Pic of the Day

The Rise and Fall of Toronto’s Alexander Wood Statue

Yesterday, while reading, I came across a reference that stopped me in my tracks: gay men in Toronto rubbing the bare butt on a statue for luck. As both a gay man and a museum person, that kind of detail lights up every curiosity circuit in my brain. The scene also reminded me of the old military practice of the “short arm inspection”—the venereal disease check that required soldiers to line up and present themselves for examination. Little moments of sexualized institutional history like that have always existed in the margins, half whispered but universally known.

And so it seemed fitting that the statue in question was the Alexander Wood monument that once stood in Toronto’s Church and Wellesley Village—a monument rooted in its own scandal of inspection, accusation, and rumor.

Alexander Wood (1772–1844) was a Scottish merchant and magistrate who became a prominent figure in early Toronto (then York). He served in several civic roles and was involved in shaping the young colony. But today, he’s remembered primarily for a scandal that forever marked his reputation—and later, queer history.

In 1810, a young woman named Miss Bailey claimed she had been sexually assaulted. Her description was vague, but she insisted she could identify the assailant by marks on his genitals.

As a magistrate, Wood investigated the case, questioning several male suspects. Historical accounts state that he personally inspected their genitals to look for corroborating marks.

This highly unusual method sparked gossip and ridicule.

What makes the incident even murkier is that many historians doubt the woman’s existence altogether. Some believe “Magdalena Nagle” may have been invented—either by Wood, his rivals, or the community at large. The absence of solid records fueled speculation in his own time and afterwards.

Regardless, the scandal led to public humiliation and accusations—spoken and unspoken—about Wood’s sexuality. Though never charged with wrongdoing, he fled temporarily to Scotland before quietly returning to his life in Upper Canada.

In 2005, Toronto’s LGBTQ+ community sought to commemorate queer history in public space. Although Wood’s sexual orientation is not documented, many queer historians reclaimed him as a possible queer ancestor—a man punished socially for perceived sexual deviance long before there was a vocabulary to defend himself.

Thus the community commissioned a statue honoring both his life and his place in queer memory.

lThe bronze sculpture, created by Del Newbigging, depicted Wood in early-19th-century attire—not a military uniform, but the formal dress of a gentleman of his era. His pose was confident, with one hand tucked behind him and the other holding a walking stick.

At the base of the statue was a plaque showing an engraved tableau: a young militia soldier with his pants partially lowered, presenting his bare buttocks for Wood’s infamous inspection. That image wasn’t part of the main statue—it was the plaque that made the scandal visually explicit.

And then came the charmingly queer detail: Newbigging openly stated that he modeled the soldier’s butt on the backside of his own partner.

A gift of love, art, and cheeky community pride.

The Village quickly embraced the statue with a sense of humor. Gay men began rubbing the bare butt on the plaque for luck, and as is always the case with bronze, repeated contact polished the metal to a gleaming shine. What started as a joke became a familiar ritual—a flirtatious, communal wink at queer history.

Placed at the entrance of Church and Wellesley, the statue served as a landmark for Toronto’s queer community. It stood in a district deeply associated with LGBTQ+ identity, activism, and resilience, marking the neighborhood with a figure reclaimed from historical shaming.

For many, it symbolized both pride and solidarity—a public monument that didn’t hide the queer interpretation but made it impossible to ignore.

Over time, the statue’s presence became more complicated. Some critiques focused on its campy sexualization or the historical uncertainty of Wood’s queerness. But a more serious criticism emerged:

Alexander Wood served on the Society for Converting and Civilizing the Indians and Propagating the Gospel Among Destitute Settlers in Upper Canada—an organization whose mission and practices were part of the colonial machinery that later contributed to the development of the Indian residential school system in Canada.

For Indigenous activists and allies, Wood’s connection to early assimilationist institutions made him an inappropriate figure for public commemoration. This dimension of his legacy was long overlooked but gained prominence in recent years as Canada confronted the deep harms of residential schools.

The statue thus became not only a queer symbol but also a site of contested memory.

When the site was sold to a condominium developer in 2022, community groups requested that the statue be relocated rather than removed. But issues of ownership, cost, and ongoing controversy complicated the process.

