Autocorrect Your Writing

One of the biggest challenges in our move to the country, was getting a viable communications system. Even though our driving distance to Red Deer is mere minutes away, our house is perched on a hill at the end of a 400 meter driveway on 40 acres of land. And there ain't no internet cables no where's near by.

Since SHAW was the internet supplier for the community nearest us, we contacted them to see how much it would cost to run a cable up our driveway to the house. We assumed it would be at least $1000. So naive we are... After a month of waiting, the cable guy who assessed the situation came back with a dollar figure, $18,000! We obviously jumped at the chance...

The satellite TV is awesome, there are hundreds of channels that just feature shopping... Then there's Hoarders, my latest addiction. After watching one guy allow over a thousand rats to take over his place, I am very glad our mice have been evicted.

We eventually got a hub for our internet, and it works fairly well, most of the time, except it is on a low bandwidth so Skype can be a challenge.

For me, the most exciting part of our communications network were our new cell phones. The sleek android LG I bought, was my first. Hard to believe, I know, getting my first cell phone at age 50, but it was love at first touch. And this pocket-sized android can do it all. From bluetooth, to call display and call interrupt, the reception is excellent. But making phone calls a breeze is just a small part of this cell phone's repertoire.

It's really a mini-computer where I can do my email, text message, keep up to date on Facebook, tweet, Skype, Google Chat and Google +.

With all the apps and THE most amazing camera phone ever, it rarely leaves my side.

But there is one problem. I have what some phones call "autocorrect" and others "prediction" which tries to read your mind and guess what word you are going to type before you finish. It would be easy to change this setting, but since it's supposed to be a 'smart phone' I decided to see how intelligent it really was.

As I entered the texting world, my vocabulary changed dramatically.
The word 'texting' still invariably changes to 'rectum.' I figured my phone should pick up on this error after the first few times but 'it not so smart after all.'
My name, Doris Fleck, comes out as Forks Fargo no matter what I do. Our cat Sara is Data and our dog Pokey is aptly dubbed Lousy. Now there the prediction is entirely accurate as it describes how she is feeling these days.

Misspelling words as you type (which is really easy as the touch keypad is so small) changes the words even more. Coloring is vomiting and walking becomes salmon (if you miss the last letter), similarly outside becomes pursued.

My favorite name correction is for my friend and first-draft editor Todd Diakow. I have blogged about him earlier here - his name becomes Gods Cosmos. I have taken to calling him the Gods of the Cosmos on a regular basis.

So, if I never changed the corrected words, here is what one of my texts would look like:

Hey Gods of the Cosmos:


The reason for my rectum is to paint a picture of the beautiful sunset as we were salmon pursued. Lousy and Data noticed the vomiting in the sky change from blushing pink to violent purpose. Wish you had been here to see this transportation of the havens.


Forks Fargo


Hmmm, I wonder if I should write my whole novel this way?

How do you like autocorrect and 'smart' phones?

Of Mice And Moving

(with apologies to John Steinbeck)

My name is Doris and it's been over three months since my last blog.
Three months? Unbelievable! I NEVER thought THAT would happen. But in the midst of a summer-long move, the packing material we stuffed in hundreds of boxes got crammed into my brain as well. I'm still in the process of forcibly extricating it.

What words come to mind when you think of moving? My SUPER thesaurus uses synonyms like, "advancing, ascending, transporting, rousing, stimulating..." It sounds so effortless, so energizing, something any couple would want to do on a regular basis...

After the more-than-two-month ordeal was over, I had a different set of words that described our move - "exasperating, back-breaking, pathological, exhausting, debilitating, relentless and interminable."

My husband Peter and I were naive. We hadn't sorted or packed our accumulated 'wealth' for 18 years. During that time, three of our parents died and we inherited many of their photos, letters, books and furniture. We began the process with enthusiasm, by sorting and reading and letting go of little things. Then at the end...well, the end wasn't pretty, but we made it out alive. And I NEVER WANT TO MOVE AGAIN! Ah...that made me feel much better.

