Welcome Message + Big Days + Art/Photo + Travel + More Art/Photos + Clickbait + What's on Page 2 + Music Bullpen
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Whiteness: Lindsay Wincherauk
What happens when the default isn’t questioned? Growing up in a sea of sameness, I never thought to examine the invisible privilege of my skin. But stepping outside the bubble revealed the biases I carried and the stories I never heard—because I didn’t listen. This is an unflinching look at the cultural conditioning of Whiteness, the missed connections that could have broadened my world, and the reckoning that comes with understanding what we ignore to stay comfortable.
Read the OPED below:
What happens when the default isn’t questioned? Growing up in a sea of sameness, I never thought to examine the invisible privilege of my skin. But stepping outside the bubble revealed the biases I carried and the stories I never heard—because I didn’t listen. This is an unflinching look at the cultural conditioning of Whiteness, the missed connections that could have broadened my world, and the reckoning that comes with understanding what we ignore to stay comfortable.
Read the OPED below:
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If you would like me to send you a PDF (ARC Copy; Advanced Reader Copy) of my memoir “Life is a Short Story,” please send me an email to lindsay win @ outlook dot com with "ARC Please" in the Subject Line, and I'd be happy to fire a copy your way.
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Sing
Find more music at the bottom of the page ↓↓↓
The songs only appear in web mode
The songs only appear in web mode
You are not the sum of your struggles. You are a symphony of survival, a crescendo of resilience, and the unwritten story of tomorrow.
- Lindsay Wincherauk
- Lindsay Wincherauk
January 2025
2025
I wake up scared most days. Not terrified, but with a heavy gnawing unease in my chest. As I meander through the hours, I feel stifled and alone. Sharing what’s on my mind seems impossible—who would understand? Besides, I’d hate to burden anyone with my woes. And let me tell you: I f-ing hate my woes.
I’ve come to a fork where I’ve realized something: survival is up to me. Whatever “surviving” means, I don’t want to scrape by; I want to thrive. But at my age, with my health (not whining, just stating facts), relevance feels like smashing through an infinite wall. Not a hurdle but a steel-reinforced monstrosity. It’s not for lack of trying, but sometimes I wonder if I’m not supposed to be okay. Still, I keep going.
In 2025, I was finally recruited after firing out over 1,000 job applications into the void. The catch? I’m now working alongside twenty-somethings. And let me tell you, being the only older person in a sea of youth is LONELY. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. This job keeps us housed, not living, housed. But it’s also draining, sucking the life out of me—and without Wes, Wayne + Fiona, J’s Mum + Aunt, and Gary, we’d have been swallowed by the chasm we were teetering on, maybe falling into a land where the tools of life are a pipe and a powerful lighter.
Dark? Sure. But shallow platitudes don’t erase reality. Dark? Sure. But shallow platitudes don’t erase reality. And if you suggest getting another job, oh, how quickly, people forget the 1,000 job applications.
Remember that steel wall? If I don’t bore through it and create something better for me and my loved ones, I’ll die broke, trying, doing work that saps my soul. My journey started at twelve when I was a dishwasher and busboy at the restaurant my Mum managed. Fifty-two years later, I’ve only come a few steps, and having a twenty-year-old ask, “How’s it going so far?” Reeks of condensation, dismissiveness, and: Do you think it’s okay to talk to someone older like that, as if somehow, at this stage of my life, I’ve found my dream job?
I vent.
Back in the service industry, I’ve noticed something disheartening: many customers seem as miserable and tired as I feel. They’re just going through the motions, feeding caffeine and sugar addiction in a confusing world.
Yesterday brought a moment of warmth. I was crafting beverages, spouting whatever comical nonsense popped into my head, when a dad and his five-year-old son approached the counter. The boy, who wore a Spider-Man sweatshirt, watched me intently.
Child: “Daddy, this man’s funny."
That? That felt good. Comedy comes from pain, and I’ve been voted the fourth funniest person on the planet. (The top three? I have no clue, but I’m betting one’s named Gus or Louise).
I perform stand-up every two weeks at Trees Coffee, where I’m the Resident Story/Truth Teller. My new peer group—twenty-something musicians—they probably won’t ever hang out with me, but we share one thing: PAIN (a creatives sidekick). That connection feels more accurate than the “Welcome in! Any plans for the weekend?” script corporations push to open wallets, somehow not realizing, that corporate gentrification is gross and unoriginal. And besides, instructing kids to force connections with tired and miserable customers is also gross.