The statue was taken down quietly.

Placed in storage.

And ultimately destroyed—a loss that felt abrupt and painful to those who viewed it as a cornerstone of Village identity.

The Alexander Wood statue existed at the crossroads of queer reclamation, artistic expression, colonial history, and community identity. Its destruction leaves a literal void in the Village streetscape—a reminder that public memory is fragile and often shaped by forces beyond our control.

The polished bronze butt on the plaque may be gone, but the story remains:

of queer history reclaimed, contested, celebrated, and sometimes lost

And maybe that is the nature of queer memory itself—surviving in the stories we continue to tell.

Pic of the Day

Feeling a Bit Low Today

I really don’t have much to say today. I’m feeling a bit low — just a little sad and worn down — and I’m not up to writing much this morning. Some days are like that: quiet, heavy, and a little gray around the edges.

I’m giving myself permission to keep things simple today, and I hope you’ll do the same if you need it. Be kind to yourselves, and I’ll be back when my spirits lift a bit.

Pic of the Day

If Time Would Let Us

 

If Time Would Let Us
By Theresa Williams Hudson
 
I wish we could wake
each morning forever—
the soft light on your face,
your breath beside mine,
the world still quiet,
just us.
 
But time is a thief
with gentle hands,
unfolding the hours
like pages we didn’t mean to turn.
 
I watch you in moments—
your laugh,
the way your eyes still find mine
in a crowded room,
the way your hand finds mine
in the dark.
 
And I think—
what if this is all we get?
 
What if this love,
this life,
was always a flame meant to flicker
just long enough
to change everything it touched?
 
Time is slowing.
Time is ending.
And still, I’d choose you
in every hour we’re given.
 
Even in the leaving,
you’re worth the ache.
Even in the silence,
you echo.
 
If time would let us,
I’d never let you go.
But if it must,
then let me love you
so fiercely
you feel me
even in the quiet after.
 
 
About the Poem
 
This past Saturday, November 29, marked ten years since I lost a dear friend in a car accident. He and I met through this blog. What began as comments and emails grew into an everyday friendship—we texted constantly, starting each morning with a “good morning” and ending each night with “I love you.”
 
We never got the chance to meet in person, though we had planned to. My next academic conference was going to bring me to his city, and we were both excited to finally see each other face to face. Until then, our friendship lived in words—words that carried us through laughter, struggles, and the simple comfort of daily check-ins.
 
His life had been unbearably difficult. When he came out, his family disowned him. The boyfriend who had inspired him to come out abandoned him when he needed love most. He suffered night terrors almost every evening, haunted by the cruel voices planted in him by those who should have cared for him. And yet, he was one of the sweetest souls I’ve ever known. He loved browsing the greeting card aisle, picking out cards that reminded him of friends, and sending them just because. I still have many of those cards and treasure them. He even sent cards to his family, though they always came back unopened—sometimes with hateful notes scrawled across them.
 
But in the months before his death, things were finally turning around. He had a boyfriend who loved him deeply, a man who planned to propose to him on Christmas morning. He had a good job, was preparing to move back near his partner, and was about to begin graduate school. For the first time in a long time, his life was on the verge of stability, love, and happiness. And then, tragedy took him away.
 
Though he was in my life for only a short time, his influence was profound. He gave me strength and courage when I needed it most. Once, when I was nervous about meeting someone I’d connected with online, he encouraged me to take the chance. I did, and that leap became a lasting relationship with a man who was not only a boyfriend, but also a fellow scholar and Episcopal priest, someone I could talk to about both history and faith. That never would have happened without my friend urging me to step out of my comfort zone.
 
After his death, I couldn’t even say his name without bursting into tears. For years, grief made his memory almost too heavy to bear. Yet time, though it took him from me, also left behind echoes—his laughter, his words of encouragement, his insistence that life is meant to be embraced. Today, I keep a framed picture of him in my living room. When I hesitate at the edge of change, I look at that picture, and I can almost hear him telling me again: take the chance.
 
Theresa Williams Hudson’s poem captures the ache of this anniversary perfectly. “But time is a thief with gentle hands, unfolding the hours like pages we didn’t mean to turn.” That’s how it felt—like the story of his life was moving toward hope, only to have the pages snatched away before he could finish the chapter. Her words—“what if this love, this life, was always a flame meant to flicker just long enough to change everything it touched?”—remind me that though his flame was short, it changed me forever.