This house, in the midst of 40 acres of wooded land, is the closest place to paradise this side of Hawaii. Sunrises burst through our patio doors each morning and sunsets blush their way from pink to purple outside our library windows. Deer come out of the bush to wander the trails at twilight while the eerie cries of wild coyotes evoke a ghostly presence deep in the woods.

On the well-worn path to the willow grove, split-wedge deer tracks cut through the thin crust of snow. Under the willows they press the tall grass into swirls on the ground - their sleep sanctuary for the night. Beavers amble down our driveway to Waskasoo Creek, trying to make it home for a late supper. Millions of stars fire up the night while our celestial flashlight, the moon, guides our steps on midnight walks.

I can't imagine going back to city life after a taste of this.

When we finally got everything moved in and started setting up our guest room, we found out we already had house guests. Mice! And lots of them, if the presence of their poo was anything to go by. I found those pesky little black droppings in the basement rooms, up the stairs, in the kitchen, on the counter-tops, in the shelves and even on top of our spices. There were mouse-size bites in our dried soup mixes and our bullion cubes.

Did you know that the pee of a male mouse contains 3-cyclohexene-1-methanol, Aminotriazole, 4-ethyl phenol, 3-ethyl-2, 7-dimethyl octane and 1-iodoundecane? It could probably fuel our car! These alkanes and alcohols are what makes their pee so pungent. But a female mouse is a creature to be reckoned with as well. She can give birth to a litter of up to 14 young every month... Just do the math.

This meant war!

I was armed with two old-fashioned traps (the same type my parents used on the mice we had in my childhood home). I baited them with THE food a house mouse can not resist... But for our mice I decided to provide nothing but the best - ORGANIC peanut butter. I wanted their last supper to be the finest meal they ever had. The traps started snapping and I started counting. We're at 13 now and there are no mice left but we called in the cavalry to help...actually the 'cat-alry.'

Her name is Sara, she's 11-years-old, she was our nephew's first cat and she is a magnificent mouser. She immediately adopted us and our home. Three days after Sara declared the house and 40-acres HER property, she brought me the first mouse. She now regularly patrols our yard - walking along the wooden fence, dipping her head often to search for any threat to our home. She has become very interested in the voles.

This is the latest word I have added to my new 'country' vocabulary. With 153 species of this burrowing rodent I can't believe I never heard of them before. Voles do an excellent job of aerating our soil, the only problem is we are going to have a garden. A MASSIVE garden. Peter's sister and brother-in-law, who own the house and 40 acres, want to work with us in planting, growing and harvesting our own choice of crops. I'm like one of Pavlov's dogs, salivating just thinking about it.
But these troublesome voles will eat all the roots before the plants even get started. So now the vole trapping is happening in earnest. We have caught two so far and since prairie voles have a great deal of sexual fidelity and remain monogamous, I have high hopes they will be gone by spring.

After living here for two months a whole new set of words come to mind - "rejuvenate, restore, invigorate, awaken, renew."

Now we are set to enjoy our first winter in these woods. Hopefully we will be able to cross-country ski on some of the paths, sled down the hills and skate or snowshoe Waskasoo Creek.

What's your preference - city or country?

Dancing with Dragonflies; Darting from Disaster

My bike tires spin wildly as I careen down the long driveway of our new house. Shimmering red dragonflies flit around me, diving through the humid air. They chase after others that shine with the purest gold and show no racism when joined by those that are glimmering green.

Hundreds of dragonflies are circling my bike, flying with me, swift as the wind. I spin in and out trying not to hit them and as the bright sunlight skips off their diamond-cut backs, shooting colors into the sky. I feel like I am cycling on a road made entirely of precious stones. I am filled with joy. I am in another world.

As I reach the huge gate that now guards the 40 acres we will soon be living on, I find a large, red dragonfly prone on the grass. I bend down and touch the tip of its intricate lacework wing. I stroke it's head and look at those giant, cut-glass eyes.

They stare blankly back. The heat must have been too much. Then I see another crushed into the gravel road, hit by a car, or maybe a bike.... All the sparkle, the life, has gone out of this beautiful creature.