I stick to the basics: “Good morning,” “How are you?” “Thank you.” And “You’re Welcome.” That’s my line—Vietnam—far inside.
Was this job card dealt to me so I could impart wisdom? Doubtful. But I’ll endure it. The hardest part isn’t the work itself; it’s the questions. Dismissive ones like, “How’s the job going?” from people who should know better than asking someone forty years older how life can be cruelly unfair. Are you too deft not to realize the older person would like to have his or her life back instead of pretending to be a peer with you, question asker? I want to scream but stay silent instead.
In the last five years, I’ve written 18-20 manuscripts. I’ve walked over 35 million steps (7.7 million in 2024). I’ve read 400 books. I never give up. But depression is a vulture circling overhead, and it’s just as LONELY as working with twenty-somethings.
Unless I break through that wall—and I will—I’ll die saying, “Grande.” And if someone dares to call that a stepping stone, I’ll find a way to go through this computer and… well, you get the idea.
For 2025, my goal is to make a dent in the wall. To press my ear against the steel and listen for the songbirds thriving on the other side. Maybe I’m supposed to talk about depression, break down the stigma and make the world a little less lonely. Because if I can write, walk, read, and perform as I do and still be depressed, what chance does anyone else have?
I don’t know yet what my difference-making will look like. But I’ll (we’ll) figure it out. I’m not naïve enough to think I’m in this alone.
I wish you empathy, compassion, understanding, and kindness in 2025 and beyond. That might be a good place to start.
Love + Hugs,
Lindsay
Child: “Daddy, this man’s funny.”
Me: “Spider-Man… Spider-Man…”
I wake up scared most days. Not terrified, but with a heavy gnawing unease in my chest. As I meander through the hours, I feel stifled and alone. Sharing what’s on my mind seems impossible—who would understand? Besides, I’d hate to burden anyone with my woes. And let me tell you: I f-ing hate my woes.
I’ve come to a fork where I’ve realized something: survival is up to me. Whatever “surviving” means, I don’t want to scrape by; I want to thrive. But at my age, with my health (not whining, just stating facts), relevance feels like smashing through an infinite wall. Not a hurdle but a steel-reinforced monstrosity. It’s not for lack of trying, but sometimes I wonder if I’m not supposed to be okay. Still, I keep going.
In 2025, I was finally recruited after firing out over 1,000 job applications into the void. The catch? I’m now working alongside twenty-somethings. And let me tell you, being the only older person in a sea of youth is LONELY. Don’t get me wrong, I’m grateful. This job keeps us housed, not living, housed. But it’s also draining, sucking the life out of me—and without Wes, Wayne + Fiona, J’s Mum + Aunt, and Gary, we’d have been swallowed by the chasm we were teetering on, maybe falling into a land where the tools of life are a pipe and a powerful lighter.
Dark? Sure. But shallow platitudes don’t erase reality. Dark? Sure. But shallow platitudes don’t erase reality. And if you suggest getting another job, oh, how quickly, people forget the 1,000 job applications.
Remember that steel wall? If I don’t bore through it and create something better for me and my loved ones, I’ll die broke, trying, doing work that saps my soul. My journey started at twelve when I was a dishwasher and busboy at the restaurant my Mum managed. Fifty-two years later, I’ve only come a few steps, and having a twenty-year-old ask, “How’s it going so far?” Reeks of condensation, dismissiveness, and: Do you think it’s okay to talk to someone older like that, as if somehow, at this stage of my life, I’ve found my dream job?
I vent.
Back in the service industry, I’ve noticed something disheartening: many customers seem as miserable and tired as I feel. They’re just going through the motions, feeding caffeine and sugar addiction in a confusing world.
Yesterday brought a moment of warmth. I was crafting beverages, spouting whatever comical nonsense popped into my head, when a dad and his five-year-old son approached the counter. The boy, who wore a Spider-Man sweatshirt, watched me intently.
Child: “Daddy, this man’s funny."
That? That felt good. Comedy comes from pain, and I’ve been voted the fourth funniest person on the planet. (The top three? I have no clue, but I’m betting one’s named Gus or Louise).
I perform stand-up every two weeks at Trees Coffee, where I’m the Resident Story/Truth Teller. My new peer group—twenty-something musicians—they probably won’t ever hang out with me, but we share one thing: PAIN (a creatives sidekick). That connection feels more accurate than the “Welcome in! Any plans for the weekend?” script corporations push to open wallets, somehow not realizing, that corporate gentrification is gross and unoriginal. And besides, instructing kids to force connections with tired and miserable customers is also gross.