Hudson ends with: “Even in the leaving, you’re worth the ache. Even in the silence, you echo.” That is exactly how I remember my friend. Even ten years later, he is worth every ache of grief. And even in the silence of his absence, he still echoes in my life—in kindness, in courage, and in love. He is the one who encouraged me to take the risk of applying for the job in Vermont, the one decision that reshaped my life and brought me here. Every time I step into a new chapter, I carry his voice with me. If time would have let us, I would never have let him go. Since it didn’t, I live more fully because of him.

About the Poet
 
Theresa Williams Hudson is a contemporary poet whose work often explores love, loss, and the passing of time. Writing in free verse, she draws on intimate moments and everyday images to capture emotions that feel both deeply personal and universally resonant. Her poetry has circulated widely online, where its honesty and tenderness have found a devoted readership. “If Time Would Let Us” exemplifies her ability to distill profound truths into lyrical simplicity, reminding us that even the most fleeting connections can echo long after time has moved on.

Pic of the Day

A Busy Start to the Week

Today is shaping up to be one of those days where everything seems to land at once. I’ll spend the first half of the morning setting up for a class, and the second half actually teaching it. Then, once the students are gone, I’ll be putting away all of the materials and resetting the space.

And that’s just the morning.

This afternoon I’ll be heading up to Burlington for an ultrasound of my liver. I had bloodwork done on Friday, and tomorrow I meet with my liver specialist—so it’s going to be a medically themed start to the week whether I like it or not. On top of that, someone is coming by to replace my windshield because the crack that’s been creeping across the bottom finally decided to make itself a priority.

So yes… a great deal of juggling today, and a sincere hope that everything runs on schedule.

Before I get swept up in the chaos, I want to thank everyone for the birthday wishes yesterday. It meant a lot. I had a quiet day at home with Isabella—never a bad way to spend a birthday—and I’m grateful for all the kind messages.

I hope everyone has a wonderful week ahead. May yours be a little calmer than mine is starting out to be!

Pics of the Day

Another Year of Becoming

All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.

— Psalm 139:16

Birthdays can stir up a whole symphony of emotions. Some years we celebrate with joy; other years, we feel the weight of who’s missing, what’s changed, or where life didn’t unfold the way we hoped. But whether the candle count excites us or unnerves us, a birthday is always—always—an invitation to grace.

One of my favorite verses for days like this comes from Psalm 139:16:

“All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.”

That verse isn’t about fate or predestination so much as it is about belonging—the reminder that our lives are not accidents, even when they feel messy, lonely, or unfinished. For LGBTQ+ Christians, a birthday can carry an extra layer of meaning: another year of surviving a world that often misunderstands us; another year of claiming our place in the world; another year of living truthfully, even when truth has cost us something.

Birthdays remind us that God’s faithfulness is not measured in milestones. It’s measured in presence.

Another year of God sitting with us in our sadness.

Another year of God celebrating with us in small victories.

Another year of God whispering, You are fearfully and wonderfully made—even when we don’t feel fearfully wonderful at all.

In John 10:10, Jesus says, “I came that they may have life, and have it abundantly.”

Abundance does not mean perfection. It doesn’t mean a life without mistakes or heartbreak. It means the fullness of being truly alive: loving, learning, grieving, healing, laughing, resting, trying again.

Every birthday is a living testament that God isn’t finished with us.

For many of us, the older we get, the more complicated birthdays become. Maybe we think about people who should still be here. Maybe we reflect on choices we made or didn’t make. Maybe we hear that little voice saying we’re behind somehow, as if life is a race with a single finish line.

But God’s voice is different. God’s voice says:

You’re right on time.

You’re still growing.

You’re still becoming.

Your story is not over.

And for queer folks—for anyone who has ever had to fight for the right to live fully—each birthday is nothing short of sacred.

It’s a celebration of resilience.

A celebration of authenticity.

A celebration of the courage it took to get here.