I think about the news report I read this week...more than 12 children are dying in Somalia, every hour, of hunger. The famine there is now affecting nearly half of the Somali population or 3.7 million people. I look down at the decimated dragonfly and gently pick it up, carrying it to the Waskasoo Creek.

 This is the source of their life and now, as I drop it on the swiftly moving stream, the means of this one dragonfly's burial. My joy is mixed with sorrow. This is life...

...and death.

Millions of children caught in political nets, innocent eyes wondering why their stomachs are empty when there should be enough food. Why is it not being given to them? With the way Somalia has been carved up by clan leaders and militias, access to aid groups has to be negotiated every step of the way. That takes time. Many starving children, do not have that kind of time. The sparkle, the creative energy, the love for life is being extinguished, like putting a damper on a candle. All the potential for creativity, for good, for love - gone.

As I bike back through the woods and look at the affluent homes around me, I wonder at the incongruity of this world. Many of the people in this area give money to help the hurting and starving. I give what I can, but I cannot give enough. No one can.

I admire the courage, beauty and strength of the dragonflies, such delicate creatures. Through their transparent wings one can better see the fragility in all of life...

A Somali mother starts the 37-day trek, with her five children, to a Kenyan refugee camp. A day before they arrive her four-year-old daughter and five-year-old son die of exhaustion and hunger. They stopped under the shade of a tree for a short rest. She thinks they are sleeping. She must leave them under the tree and try to save her baby and the other two children. Beauty. Strength. Courage.

I think back a few days ago to the treasures I discovered in my Mom's Cedar chest. There were locks of my hair and the baby bibs my brother and I used. My pink, faded, stained bib proclaimed, "Good Girl!" I wonder how they knew...

This Somali mother will never save precious locks of her children's hair, or their bib's with stains that signify an overabundance of food.

My husband and I are almost moved into a beautiful home nestled in the midst of the woods. This move has been one of the most difficult tasks we have gone through in recent memory. We hate moving and so have made a point to enjoy every moment, delight in the treasures we have discovered and relish the memories old letters and photos have provided. We are truly blessed, but our time is not our own. Even though we do not face imminent starvation and death, we have no idea how long our life's flame will burn...

In these last few weeks, I have determined to let my flame burn as brightly as possible. I will release all my colors into the sky, exploding with everything that is in me. I want to live up to the example I see in my fellow human beings - beauty, strength, courage!

Art Appreciation 101

A few days ago I needed a break from packing and picked a favorite video, Girl With A Pearl Earring. Of course the combination of Colin Firth and Scarlett Johansson is electrifying, but I was more entranced by the art of Johannes Vermeer.

While current artists can purchase their oils in a multitude of colors, this 17th Century Dutch Master had to hand grind and mix his own colors for each day's work. Vermeer had limited sources for the colors he produced and probably employed no more than 15 different pigments in his entire lifetime. This makes the vibrant color schemes of his paintings all the more amazing. These pigments would come from grinding semi-precious stones like lapis lazuli to create Ultramarine Blue, pounding charcoal until it was a powder for Black and heating the poisonous element mercury with sulfur to create Vermilion. Vermeer even painted his patron's wife in "cow piss" or Indian Yellow that came directly from the urine of cattle in the Bengali province, where it is said, farmers fed their cows only mango leaves and water. Vermeer was a perfectionist and it often took him three or more months to finish a painting.

Although we do not own any originals from the Dutch Masters, we have a significant number of original paintings and drawings in our home that will be a joy to hang when we move to our new house.

I loved art as a child and remember spending hours watching my brother draw imaginative Superhero's. His craft matured when he began his meticulously detailed pen and ink drawings. I am still searching for The Clockwise Orange he created at my request.

Rembrandt - a master of light and shade.

Although I can draw, it has never been with the free-flowing ease of my brother. In my Grade 10 art class, one assignment had us creating a reproduction of a Renaissance artist. I picked Rembrandt and decided to do a still life with a lit candle. But I had no idea how difficult it would be to replicate such a masterful painter of light and shade. After spending weeks in frustration, I handed the painting in and begged my instructor to mark me on the one-square inch of candle flame, the only section I was happy with. Amazingly she did.

