roots with naive enthusiasm. New beginnings. Fresh starts. Community spirit. A colourful booklet promising livestock, pageantry, midway delights, and the wholesome optimism of small-town tradition.

What could possibly go wrong?

In this tale from Clarence Mills, eager anticipation meets rural reality. Plans are made. Expectations are elevated. Spirits are high.

The weather has other ideas.

So do animals.

So, occasionally, does gravity.

What begins as a heartfelt celebration of reinvention gathers complications. The fairgrounds offer charm. The day offers character. And enthusiasm — admirable though it may be — proves no match for wind gusts, damp conditions, and certain unexpected aromas.

Good intentions are everywhere. So is determination. So is moisture.

This is a story about returning home, embracing tradition, and discovering that even the most carefully planned outing can develop… texture.

If you’ve ever invested in a full-day pass and lived to reconsider it…
If you’ve ever believed the second attempt would surely go better than the first…
If you’ve ever discovered that optimism is not waterproof…

You may feel very much at home here.

Clarence Mills has hosted many summer fairs.

Few have unfolded quite like this.

I try to bring a new Clarence Mills misadventure most Thursdays. If this one strikes a chord or two, feel free to follow along — and let me know you’re out there listening.