And I’ll be honest: I wrote this devotional today because it’s my birthday. Birthdays always make me reflective—sometimes wistful, sometimes grateful, always a little contemplative. So if you’re reading this and today is your birthday too, or if yours is coming up soon, know you’re not alone in whatever mix of emotions you’re carrying.

Whether this year comes with cake and candles or simply a quiet moment with your thoughts—or a purring companion curled up next to you—may it remind you of this truth:

You are here. You are loved. And God delights in the person you are becoming, year by year, breath by breath.

Happy birthday to everyone who needs to hear this today. And a quiet “happy birthday” to myself, too—grateful for another year of life, love, and God’s gentle presence.

Pic of the Day

Moment of Zen: Lazy Day

Some days call for ambition; others call for claiming my spot on the couch and staying there.

Pic of the Day

Winter Lights and Birthday Traditions

A good friend of mine—also from Alabama, and though younger than me grew up not far from where I did—and I are heading out tonight for Winter Lights at Shelburne Museum. It’s one of those wonderfully over-the-top holiday displays that hits you with the full force of color, sparkle, and pure seasonal joy. The whole campus is transformed with imaginative light installations: buildings glowing in bold colors, gardens wrapped in shimmering displays, and even musical moments tucked throughout.

We’re starting the evening with a nice birthday dinner. Usually, we go to Waterworks in Winooski because they’re the only place that carries a wine we both love, but since alcohol is off the table for me now, we decided on a different kind of celebration. After dinner, we’ll head over to Winter Lights for the full holiday experience. I just need to decide whether I’m in the mood for steak or Italian tonight.

Holiday lights have always been a soft spot for me. I’ve been to a few of these special displays before—there was a similar event at the Montgomery Zoo I used to go to with a former girlfriend, and I’ve been to the lights at Callaway Gardens in Georgia. When I was a kid, Christmas Eve meant going to my mother’s parents’ house, and Pop would take us driving to look at all the decorated homes. It was one of my favorite traditions.

A friend of mine once lived in Thibodaux, Louisiana, and that town always went all out—bright, tacky, gaudy, and absolutely over the top. But it was fun. And on my 40th birthday, a friend took me up to Montreal, where we stayed at a hotel on the edge of the Gay Village overlooking a little park near the Berri-UQAM Metro station. They had a small winter festival happening, and it made for such a beautiful scene.

So tonight feels like a continuation of all those good memories: a nice dinner with a friend, a wander through glowing holiday lights, and maybe a cup of Lake Champlain Chocolates hot cocoa to warm things up. A pretty perfect way to celebrate another year.

Pics of the Day

A Quiet Table, a Full Heart

This Thanksgiving will be a small one for me, but it will still be a good one. I’ll be making my own little feast: turkey, cornbread dressing, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Truth be told, I’m mostly looking forward to the dressing. It has always been one of my favorite foods of the season—comfort, tradition, and memory all in one dish.

It will just be me and my lovely Isabella at the table this year, and honestly, I wouldn’t have it any other way. She has truly been a lifesaver for me in more ways than I can count. She has an uncanny way of knowing when I don’t feel well, when I’m anxious, or when I just need quiet company. I am deeply thankful for her sweet, steady presence in my life.

I’m also incredibly thankful for my friendships—especially Susan—and for the people who show up for me again and again with kindness, laughter, and support. And yes, I’m even thankful for my family, even though they do manage to drive me crazy most of the time. Love is complicated, but it is still love.

Most of all today, I want to thank you—my wonderful readers. So many of you are so encouraging in your comments, and over the years I have made real, meaningful friendships through this little corner of the internet. Some of you I still hear from often. Some I haven’t heard from in a long time. And some I know have passed on. Each of you, in your own way, has made an impact on my life, and for that I am truly grateful.

I know some of you rarely comment publicly, but every once in a while I’ll receive a quiet email instead—and I treasure those messages just as much. In fifteen years of writing this blog, I’m grateful to say that negativity has been rare. The overwhelming majority of what I receive from you is warmth, encouragement, and generosity of spirit. That is no small gift.

To my readers in the United States, I wish you a peaceful, joyful Thanksgiving. And to those of you around the world who don’t celebrate this holiday—please know how thankful I am for you being part of my life all the same.

Today, my table may be small, but my gratitude is anything but.

