Today is the first day of spring, and I always love the changes to trees and plants and the many colors. But this is now the deathiversary of my brother, Dennis Anderson. I miss him very much and still love him. He was the eldest of four and really, the best big brother. If one of us said we wanted to be an astronaut or a rock star, he never would have laughed, but just suggested ways to make it happen. Truly a supporter, he tried to work to make the world a better place. In a way, that was his downfall.
He was a thinker, a problem solver. Some of his past roles included working at one of Alberta’s first recycling places (long before anyone was thinking of recycling), a broadcaster, an MLA and a minister in the Alberta legislature. Designated a red Tory, because he was always more liberal leaning, he always tried to see both sides of the coin. He wouldn’t necessarily defend criminals or a hated public figure but he would present balancing information and points of view. He was on the board of the Canadian Mental Health Associate, and the Edmonton police commissioner. He was an honorary Thai consul and created the Chimo Project, a pet-assisted therapy program, one of the first of its kind.
He did all this without having ever finished high school, though he did attend the 60s hippie haven called Rochdale College in Ontario. His work in mental health garnered him an honorary degree from the University of Alberta, where I found out for the first time that his love of dogs (Chimo was a dog he owned) started with his first dog Sally, who pulled him back when he was about to jump off a bridge as a pre-teen boy. None of us had an easy life with our parents but Dennis, being the eldest probably faced more anger and abuse than the rest of us. He was probably too sensitive to have been in politics and it chewed him up a lot.
In the years before he died in 2019, I knew something was wrong when he said that maybe people shouldn’t be allowed to vote because they didn’t understand what was going on, and would jump to extreme conclusions (and social media has made this far worse). His statement shocked me because he would have always presented the other side in the past, and tried to discuss and fathom the whys and wherefores.
The darkness was filling his soul, he seemed unhappy; and part of this was caused by years of chronic sleep deprivation. He couldn’t stop think and therefore never selpt. It affected his memory severely and for a thinker, that is a death knell. He’d fainted at one point a couple of years before. It affected his leg and his tastebuds. But the absolutely useless doctor he had somehow didn’t think to test him for a stroke. But Dennis also didn’t trust doctors; not because of their skills but because he’d known enough (including psychologists/psychiatrists) and heard how they talked about their patients. This built a lifelong mistrust so he wouldn’t see them when he should have. He didn’t like when physiotherapists would suggest he do this or that exercise and became petulant. He certainly wasn’t perfect but he was a far better human than he thought he was.
The day he died from complications of sleep apnea, I had just come home and was rescuing a bee. It was still chilly outside and the bee was crawling over a primrose but these flowers have no stamens so there was nothing to feed on. It couldn’t fly. I went upstairs and found a bottle cap, dissolving some jam in water and taking it to the bee. It eventually fed enough to fly away. Only later did I realize that it was about the same time my brother had died.
I miss the deep thoughts Dennis had, his way of cocking an eyebrow when one of us said something, perhaps peculiar or wild or overly opinionated. I miss the way he wouldn’t always outright laugh but give this “hmph.” He liked to play jokes and he enjoyed wine. He loved animals and tried to make things better. This poem was one of many I wrote to express my grief and honor my brother, who gave me my first taste of science fiction. This is a a true story.



















































