Canada's invisible casualties.

In the last month, I lost two friends. And though the circumstances of their passing differed, it still is a reminder that life can be so incredibly unpredictable and short. So, I am not going to talk about my work as a writer in this blog but an issue that is very near and dear to my heart. I'll ask if you indulge me as I recount a bit of personal history and drag out my soapbox and talk about a national tragedy.

I was medically released from the army in 1998. This came after I'd endured three separate leg operations over twelve years. Like many soldiers, I walked on injuries, not wanting to draw attention to weakness, not wanting to be branded “sick lame and lazy.” As a result, I compounded those injuries, and this was when our government was using the Canadian Military as its personal whipping post. Inflicting what I liked to call, "Death by a thousand budget cuts." When I saw that last orthopedic surgeon, and he said to me, we operate again and more scar tissue and blah blah, which amounted to, “Your career is over.”

In May of 1998, just past my 12^th year, I was medically released. As a 33-year-old husband and father with three kids, I was absolutely lost. Lost to what I was going to do. I felt like a failure and robbed of who I was. And though I’d never toured or fired a shot against the enemy I trained to fight, I was still messed up. Having had my identity stripped from me, I was in a state of constant flux. My transition from soldier back to civilian took a couple years, of which I suffered deep bouts of depression. And here’s the clincher, nobody in the civilian world understood. I’m not going to go any deeper into my story as that was not the intent of this blog, but thanks to my wife, friends, and family, I made it out the other side.

Many do not.

Repetitively, the message comes. Buzzing over social media between soldiers serving and retired, disseminating the news, “Have you heard about?” and “They were too young,” asking, “why?” or “how?” but in many cases, all of us know the truth.

Going from soldier to civilian can be as hard or harder than getting out of jail. Aside from the stark contrast of morality between criminals and soldiers, they have one commonality. After spending time in a collective, they both run the risk of becoming institutionalized. You adhere to all sorts of rules. Shave every day, keep your hair well-groomed. In front of subordinates, you can’t complain, you have to lead by example. You are under control of a collective where everyone adheres to the same rules. Where pride and discipline walk hand in hand. Where comradeship is akin is almost family.

The military isn’t a robotic society where the soldiers do their duty to appease whatever demand is laid down and lack emotion or wants. Soldiers adhere to the set standards of military rules and regulations but live life just like their civilian counterparts. They marry, have kids, play hockey, coach their kids in little league. They celebrate life and cultivate deep and meaningful relationships.

Soldiers are a demographic of mothers, fathers, sisters and brothers, and friends. Not much different than everyone else on this planet, but they identify themselves by their dedication to that service. Even after they have retired from it. That stuff doesn’t go away, even when some try in vain to forget it or move on. Most never shed their military skin completely. It becomes permanently stamped on your identity. Four years? Twelve years? Thirty years? It doesn’t matter. Once you have served, you find yourself in an exclusive club.

It isn’t the soldiering; it’s the transition, and many soldiers don’t want to admit that. For fear of perceived weakness or the scrutiny of a critical eye, which is usually their own. It isn’t in their composition to show weakness or admit they need help. Some suffer in silence. Some don’t have the support around them.

Some don’t make it.

That’s the tragedy.

The purpose of a soldier is to protect the nation and its people.

The prerogative of a nation's government is to send those same soldiers to take up arms with strangers in far off lands and engage in battle. Society does not consider the tolls that service can take on soldiers. Some soldiers adjust better than others, but the horror of war is an awful specter, and the mental battle that follows can be a silent killer. As tribal as we are in this world, mankind isn’t programmed to kill each other. That is taught or learned.

But they do so, at the behest of Country, when the call to arms is given.

In Canada, the nation mourns when a soldier makes that final ride along the highway of heroes. We lower flags, stand on bridges, line up roadside, all to catch a fleeting glimpse of our fallen, to pay tribute to them and the sacrifice. It is what I love about this nation and its people. No matter our politics, we all feel it when we lose one of ours, and we stand collectively in mourning. But we are short-sighted in this communal gathering.

We celebrate our dead, but forget the ones who came home. Some missing limbs, some emotionally scarred from the horrors of war. Feeling alienated by a nation that waves the flag but falls deaf and abandons its veterans to homelessness, substance abuse, physical and mental health issues.

The sad news is always buzzing with word that another is gone, fallen through the cracks.

And nothing.

And the flags are waved, the wars resume and promises continue to be broken.