Happy Thanksgiving, my friends. 🦃❤️

A Rough Day, a Better Morning

It’s been a bit of a rough 24 hours. Yesterday started with a migraine and nausea, and the longer I was up, the worse it got. Eventually the vomiting joined the party, and needless to say, I did not work yesterday. Instead, I slept off and on all day with my sweet Isabella curled up beside me. She’s always been good at sensing when I’m not feeling well. Sometimes that means she snuggles close; sometimes she simply stations herself nearby like a little feline guardian. She used to wake me up when my blood sugar dropped too low—thankfully that hasn’t been an issue for quite a while—but she’s still the most empathetic cat I’ve ever known.

I went to bed early last night but woke from a bad dream around 1:30 a.m. I’m not sure I’d call it a nightmare, but it was unpleasant enough to make getting back to sleep difficult. Eventually I drifted off again and slept until 5:15 a.m.—which is quite a bit later than Isabella usually allows. This time, at least, I was having a far more enjoyable dream. Let’s just say it involved meeting two guys at a bar and a rather delightful ménage à trois. Waking up from that was certainly nicer than waking up from yesterday’s misery.

I’m feeling much better today, thankfully. I’ll be at work for my half-day and need to get a few preparations done for the classes coming in next week. Afterward, I have a few errands to run, but I’m hoping it will be a good, calm day.

I hope all of you have a pleasant day as well. May it be migraine-free and maybe even dream-enhanced.

Pic of the Day

Thanksgiving

Thanksgiving

by James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916)

Let us be thankful—not only because

  Since last our universal thanks were told

We have grown greater in the world’s applause,

  And fortune’s newer smiles surpass the old—

But thankful for all things that come as alms

  From out the open hand of Providence:

The summer’s sunshine and the winter’s calms,

  And all the glad return of recompense.

For we are richer than we know, or need;

  The measure of our daily bread is more

Than we can gather in our hands, or heed,

  Because of God’s munificence and store.

And so, amid the tumult and the strife,

  Let us give thanks for an untroubled time;

For all the blessings of a quiet life,

  And peace from every care and every crime.

About the Poem

As we move into Thanksgiving week—a short one for many of us, and hopefully a peaceful one—it feels right to slow down, take a breath, and sit with a poem that understands the holiday not as perfection, but as presence. James Whitcomb Riley’s “Thanksgiving” is simple on its surface, yet gently profound in its reminder that gratitude often lives quietly in the ordinary spaces of our lives.

Riley is sometimes called the “Hoosier Poet,” known for his nostalgic portrayals of Midwestern life. But “Thanksgiving” reaches far beyond its setting. The poem invites us to be grateful not just for success or blessings that shine, but also for the quieter graces—calm days, sufficient bread, moments of peace in a noisy world.

It’s a gentle reminder that gratitude doesn’t only come wrapped in celebration. Sometimes it comes in small mercies: time off before a holiday, a quiet office, or even the chance to sit with memories of those we’ve loved and lost. For many LGBTQ+ people, Thanksgiving can be complicated, but Riley’s poem offers a form of gratitude that doesn’t require perfection—just awareness.

This week, many of us juggle traditions, emotions, travel, absence, and the bittersweet ache of remembering those who won’t sit at the table with us anymore. Gratitude can be tender, even painful. And yet, as Riley writes, we “are richer than we know,” not because everything is easy, but because blessings—large and small—still find their way into our days.

For LGBTQ+ folks especially, finding spaces where we can breathe, belong, or simply rest is a blessing worth naming.

As we enter this holiday week, may we find gratitude in whatever form it takes—joyful, quiet, complicated, or tender. May we honor the memories that still ache, the friends who steady us, the moments of peace that carry us through. And may we remember that grace often hides in the ordinary.

Wishing everyone a gentle and meaningful Thanksgiving week.

About the Poet

James Whitcomb Riley (1849–1916) was one of America’s most beloved popular poets. Sometimes sentimental, often nostalgic, he captured a vision of everyday American life rooted in kindness, simplicity, and warmth. His work was widely read in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, often recited at gatherings and printed in holiday editions of newspapers and magazines. “Thanksgiving” reflects the accessible, heartfelt tone for which he was known.