Peter's mother studied art and we have a number of Gudrun's original pieces in our house, including a pencil sketch she made of Peter sleeping, when he was just a year old. We also have a painting of an orange tree from Peter's sister Elinor. But now she is following in her older sister's footsteps and creating beautiful ceramics.

Our niece, Marcia Harris, gave us one of her earliest pieces as a gift and now her amazing paintings sell-out almost as fast as they are created. As a landscape artist she creates thought-provoking pieces that challenge our pristine view of nature. She often paints a more modern landscape where natural surroundings are forced to co-exist with mankind.

Lynn Kingham's "A Whale of a Pod."

One of my Fat-5 friends, Lynn Kingham, did a charcoal sketch of "Boy" for me in university and did a pencil portrait of Pokey that we treasure. She regularly participates in the "Night of Artists" murals and also in creating unique paintings on the animal sculptures that grace the streets of downtown Victoria.

As we go on a treasure search through our basement, I know we will uncover more of Gudrun's paintings, and possibly some of my brother's as well. Now, if only Michelangelo's statue of David was down there somewhere among the boxes and rubble, I would be truly happy!

My Grandfather's Murder and My Father's Forgiveness

I've been preoccupied with moving lately but as I delved into a book from my father's family history, I realized the move I was making was nothing compared to what he had to endure. Escaping famine, religious persecution, looting and his own father's murder, my dad left the turmoil of Russia behind for a new start in Canada.

I asked him many times what had happened in Russia before he left. He only told me once, then it was through tears as he recounted the excitement turned to fear and devastating loss in the days before they left.

My father gave me, Hierschau by Helmut Huebert, an account of the Mennonite community he grew up in, but I had never read it before today - Father's Day. I was shocked to find in it the details of my grandfather's murder and the events leading up to my father's departure.

A portrait of Catherine the Great.

My dad was from a Dutch Mennonite heritage. His great-great-grandfather moved to Russia after Catherine the Great made an offer to these Mennonites that was too good to refuse. She promised each family 174 acres of land, freedom of religion, exemption from military service (as the Mennonites were pacifists) and no taxes for the first ten years.

Mennonites streamed in to Southern Russia and enjoyed peace and prosperity there for well over a hundred years. The Mennonite colony in Hierschau was founded in 1848 and my father was born there in 1910. But the world Henry Peter Dyck was born into was no longer peaceful. In 1914 Germany declared war on Russia. Food shortages, riots, murders and political unrest marred life in the Russian cities. Although the Mennonite colonies in the south were not as affected by these incidents, the upheaval around them soon reached their land. When the German troops occupied this area in 1918, the Mennonites hoped for some stability. The Germans were not there for long before the Red Army took over. Anarchy and terror reigned as the Red and White Armies fought each other, often in the fertile fields of these Mennonite colonies.

The new government did not honor Catherine the Great's agreement with the Mennonites. Their young men were being conscripted into the army, their religious freedom was gone and officials were interfering with religious instruction in Mennonite schools. Then a large-scale famine hit the fertile Mennonite colonies. Hunger was rampant and local bandits would pilfer food at the cost of others lives. Their monetary currency, the ruble, had been so devalued a barrel-full could not even buy a loaf of bread.

Canada and Paraguay had opened their doors to immigrants and many of the families in Russia were making plans to leave. In August 1926, my father's family sold the last of their possessions and updated their passports, getting ready for the long train and boat trip to Eastern Canada.

The Dyck's were leaving with the Willms family and so had a combined auction to raise some money for the trip. August 24, 1926 was a beautiful day. The borscht flowed freely and articles sold well. My grandfather, Peter Dyck, worked into the night organizing their belongings and counting the money made by the sale. He stayed overnight at the Willms place to protect the large amount of money hidden in the bed mattresses. My dad's oldest brother, Frank, was there too for added security.