In Canada we send our soldiers into harm's way. We ask so much of them, and they keep stepping up, never questioning, doing their duty, standing with their comrades, giving everything until they have given everything.

And that is when it is our turn to take over. To give back some of what we have taken. Making sure that they have a place in the great nation they have served until their time is up. They are not merely soldiers, but patriots who have kept us safe, who are only asking for our help in their time of need. Meanwhile, our government has the stones to fight them in court over compensation claims. A despicable act by unconscionable bureaucracy.

To my fellow soldiers, serving and retired, we know who we have lost, we understand some of the “why” and we need to keep those lines of communication open. Keep an ear for the brothers and sisters who are suffering. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I am getting pretty sick and tired of losing good people to indifference and ignorance.

If you’re out there and you need help, reach out, support is available.

To my fellow brothers and sisters, watch your arcs.

Pass the word.

And if you want to do something I offer the following link. Below, you can contact your MP and tell them that its time to do the honorable thing! https://www.ourcommons.ca/en/contact-us

Perspective/Writing/Perspective

I've been trying to think what to blog about. Blogging doesn't always come easy for me, because when you're a writer with a day job, there is always so much to do in so little time.

Writing is a tough enough gig on it's own. In my last blog, I told you about my salesmanship. In this blog I'm going to look back at 2012 until now and adjust my writing perspective

When I was young, I wanted to be as big as or bigger than Stephen King. Who didn't? Ah, the young, so idealistic, so virgin to having their hearts ripped out, stamped on, then stuffed back in, only to be ripped out again. But fear not idealists, the great suffering, us writers must endure,  is also a rite of passage to cynicism and venom. Did I mention we turn  these into characters and stories, changing details just enough so as not to be sued?

Highwayman and The Equinox with WildBlue Press

Perspective. I write because it is what I was meant to do. 

Perspective. It's tough and sometimes it can be a cruel industry

Perspective. Writing is an art I both love and hate, but love more than hate.

Perspective. Did I do what I wanted? Sure, and I'm not done yet.

Looking back, I have written my whole life. 

I wrote movie reviews for my hometown paper in Chilliwack, B.C.  Sadly, that little newspaper is gone now. But I got copies in some box somewhere. I wrote of my exploits while serving in the army. I also wrote short stories, received piles of rejections, some mere stubs that said things like, SORRY BUT IT'S NOT FOR US. Turning lemons into lemonade, with plenty of vodka, I opted to use them as book marks. Rejection never deterred me. I took a run at a novel, had the whole thing figured out, but I got posted and promoted and life and kids and duty.

I became a blogger who fought hard for veterans rights when I was medically released in 1998 after 12 years of service.  In 1999, I got behind the wheel of a truck and drove all over the continent. Then in early 2010, I found that half finished manuscript, in a loose leaf binder typed out on an electric Underwood, THE EQUINOX.

That's when I thought, Maybe. 

As 2011 bloomed, I'd seen and done much, in trucking, and I finished THE EQUINOX and headed for Canada's Ice roads in 2012, THE EQUINOX was born. 

Perspective. I've accomplished quite a bit in just eight short years. I have written four books, of which all on the cusp of release just been. Equinox and Highwayman are already available everywhere in almost every format. Acadia Event is being reborn while FOUR: Highwayman Book 2, is also being readied for publication. 

Meanwhile, I've started out a new Highwayman.  Book 3 [No working title yet.]

And there's this other thing.

I've got another straight up horror novel idea that I want to write and the stuff I'm thinking of would resurrect an old short story, but tell the whole story, blow by bloody blow. And you know what, it's got monsters. I love monsters. Doesn't everyone?

As Acadia Event gets ready for its second launch I think Ice roads and aliens.

Anyway, I was talking about perspective and here is my perspective. To continue as a story teller, I gotta keep beating the drum. Doing the interviews, yelling to the crowd, "Read all about it!"

Perspective, writing, in 2019 to 2020, I got four books hitting markets and formats they have never hit before. There's audio for the truckers, digital for the kids or the old folks with Kindle and there's first class covers in 6X9 trade paperback for the traditionalist. I have a publicist. I have a publishing contract. 

People in other countries have read and dug my stuff.

Perspective. That's not bloody bad for seven years.

I like telling stories. 

I hope you like the ones I tell.

Til next time.