I stick to the basics: “Good morning,” “How are you?” “Thank you.” And “You’re Welcome.” That’s my line—Vietnam—far inside.
Was this job card dealt to me so I could impart wisdom? Doubtful. But I’ll endure it. The hardest part isn’t the work itself; it’s the questions. Dismissive ones like, “How’s the job going?” from people who should know better than asking someone forty years older how life can be cruelly unfair. Are you too deft not to realize the older person would like to have his or her life back instead of pretending to be a peer with you, question asker? I want to scream but stay silent instead.
In the last five years, I’ve written 18-20 manuscripts. I’ve walked over 35 million steps (7.7 million in 2024). I’ve read 400 books. I never give up. But depression is a vulture circling overhead, and it’s just as LONELY as working with twenty-somethings.
Unless I break through that wall—and I will—I’ll die saying, “Grande.” And if someone dares to call that a stepping stone, I’ll find a way to go through this computer and… well, you get the idea.
For 2025, my goal is to make a dent in the wall. To press my ear against the steel and listen for the songbirds thriving on the other side. Maybe I’m supposed to talk about depression, break down the stigma and make the world a little less lonely. Because if I can write, walk, read, and perform as I do and still be depressed, what chance does anyone else have?
I don’t know yet what my difference-making will look like. But I’ll (we’ll) figure it out. I’m not naïve enough to think I’m in this alone.
I wish you empathy, compassion, understanding, and kindness in 2025 and beyond. That might be a good place to start.
Love + Hugs,
Lindsay
Child: “Daddy, this man’s funny.”
Me: “Spider-Man… Spider-Man…”
Why I Hate Small Talk: Reason 14,296
AT WORK →↓
“How long have you worked here?" Asked the 20-year-old Supervisor (fill-in Supervisor) to the almost 65-year-old man.”
“Seven months.”
“How’s it going so far?”
Proving not only is there such a thing as a …… question, but there is also such a thing as a tone-deaf rude question.
The older gentleman didn’t like answering the question, “Okay, I guess. I come from a different world; I ran companies, one for 15-years, and was let go on the first day of the pandemic. Now, I’m here, back to the bottom.” His frustration was palpable.
20-Year-Old: “I ran a company for two years, so I know how you feel.” Except for the 44-year disparity in life experiences. And the fact once you learn how to make whipped cream, then what?
65: Murdered the 20-year-old not because they are from different worlds but different planets—and being dismissed by a 20-year-old is akin to having life reduced to small talk.
DO. NOT. ALLOW. YOUR. LIFE. TO. BE. REDUCED. TO. SMALL. TALK.
AND THEN →↓
The 20-year-old even had the gall to say, “Sometimes we have to start at the bottom.” He said this after the 65-year-old showed frustration by holding one hand high and saying, “Before the pandemic, I was up here.” He lowered his hand to waist height and said, “Now I’m down here.”
The 20-year-old Supervisor didn’t seem to understand how hard it is for a 65-year-old to have a 20-year-old Supervisor who has no clue what life will deliver him one day.
Another 20-year-old coworker asked the almost 65-year-old, “Did you see your family over Christmas?”
65 answered unfairly: “I have a complicated family history; half of my family died in December. Three on the 12th. And one on the 21st.” Adding, “I can’t stand small talk.”
AT WORK →↓
“How long have you worked here?" Asked the 20-year-old Supervisor (fill-in Supervisor) to the almost 65-year-old man.”
“Seven months.”
“How’s it going so far?”
Proving not only is there such a thing as a …… question, but there is also such a thing as a tone-deaf rude question.
The older gentleman didn’t like answering the question, “Okay, I guess. I come from a different world; I ran companies, one for 15-years, and was let go on the first day of the pandemic. Now, I’m here, back to the bottom.” His frustration was palpable.
20-Year-Old: “I ran a company for two years, so I know how you feel.” Except for the 44-year disparity in life experiences. And the fact once you learn how to make whipped cream, then what?
65: Murdered the 20-year-old not because they are from different worlds but different planets—and being dismissed by a 20-year-old is akin to having life reduced to small talk.
DO. NOT. ALLOW. YOUR. LIFE. TO. BE. REDUCED. TO. SMALL. TALK.
AND THEN →↓
The 20-year-old even had the gall to say, “Sometimes we have to start at the bottom.” He said this after the 65-year-old showed frustration by holding one hand high and saying, “Before the pandemic, I was up here.” He lowered his hand to waist height and said, “Now I’m down here.”