Before going to sleep, my grandfather thanked his heavenly Father for the blessings of the day and asked for God's protection on them during the night. Three other men had come to help act as watchmen. Late in the night, as they chatted on the front porch, they heard the creaking of a wagon in the distance. Before they could investigate, bandits suddenly attacked. One of the watchmen was shot, the bullet just grazing his scalp. My dad's brother, Frank, ran to wake the others inside the house but was clubbed over the head and left for dead.

By this time the families were awake and the men tried to make sure the women and children could get safely to the barn. As my grandfather was jumping through a window, he was shot in the head and killed instantly. More shots rang out and one of the bandits was injured as well. As quickly as they attacked, the bandits scattered, without finding the hidden money.

All the gunshots had roused the village and people ran to the Willms house to help. My grandmother, Katharina, thought one of the men on security had been shot. As she came to offer her condolences she found, to her horror, that her husband was dead.

When my dad told me about my grandfather's death, tears overwhelmed him. It was a shock to his whole family. His brother, Frank, recovered from the blow he took to his head and an emotional funeral was held for Peter Dyck a few days later. All eight children cried uncontrollably. Then in early September, the whole family left for a new country, a new life - one without their father.

Fourty-four years after my grandfather was murdered, an anonymous request came from Russia through a third party, asking forgiveness from the Dyck family for this murder. Katharina was no longer living. She had actually stayed with my family for over a year and even though I was a young child, I had a chance to know my strong-willed grandmother.

I remember the tears that flowed freely down my father's cheeks when he said he would forgive this man, who had participated in the robbery that led to the murder of my grandfather. I know forgiving this man was extremely hard for my dad to do, but his ability to forgive has left a lasting impression on me.

My dad was a quiet man but had a deep spiritual strength that marked his life. I hope I will be able to pass on his legacy, of love and forgiveness, to others through my life.

In The Move Groove.

It’s only been seven months since I started blogging and already it has changed my world. If it wasn't for Heidi constantly nagging me - asking me every other day “when was I going to FINALLY start a blog?” - I may have never begun. Heidi, you’re going to make someone a ‘fantastic’ wife someday...

Now I am totally obsessed by my blog statistics, especially how many people read my posts and where they are from. Initially, these stats were pretty boring. If 30 or 40 people read a post, it was miraculous. The majority of my readers were family and friends from Canada, with a healthy smattering of US citizens and a few from the Commonwealth countries.

Then the tsunami and earthquake hit Japan in early March. After trying to explain nuclear fission to my husband, Peter, one night, I decided to write about the Nuclear Meltdown that was (and still is) occurring at the Fukushima reactors. Overnight this post found an international audience. Countries like the U.K., Australia, Japan, Germany, India, Indonesia and Iran began popping up. Then my post was reprinted on a medical site in Slovenia that dealt with the aftermath of Chernobyl and I am still getting readers from this country. Now I can hardly wait to see how my international audience has grown. Peter is getting used to me shouting out the names of countries the first time they appear, like “Iceland! Kazakhstan! Bosnia!” or more recently, “United Arab Emirates!”

This international audience has made posting blogs much more fun. Since I wrote Sense or Censorship two months ago, it has garnered over 1000 visits. That's totally blown me away! I really have to thank my friend and writing partner, Methodius, for pushing me to write about this topic. I never expected literary censorship to be such a hotbed of interest.

Currently though, I am surrounded by a new project. I am in the midst of many boxes. Hundreds of them to be exact, mostly filled with unknown ‘treasures’ I have yet to discover. You see, we are moving. That very statement brings to mind a famous line from T.S. Eliot’s poem, The Hollow Men – “The horror! The horror!”

Those of you who have ever moved a vast amount of baggage know what I mean. If there was a huge dislike button, I’d be pressing it. In the 21 years Peter and I have been married, we’ve moved once. That was over 17 years ago and we have literally gained a ton of stuff since then. UGH! But a wonderful opportunity has come to us and it’s time for a change. (Also time to hit the ‘dislike’ button again...did I tell you how much I dislike change)?