MJ

The Writer's Contract

When I signed up to be a writer, I think there was a contract I made with myself somewhere along the line, and like most, I didn’t read the fine print. Because to be a writer you must also be a salesman, and this is not a job I was ever really any good at. Before joining the army in the mid 80’s I was a Jack of all trades, garbage man, chicken catcher, short-order cook, and even I washed cars for four bucks an hour.

1986 - "Leave me alone, I am writing a novel called THE EQUINOX."

When the western economy was in the toilet in the early ’80s, and jobs like pumping gas were few and far between, I went so far as to sign up with Electrolux Vacuum Cleaners as a salesman. I remember they hooked me up with one of their top salesmen, a guy that looked a hell of a lot like Billy Idol. He had that same petrified jelled spikey hair, rings on all his nail bitten fingers, and a long black coat that wasn’t leather, but a kind of rubber I have yet to see again in my 54 years.

I met up with him, and he briefed me in his rusted-out Pontiac Parisienne. The pitch we were making that day, was a carpet cleaning if you let us in, and even if you didn’t buy one of Electrolux’s expensive machines after our offer you couldn’t refuse, the carpet cleaning was on us. The carpet thing was to get in the door, and Billy Idol informed me that we had to sell hard because I would be doing the carpet cleaning. That was code for I would be working for nothing.

We banged on lots of doors, and at one house that was clearly in an economically depressed part of the city, we ignored the NO SOLICITING sign and went around back. There, the kids let us in. When we entered the premises, we had to squeeze passed the stacks of LABATT'S BLUE cases piled six high and four deep. Dishes littered the counter, the tabletop, but the lady of the house was friendly.

Billy Idol went right into the pitch. “Good morning, is the man of the house in?”

Sarcastically from behind, the man of the house said, “I guess you never saw the No Soliciting sign?”

I turned to see him grinning. He was a big guy, big arms, pudgy, but a character who’d probably been thrown out of the local establishments for fighting or passing out in the john. I’m speculating, of course, but that was because he wore a stained white t-shirt and, thankfully, boxers. Also, a scent was permeating from his limited wardrobe that was unmistakable.

Cigarettes and beer.

Billy said, “Well, hey there, I’d like to offer you the best vacuum on the market.”

Still smiling, he fired back, “You think we got any money here?”

Billy kept on, “We’ve got great financing available to fit every budget and…”

He shook his head, “You’re wasting your time, pal.”

Billy continued, “and we’ll even throw in a free carpet cleaning.”

He laughed, looked at both of us, then down to the stained and tattering rug in the living area, “If you put water on that rug, it would probably dissolve.”

Billy had nothing.

We picked up our gear and left.

That was when I started thinking hard about joining the army.

The sales gig was never meant for me. I like people, and I don’t like imposing on them. It makes me uncomfortable, and I assume it does the same to people who don't want to be pitched. It probably bothers me more, but I’ve always been a guy who wants to know what I’m making for my efforts rather than depending on working a commission. But the thing with writing is you must be a salesperson and here’s why.

The sheer number of books published every year makes the odds of success and sales a fool’s errand for most. Not because the writer lacks talent, I’ve met some stellar writers over the years that have never reached the status of Stephen King or John Sandford, but whose writing is on par with the big guns.

What most of us can hope is that for all our work, we will build a readership that will transform into sales and revenue. And this reality begs the question.Why does anyone want to be a writer? It pays little. I’ve published short stories over the years, making anywhere between twenty-five and fifty bucks a pop. For someone as prolific as author Gregory Norris, that’s not bad. But for someone like me who can take a week or more to polish up a story, it isn’t lucrative. But there is a benefit, it gets your name out there, gives people a sense of your writing, and if they like what they see, they might even pick up your novel. For me, the stories are the carpet cleaner, getting me in the door in the hope they will want to buy the main attraction. 

Why does anyone want to be a writer? It pays little. I’ve published short stories over the years, making anywhere between twenty-five and fifty bucks a pop. For someone as prolific as author

Writing novels is a long, arduous process, and if it sounds like I’m bitching I’m not. For some reason I have these musings in my head that need to be put down in print.

Two of my novels, THE EQUINOX and ACADIA EVENT and even part of HIGHWAYMAN were written on top of a truck steering wheel. Stolen moments at the beginning or end of a day that lasts or lasted between fourteen and sixteen hours.

The musings would come to me as the road pulled me along, breaking the 70-hour cycle down into pieces until I ran out of hours and shut down for 36 hours. In that reset, I would write in the mornings while other drivers socialized or had breakfast.

