Readers and writers blog

At 93, Donald Crowdis is believed to be the third oldest blogger on the Internet. He certainly is one of the best. His writing is clear, thoughtful, good-natured, at times tender and poignant.

Crowdis, a native of Nova Scotia now living in Toronto, is not a writer by trade, but he’s no stranger to communications: A pioneer radio and television broadcaster in Canada, he later was director of the Nova Scotia Museum for many years.

He is an ideal example of how clear thinking and straightforward expression make for good writing. And that is why his weblog, Don To Earth, is the latest addition to our blogroll.

A note of caution: His last post was March 8, a brief entry advising readers that “family concerns” have kept him from posting. While the icon on the post is a tombstone inscribed with ‘R.I.P.,’ his headline assures us that “I’m Not Dead.”

I found Don to Earth after scrolling through about 75 sites listed on Authors Blogs. Most of those authors were, well, pretty dull, unless you consider promoting a book, complaining about baby vomit, grousing about an agent or worrying about writer’s block interesting. And Don wasn’t even there. I came across him on one of the better writer’s blogrolls.

What a breath of fresh air he is.

Blogs are wonderful. Vanity is served at once . . .. Anyone can join in, rebut, whatever — surely this is democracy, whatever that is, at its most lively and pushy . . .. I don’t want to stop the momentum of whatever it is that will emerge from the tunnel. Stay tuned.

If a 93-year-old man can stay tuned, that book, baby, agent or block don’t seem like much to worry about. Which may be why his blog, just 56 entries since he started last July, has attracted such a large readership.

He does think about dying. In a Jan. 23 post, he admits:

For too long I have behaved as if I could postpone going indefinitely, and thus have so many things that I must do first . . .. There are numerous notes and letters I must write. There are places I’ve wanted to travel, but never had the chance. Actually, each of you can, if you think yourself into my age, fill out the list. At least you can try to understand why I say that I hate to go.

And he thinks about his wife, whom he usually describes as “my first wife,” as he sits at home in December in the ninth week of her hospitalization:

Here I am, in a home where I am surrounded by her choices of nearly everything I look at. As you come in the front door, a lovely big bowl of fake flowers greets you, and the walls have her framed selections, some of family memories . . ., and the junk in the adjoining kitchen is definitely OK. In short, Margaret Hilda MacLeod Crowdis, my present wife, is just everywhere . . .. In the middle of the night, I am careful when I get up for drainage purposes, so as not to disturb her who is not there. In the morning, I always come downstairs early to read the papers, and can’t help thinking about her preferences for breakfast . . .. Between missing Margie, and wondering when we will again share the same residence, I am simply reduced to this: I am in mourning among her souvenirs.

But his musings are never morose, and he finds plenty to celebrate, as in his post of Oct. 31:

Warm golden sunshine beams through the tall glass doors that lead to my balcony, reminding me they need to be cleaned. A large tree branch adds pattern, and nothing could be more beautiful, I tell myself, as I gaze out on the woodland beyond.

Events in the fall do seem to be intelligent, and what is intelligence if it is not survival in changing circumstances? As I bask in this lovely morning, I know it will not last; it will be followed by snow on ground and trees, and by ice that will glitter in the branches on bright, cold mornings. I know winter can be stunning in its own way, to be followed by spring with its return of bursting life.

Eventually, outside my kitchen glass doors, I know too that lovely late October days will come again, and again.

I hope Don hasn’t in fact gone to earth. He’s too young.

– Sid Leavitt