And this change is radical, not like just moving across town. We will be leaving the city and living in a house on 40 acres of wooded land. So instead of watching the police bust a drug house down the street, we will be watching the deer sleep in our back yard, listening to a thousand birds sing, and making sure we don't antagonize the moose.

Although every city neighborhood has a few villainous individuals, we have been blessed to live near some pretty remarkable neighbors - who have now become very close friends. I will miss the ebb and flow of these people coming and going from our house. I grew up in a country setting where we never locked our doors or closed the blinds on our windows. And I still maintain an ‘open door’ policy where friends are encouraged to just ‘drop in.’ But sometimes other creatures have decided to drop in too...Once a mouse took up residence in our living room for a few days until I saw his shadow scurrying across the floor. Then there was the cat that wandered in and began exploring our basement. It was as much a shock for Peter as it was for the cat when they encountered each other.

The great thing about our new place is that family will be living close to us. That will be a huge blessing and an opportunity to get to know some of our nieces and nephews better.

But how are we supposed to get all our junk from here to there? We don't have a lot of experience and both me and my husband are pack rats, of sorts. I like to think Peter is much worse than me, having inherited the ‘pack rat’ gene from his mother. But as I am wading through box after box of personal correspondence, I realize I must have a genetic predisposition to be a hoarder as well.

I found my baby bracelet from the hospital, a birthday card from my first birthday (which was quite some time ago now), a tiny stone from the Roman Coliseum my brother brought back for me, (this was before security guards stopped people from absconding pieces of their historical monuments...unfortunately my brother encountered police at Stonehenge otherwise I might have a piece of that too)!

Then there are all the letters, notes, cards and postcards from the Fat-5, other friends and family. I have kept every meaningful and interesting card and letter anyone has ever given me. Since there are artists on both sides of our family, many of these are amazing and unique. But hey, I did throw out all the original Bloom County and Doonesbury comics I had kept from the 80s.

So you can see why I need your advice. What do we move first (we have a month to get it done) and what can we move last? What do we do with the old boxes of black and white photos we have? Does anyone remember slides and slide projectors? What if I want to throw out a couple dozen boxes of junk but Peter thinks they’re worth more than gold? How can we not kill each other? Does anyone want a used process camera? (It’s free if you haul it away).

I’m going to share a BEFORE photo of a small section of our basement now. And yeah, this is also BEFORE we started packing. These boxes and CDs normally lie all over our ping pong table.

Have you heard my cry for help???

Three Chords And The Truth - Three Things That Changed Bono's Life

I'm 'getting on my boots' for the U2 360 tour in Edmonton on June 1. It’s my third U2 concert in three different decades. I have seen them grow from a fledgling group that couldn’t fill the small Queen Elizabeth Playhouse in Vancouver, to a world-renowned foursome that can sellout massive stadiums in minutes.

The first time I listened to U2, I couldn’t stand them. It was 1981 and I was a 20-year-old university student who liked progressive rock bands like Yes, ELP and Jethro Tull. I applauded musicians that were at the top of their league. This “New Wave” music didn’t do much for me.

The lead singer was called “Bono Vox” which meant “good voice,” but he needed to sing with the reverb at full to make his voice palatable. The only talented member of the foursome was their guitarist, The Edge. He created a whole new sonic sound with his guitars that had me entranced.

But I had created stringent rules for listening to music. Every album had to have five complete listens before I trashed it, so I took U2’s first album, Boy, and played it on my record player for the next few days. Their songs had depth and soul I hadn't noticed the first time through. I couldn’t get them out of my head. I soon found myself joining the rapidly growing ranks of U2 minions. I was hooked.

When their second album, October, came out, I painstakingly wrote out all the lyrics. It was while listening to Tomorrow over and over again, that I realized something horrific had happened to Bono.

His Mother's Death

The spellbinding lyrics and music in Tomorrow tells the story of a frightened boy being forced to go to a funeral. He just couldn't face the loss of his mother.