And here we are, three novels in and I’m out making the pitch again. The same pitch other writers are making, to let us tell you our story. If you take our hand and follow us down the rabbit hole, we are grateful, if not a little fearful that you will be judging the story we put before you. I don’t know how long I’ll keep doing this, but I’m doing it now and hope you’ll put up with my soliciting until the last tale is told.

MJ Preston

10/27/2019

 Visit me on the web: http://mjpreston.net

Check out my latest book, Highwayman. Not for the faint of heart. If you like it, drop me a line and please, a review would be greatly appreciated.

You can get it here

MISSING: WHERE IS JAMES CANDY?

With no evidence of a crime, the mystery of a missing Alberta teen remains unsolved.

By M.J. Preston

August 6, 2017

Vegreville, Alberta

James Nestor Candy

Sometime during the night, 17-year-old James Nestor Candy climbed from his bedroom window and vanished.  According to Canadasmissing.ca, 31,387 people went missing in 2018, and many of those were young people. Missing persons can be attributed to everything from parental abduction to a kid that has just wandered off. Often these kids can be tracked to cities, but the vast numbers coupled to limited resources make it an overwhelming task for police and families. The fact is that if your teenage kid runs away and they really don’t want to be found, locating them can prove very problematic. Drawing that conclusion, an outsider might say, “Just another runaway. They’ll turn up in Vancouver or Toronto.” After all, young people run away from home for a myriad of reasons.  
  
So, when James Candy’s father, Colin Candy, found his son’s window open on that morning, he wasn’t immediately alarmed. 

But as the morning unfolded and clues to James disappearance began to come to light, a search for this missing teenager was conducted by the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, volunteers, and family. On that morning when Colin found his son’s room empty, he first noticed that the window was open and living in the country, the room was full of mosquitos. 

James was the youngest child in a blended family of a boy raised in a family with six siblings. Colin and Karen both had three kids from previous marriages. On Colin’s side, Crystal, David, and Brian, on Karen’s, Mellissa, Heather, and Apryl. They had James after they married.  After losing their home during the economic downturn, the family relocated to the Vegreville countryside. James embraced country living, and according to his parents, loved the cowboy life. His chores included feeding and caring for the horses which he treasured, and he did so without complaint. James rarely, if at all complained about doing chores, he cut the grass with being asked. 

Like most, the Candy family was not immune to tragedy. James’s older brother, David, died as a result of

Pictured left, James enjoying the rodeo life.

ohol abuse. The family had suffered a devastating loss, and according to both Colin and Karen, this took a toll on James as he and David were very close. Also, being a small kid, James was bullied in school, trying to cope with the angst of being a teenager and finding his way. 

On the evening before James disappeared, he and his friend, Austin, were set to go out for the night when Karen noticed something in James pocket. When she pushed him on it, she discovered a small amount of marijuana, so he was not allowed to go out, and Austin went home. They sat down and talked about the marijuana. Colin and Karen were concerned, having lost a son to substance abuse, and if he, James, wanted to pursue a career in the rodeo, he would be subject to drug testing. According to Colin, “We had a discussion, we sat down and talked about it. We don’t argue in our house; we talk.”  Colin explained his concerns to his son, and James said smoking weed helped him deal with some of the pressures related to school. Colin had noted that James marks had come up considerably. He was still dealing with bullying in school, and they also found out that he had developed an affection for a girl who did not reciprocate. These issues were weighing heavy on James, and he claimed to be self-medicating with the weed. Colin and Karen were firm that they didn’t want drugs in the house, even marijuana.  Karen believes that in telling their son that they were disappointed in him, “that might have been the straw that broke the camel’s back.”  After the discussion, Colin and James talked about the next day’s chores and before bed that evening, Colin told his son that he “loved him” and James returned an “I love you” and then they retired to bed.

Those would be the last words that Colin Candy and James shared.

What Colin initially found that morning didn’t seem that out of the ordinary, except for an open window and an empty room. Given their discussions ending with the words “love you.” So, this rose no real alarm, leaving Colin thinking that James was probably outside in the early morning, tending to the animals and would be back. Colin checked the house and set out onto the property looking for his son, but found nothing. He checked the buildings and the land and was fruitless. Now, concern began to bloom, so he went back to his son’s room to search for more clues. 

