Dinner, coupled with a longwinded account of my day's activities, had just finished. My visiting Aunt smiled for just a moment, then declared in a loud voice, "The boy never lets the truth get in the way of a good story, surely his destiny is to be a writer."  I was twelve years old.   It would take another twenty-eight years for that prophesy to come true.

It is said that in each person lives a great novel.  I believe that.  It only takes the right set of circumstances, along with a little egotism, to unleash the flow of words.  And once they begin, one is sometimes surprised with the end product. Surprised with what lay beneath the insulating layers society has fabricated to both hide and protect our delicate identities. In my case the "trigger" was the innocent, unexpected observation of a six-year-old boy.

In 1976, with everyone searching for the "true meaning of life", I abandoned corporate life in Toronto in favour of a small campground and marina on the Trent-Severn Waterway. The competition for tourist dollars was a little more aggressive than I had anticipated and the first years were meagre indeed. But the life suited me, and after several years of frugality and hard work my efforts started to pay off.  Indeed, I was doing quite well.  So well, one Labour Day Monday after most of the patrons had left for the summer, I checked the till, counted an immoral amount of money, and poured myself a vanity-soaked scotch.  I walked to the river and surveyed the yachts tied to my wharf.  I walked up the many roads lined with new RV’s.  I walked to the new recreation hall that only hours before had overflowed with dancing and laughter. I walked my self-created kingdom with an inflated ego that would have put Michael Jackson to

shame. That’s when that six-year-old boy appeared. He’d been watching me.  I sensed his apprehension and smiled benevolently to ease his anxiety.  After a moment’s hesitation, he approached and asked the question that altered my life. "Hey mister, are you the janitor?"

Perception versus reality. Could there be a bigger conundrum in life?  Is perception reality or reality what we perceive? That night sleep did not come easily.  I looked deep within myself.  I tried to sort out which parts of "me", I showed to my customers, were real, and which parts were contrived.  Contrived, neither with malicious intention nor efforts to receive that which was not my due, but contrived to "manipulate my image" just the same.  I smiled at grumpy campers; listened with interest to boring boaters; laughed at “not-so-funny” customer jokes.  However, my patience with little tots spending their jam-covered nickels at the candy counter was real.  When I asked a customer if they enjoyed their vacation, I truly meant it.  By morning I had decided to commit these thoughts to paper. I wrote several 800-word anecdotes about life as a resort operator – an exposé, if you please – and mailed them off to several magazines not expecting anything more than a PFO letter of rejection. Voila!  The widely syndicated "Hey Mister, are you the Janitor" series was born.  It came to an end three years and twenty-five stories later when I ran out of interest.  My story had been told – the monkey was off my back!  But something had happened during those three years.  Something I hadn’t prepared for.  I was hooked on writing … and there was much more I wanted to say.

	Author's Personal Bio