Bono's mother was at her father's funeral when she fainted. Or so her 15-year-old son was told. She had really suffered a brain hemorrhage and died a few days later. This left Bono without the mother who had given him such love and filled his world with life. After she died his father and older brother tried to make their house a home, but Bono often said he was surprised they didn’t kill each other. He credits his mother’s death with driving him to an understanding of Christianity. This was the first change that would set the stage for the rest of his life.

Bono says, “...in this despair, I did pray to God. And I discovered that, even sometimes in the silence, God does answer. The answer may not be the one you want to hear but there’s always an answer, if you are serious, if you are ready to let go.”

U2 Begins

Then came that fateful day at Mount Temple School when Bono responded to a note placed by 14-year-old Larry Mullen saying, "Drummer seeks musicians to form band."

Larry himself says, "I just thought of it as a bit of fun, it was never anything else. No big ideas. No expectations, really."

Larry was taking drum lessons and could actually play the drums, well, a bit anyway. Dave (Edge) Evans brought his yellow Flying V guitar. Adam Clayton just looked cool with his Afghan coat and blond afro. He couldn't play the bass but he did own one and that meant he was in the band. And Bono...well...Larry says, “It was the Larry Mullen Band for about 10 minutes, so as not to hurt my feelings. It was also my kitchen. Then Bono came in and that was the end of that. He blew any chance I had of being in charge.”

Edge says, "Bono didn't even have a guitar but he seemed to think he was the lead guitarist." Larry concurs, "It was obvious from the beginning that Bono was going to be the singer, not because of his great voice but because he didn't have a guitar...what else was he going to do?"

All the band members described themselves as awful and I have some of their first 45’s to prove it!

Live Aid

The third event that changed Bono’s life started at Live Aid in 1985. They were playing on London’s Wembley Stadium, when Bono noticed a girl being crushed by the crowd. Bono jumped off the stage and, with the help of the security people, pulled her out and then danced with her. The song they were playing, Bad, went on for 14 minutes – it is the moment in U2 history that established them as a pre-eminent live group.

African Enigma

Live Aid raised nearly $284 million for famine relief in Africa. It sounds like an enormous success but when Bono heard that South Africa’s foreign debt rose to $23.5 billion in 1985, this money seemed insignificant.

Soon after Live Aid, the humanitarian agency World Vision asked Bono if he and his wife, Ali, would like to come to Ethiopia as volunteers and see the famine for themselves. “We left for an adventure that would change our lives,” Bono says.

For six weeks they worked in an orphanage in Wello, Ethiopia. “You’d wake up in the morning and the mist would be lifting. You’d walk out of your tent and you’d count the bodies of dead and abandoned children," Bono says. "It’s a truly shocking sight to see thousands and thousands of people in rags, who’ve walked all night to come to our feeding station, only to stand outside and not be let in, and watch the other Ethiopians eating their food and yet have no malice...I was really humbled by them.”

One day a father placed his son in Bono’s arms. The father said, “You can afford to take this boy. You can look after him. If you don’t take him he will surely die.”

Bono couldn’t take him and looked the father in the eyes, telling him that. But that moment of anguish stayed in his heart. “In a certain sense, I have always taken that boy with me,” Bono says referring to all the work he does to help fight AIDS, provide lowered trade embargos and Drop the Debt in Africa.

Bono’s humanitarian and advocacy work on behalf of the African continent has seen him nominated for the Nobel Peace Prize three times and awarded Knighthood in Britain.

During U2 tours he tirelessly meets with presidents, prime ministers, and any other world leader that will listen to his plea for aid to Africans.

"Most of the time I would come back from those meetings, conferences, marches or rallies and arrive on the stage two feet taller," says the diminutive Irishman. "I'm floating because of what could become of all this. And I feel God's blessing on it. You can't out-give God, I've noticed. I feel like I've been carried by people's prayers."

Bono explains he was always seeking the Lord's blessing on the things he was doing - his music, his family, his 'big ideas.' Then he met this 'wise man' who said, "Stop asking God to bless what you are doing. Get involved in what God's doing because it's already blessed."

This encouraged Bono to pursue his work on behalf of the people of Africa. "God is always with the poor," Bono says. "That is what He is doing. That's what He's calling us to do."