When Colin returned to the room, he found a piece of paper on James’s desk with a pen sitting on top of it, when he started to read it, he panicked. It was a suicide note; he gave the letter to Karen and immediately went back out to look for his son. Colin went to the barn, and all the outbuildings horrified of what he might find. After doublechecking everything, he returned to James’s room and noted that the lariat rope was gone, and he had left his wallet, his learners license, and ATM card behind. It was at this point that both Colin and Karen placed a call to the RCMP who took the issue very seriously.

In the note, James talked of the pressures he faced, how he missed his brother, his broken heart, and how he was distressed about disappointing his parents. A massive search of the surrounding area was conducted by the RCMP and volunteers. Ground searches yielded no signs of James and before long days turned into weeks. 

James Nestor Candy was missing, but over time, the searches were scaled back and what little media attention that shone on the case faded. Missing person podcasts have tried to help, including THE VANISHED hosted by Amanda Colman, who outlines the situation thoroughly. But for the most part, the national media outlets like CBC have largely ignored the case.

Before writing this, I contacted Colin and asked him if he submitted his story to the CBC Podcast, SOMEBODY KNOWS SOMETHING, and he said that without clear evidence of a crime they won't touch it. Resources from the police, whom Colin commends as “doing a great job” also began to be reallocated to other cases. There were sightings, which is typical in missing person cases, and Colin was vigilant about checking and maintaining  James’s Facebook page. Hoping that keeping it out there will bring their son home.

December 19^th, 2017

A message appeared on James Facebook and messenger, from an individual identifying himself as, Mike Barley, in which he left a message,  “James if your still out there I hope you answer this or I’ll be waiting at your front door til your parents go missing too.” 

Colin was concerned. 

Was this a valid threat? Could this Mike Barley know of James whereabouts? Or was this just an internet troll looking for a cheap thrill at the cruel expense of a family desperate to find their son? Colin immediately called the police, who told him to try and initiate a conversation, but the individual never responded. 

There has been no social media activity and banking transactions to indicate that James is out there, but his disappearance the breeds speculation. If James had set out with his lariat rope intent on harming himself, surely evidence would have turned up to support that. But there has been no physical evidence. If James is simply a runaway, he could be anywhere in the country by now. This presents a further challenge, lacking the interest of larger news media outlets like the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation because this story is but one in thousands of missing Canadian youths.

Tragically, neither Colin or Karen Candy know what has become of their son, but Colin keeps searching, when he’s on the road driving truck, he puts up Missing Posters of his son and when home, he’s out on horseback checking large caches of property. Looking for something that will lead to finding their son.

James Candy has vanished, while his parents and siblings agonize over not knowing. In speaking with Colin, I noted that he mentioned “no sign and no remains,” and one can only wonder how painful it is for a parent to say those words aloud. To acknowledge that their missing child might be deceased. 

Left to right Colin Candy Karen Candy and their son James.

They keep searching, without closure or explanation and ignored by a media more interested in stories that will bring sponsors. More sensational stories, but a family suffers that unintended indifference. Not knowing. They have only hope that their son will surface and cling to that because they have little else to go on. They have not given up on James, they want him back in the fold of their family while understanding that time is not a friend, but a forgetful foe. While they are sequestered to a foreseeable future of grief without closure, James will become another statistic among many missing teens.

I’ll close by confiding, that I know Colin Candy. We worked together for several years at a company here in Alberta. While Colin and I didn’t hang together, outside work, I still got to know him. The company we worked for, which will remain nameless, employed many ‘away people’ from places like Newfoundland, Nova Scotia, and even British Columbia. Economic refugees who have set out from a depressed economy in their home province to the welcoming arms of this province. There was a real family atmosphere in that company, and we got to know a lot about each other. What I remember about Colin were the difficulties he and his wife faced during the economic downturn. I also knew he was an upstanding member of his community, working as a volunteer firefighter in Two Hills, Alberta. And I was there when news broke about the death of his son, David. We all felt it, one of our own had suffered a tragedy. And that is why I am penning this. Because, when James went missing, we all shared and often thought about the anguish that Colin and Karen are suffering. To the public, he might be just another missing kid, but perhaps we should all pause and think, we are not invulnerable to a similar tragedy.

It has now been over two years since James Nestor Candy disappeared. 

The search for the Candy’s, friends, and family will continue. 

If you see James or have information about his disappearance, please contact: 6820 Highway 16A W
Vegreville AB T9C 0A7 Telephone: 780-632-2155

You can also learn more about this story by visiting FIND JAMES CANDY at:

https://www.facebook.com/FindJamesCandy/?ref=br_rs