The 20-year-old Supervisor didn’t seem to understand how hard it is for a 65-year-old to have a 20-year-old Supervisor who has no clue what life will deliver him one day.
Another 20-year-old coworker asked the almost 65-year-old, “Did you see your family over Christmas?”
65 answered unfairly: “I have a complicated family history; half of my family died in December. Three on the 12th. And one on the 21st.” Adding, “I can’t stand small talk.”
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↓The Big Days↓
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There comes a point in life (maybe an age) where if we are not spending most of our time cultivating our passions and chasing our dreams—eventually, you'll become nothing more than small talk.
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Open Mic Nights @treescoffee
450 Granville Streets
(Every Second Thursday Night)
450 Granville Streets
(Every Second Thursday Night)
Set 1: Uplifting Low Points
Set 2: Poetry (Empathy + Compassion)
Set 3: Life is a Short Story - Mums
Set 4: Life is a Short Story - The Fall
Set 5: Life is a Short Story - Haunted
Set 6: Life is a Short Story - Cover Story: The Coincidence Problem
Set 7: Life is a Short Story - Empathy, Compassion + Understanding
Blue = Coming Soon *
* Subject to change on a Whim.
Set 2: Poetry (Empathy + Compassion)
Set 3: Life is a Short Story - Mums
Set 4: Life is a Short Story - The Fall
Set 5: Life is a Short Story - Haunted
Set 6: Life is a Short Story - Cover Story: The Coincidence Problem
Set 7: Life is a Short Story - Empathy, Compassion + Understanding
Blue = Coming Soon *
* Subject to change on a Whim.
The last time Wincherauk applied for work, he said the internet didn’t exist.
“You’re right at age purgatory because for every menial [job] I’m overqualified for and everything that I’m qualified for, nobody’s going to [hire] somebody my age,” he said.
“And it doesn’t matter how hard you try. If no door opens, what happens?”
“You’re right at age purgatory because for every menial [job] I’m overqualified for and everything that I’m qualified for, nobody’s going to [hire] somebody my age,” he said.
“And it doesn’t matter how hard you try. If no door opens, what happens?”
I suspect our collective digital obsession has dulled our ability to listen and empathize truly.
- from "Real Life" a work in progress.
- from "Real Life" a work in progress.
Longest Pass
108TD Lindsay Wincherauk to Gord Bolstad, Edmonton Wildcats (PFC)...Sept 24, 1979
108TD Lindsay Wincherauk to Gord Bolstad, Edmonton Wildcats (PFC)...Sept 24, 1979
1978 National Champion Saskatoon Hilltops
"Boy in the Blue Hammock is worthy of classic status ... Groth's writing is extraordinary, heart-eviscerating and gripping..."
– Lindsay Wincherauk, author of Driving in Reverse
– Lindsay Wincherauk, author of Driving in Reverse
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Wincherauk’s Signature Blend: A Roaring River of Thought
Wincherauk’s pen is not merely a stream of consciousness but a roaring river—a torrent of unbridled imagination, racing, creating, and overflowing with brilliance. A rich fantasy land emerges within this powerful flow, interwoven with reality, where parallel universes collide. This collision brings readers a delicious blend of what is, what could be, and a vision of a better world—romantic fiction that transcends the ordinary.
Wincherauk’s narratives are infinite cascades of ideas draped in empathy, compassion, and profound understanding. It is an island of kindness in the vast ocean of literature. His work is not just writing; it is a symphony of thoughts, a harmonious blend that sings to the soul, making the world a better place, one page at a time.
Wincherauk’s pen is not merely a stream of consciousness but a roaring river—a torrent of unbridled imagination, racing, creating, and overflowing with brilliance. A rich fantasy land emerges within this powerful flow, interwoven with reality, where parallel universes collide. This collision brings readers a delicious blend of what is, what could be, and a vision of a better world—romantic fiction that transcends the ordinary.
Wincherauk’s narratives are infinite cascades of ideas draped in empathy, compassion, and profound understanding. It is an island of kindness in the vast ocean of literature. His work is not just writing; it is a symphony of thoughts, a harmonious blend that sings to the soul, making the world a better place, one page at a time.
Lindsay-The Memoir + Glue + Real Life + The Stairs + Prose + Humans' Bistro + Plus 15 + Abe +
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books ~ photos ~ food ~ comedy ~ tennis
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What's on Page 2
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Music Bullpen
178 Songs in Waiting
(59 x 3) +1
(59 x 3) +1
Write. Read. Sing. Dance. Be Kind.
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unconditional
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