The devastation is unbelievable.

In the aftermath of an earthquake that: measured 8.9 on the Richter scale, moved Japan’s coastline 8 feet and shifted the earth’s axis by four inches, a wall of water, 30 feet high in spots and reaching as much as six miles inland, destroyed whatever the quake hadn’t and caused a massive whirlpool to form.

And as if it weren’t bad enough to have to deal with the destruction from the quake and the resulting tsunami, the Fukushima Daiichi nuclear plant suffered an explosion – not of the nuclear reactor itself – but the building housing it was severely damaged. In addition to that, the generators that help regulate the temperature of the reactor are no longer working – so  the employees of the plant are having to cool it with sea water to stop what would be a catastrophic explosion if the core temperature reached critical limits.

So, consider all that destruction for a moment. Try and conceive of your whole world being literally torn away from under your feet. Imagine being part of the worst hit communities in Miyagi Prefecture – homes, land, businesses all swept away by a vicious and unstoppable wall of water. Imagine yourself as a survivor of that, wondering if your family, friends and co-workers made it to safety. Not being sure of how to find them, or get in contact with anyone to let them know that you were one of the lucky ones. Try and feel some part of the grief that comes with losing everything you know and love.

Have you got all that misery, fear, pain and confusion before your eyes?

Good.

Now imagine someone telling you that you deserved it – all of it – for something that happened 70 years ago.

Feel angry? Disgusted? Sickened by the thought that a fellow human being could wish that on you? That anyone might take pleasure in your loss and misery?

There are many people posting on Facebook and Twitter who believe that the earthquake and tsunami and all the damage and deaths that resulted from it are karmic payback for the Japanese bombing of Pearl Harbor.

I wish I were kidding, but no, there are people out there who think that God had a hand in doling out punishment for the events at Pearl Harbor.

So, let me provide some facts about Pearl Harbor and the “punishment” for the deaths that occurred there:

• The Pearl Harbor bombing took place on December 7, 1941, killing 2,402 and wounding 1,282.
• The United States got their “revenge” by unloading atomic bombs on both Hiroshima and Nagasaki on August 6 and August 9 1945, respectively.
• Those bombings killed 90,000–166,000 people in Hiroshima and 60,000–80,000 in Nagasaki – and about half of those deaths were on the day of the bombings, the rest took place from radiation sickness and flash burns in the following months. The majority of the dead were innocent civilians.

At the very least, 150,000 people died as result of the United States bombing both Hiroshima and Nagasaki, and 2,400 military personnel died in the attack on Pearl Harbor. If you want to talk straight revenge, eye for an eye sort of revenge, technically, the US “owes” Japan about 147,600 US deaths to “even the score”.

It hadn’t occurred to me that there could be anyone so callous, so lacking in human sympathy and empathy that they would feel gleeful or vindicated by watching another country get gutted by a natural disaster – that even one person could feel that way makes me ill – but hundreds? Maybe even thousands? And all of them spewing their ignorance and hate out in a public forum – where your name and face are visible?

It’s enough to make me ashamed of being the same species.

I’m not a praying sort of person, but my thoughts are with Japan, my donation to help out with disaster relief is on the way. I only wish I could do more.

I still have no idea what to write.

What stories can I tell about George Clements that will convey a clear and accurate picture of him?

There are the obvious things: he was an incredibly talented stone mason, he had a wonderfully dry sense of humour, he could be quite a stubborn smarty pants, he was generous, kind, handsome, a great whistler and stone skipper, built the best fires ever and grilled a mean hamburger.

He also taught me that no one is going to just let me win, I’d have to earn it (playing Battleship with Grandad was a sure-fire way to prove that however clever you thought you were – he’s far more clever). I learned that listening is a lot more useful than talking, paying good money for good things is smarter than paying a little money for cheap garbage and that honour and manners still matter.

But none of these things really convey the whole picture either.

Maybe it’s enough that I have the good fortune to be his granddaughter. You don’t get to choose your family, but I would have chosen him had I not been born to the right family.

I’m looking at a great picture of Grandad on the beach: he is looking up, eyes narrowed a little against the sun, just beginning to smile up at my aunt (and what you can’t see is the rusty little dinky car he’d found and offered her) with the waves just coming in on the shoreline.

That picture is my Grandad – it’s the perfect picture – relaxed, happy and just wandering along the shore of the beach looking for interesting things.

If there is a heaven, I hope that’s what he’s doing now.

For me at least, there is no goodbye, because I’ll always remember and I like to think I’ve learned enough from him to carry it with me into the world.

Are all of these words inadequate? You bet they are – but I’m not sure what else to say.

Today, I have seen dead people.

I walked over to Granville Island for some fresh produce this morning and while I was trying to decide what kind of bagels I wanted, I saw a Frank Sinatra lookalike waiting his turn at the counter. I mean, it was undeniably Frank, the smile, those eyes…if he’d broken into song a serenaded the lineup with “My Way” I wouldn’t have been the least bit surprised.

Also, Frank apparently likes blueberry bagels, with a surprising amount of cream cheese.

So, I get myself a matcha tea and sit outside by the water where I see Mr. Dressup carrying a small, screaming child who only moments before had been tormenting a small pigeon on the quay. Mr. Dressup! Owner of the bottomless Tickle Trunk and maker of cool crafts!

No sign of Casey or Finnegan though.

After finally getting all my shopping I done, I started to head over to the bus stop and as I was crossing the street I saw Rainer Maria Rilke.

My favourite poet of all time, who died 83 years ago, just walking across the street wearing a scruffy coat, beat up Converse shoes and listening to an MP3 player.

To give you a better idea, this is what Rilke looks like:

Pretty intense right? Now imagine that intensity out of the suit and in the outfit I described. It was beyond weird – and I must have given the poor guy a strange look because he gave me an equally strange look in return. So I smiled at him, and he nodded very politely in reply.

Please tell me I’m not mad – you all see dead people too, right?