Laurel Mae Hislop's Blog

Burns Nicht and Haggis

By Laurelmae on Thursday, January 23, 2020

I decided not to do a New Year’s piece this month, not because it’s shopworn and predictable, but because of the flu which laid me low for weeks. So, instead of turkey or ham, I’m giving a thumbs-up to haggis. Not that most of us want to eat the stuff—it’s concocted with minced sheep’s liver, heart, and lung, mixed with a slurry of oatmeal, onions, and stock. The hotchpotch is then packed into the stomach of the beast, dropped into a pot, and boiled.

January 25th is Robbie Burns Day, not a huge event in North America, but a cheery one. The man himself (Robert Burns Jan 25, 1759 to July 21, 1796) was a poet, and the fact that we celebrate his life is remarkable to us writers, poets, and artists. We are rarely lionised in the human pool of politicians, monarchs, despots, and hall-of-famers.

Imbibers around the world will tip pints of ale and draughts of whiskey on January 25th. Russians have a special fondness for the bard, because his writing sentiments leaned toward the plight of the commoner, plus he lived during, and supported, the French and American Revolutions. The Soviets once minted a stamp, paying tribute to the man. Here in Canada, pubs from Newfoundland to Vancouver Island take advantage of his moniker, which is linked with the love of drink. And in his native Scotland, the country comes alive with full-on raucous revelry.

Burns died at 37, almost 224 years ago, and we still celebrate in his honour. No other poet has an International Day like this—not even Shakespeare. His poetry, penned largely in Scottish dialect, discombobulates the modern reader. But tell me, who here hasn’t started out the New Year singing “Auld Lang Syne?” He wrote that poem in 1778 and set it to the tune of a traditional folk song. And who can believe that a fellow of the eighteen century would have uttered the words in the following quote? It gives me a whole new appreciation and respect for Robbie Burns.

While Europe’s eye is fix’d on mighty things, The fate of empires and the fall of kings; While quacks of State must each produce his plan, And even children lisp the Rights of Man; Amid this mighty fuss just let me mention, The Rights of Woman merit some attention. Robert Burns

Robert Burns lived a short life, but he was a prolific writer. A cluster of historians say he suffered from manic depressive disorder and there is evidence to support that claim. My recent book, “f-Holes of Melancholia” tells the tale of an artist plagued by the same illness.

Check it out on my website @ https://mannamarkbooks.com

A Christmas Verse

The best of the season and a Happy New Year, everyone. My holiday wish for you, is that each minute of every day in 2020 is outstanding.

Lately, I’ve been reflecting on how to make the most of my time. It seemed a perfect moment when I snapped this photo. It’s at Coal Harbour, a favourite place in Vancouver to wander. Loveliness can pop out from the shadows at unexpected times—even at 4 o’clock on a December day as the sun spirals downward.



So, this year’s rhyme is a meditation on how we use our moments. I hope you enjoy it. And, have a spectacular Christmas!

Christmas is coming. It happened so quick.

You’ll never be ready on time.

The season’s upon us—advancing Saint Nick.

It’s too late to order online.

The stores will be packed, the merchandise trash.

Your tummy breaks out in a horrible rash.



The big day arrives, and you’re in a fluster.

Are your gifts stingy and mean?

The shindig is giddy as everyone musters

To eat and to cook and to clean.

And then you think back to winters of old,

The snow, the sparkle, yarns spun and retold.



And when it’s all over, it’s time to reflect.

Instead of the worry and tizzy and fret,

You should have took time to interconnect,

To soothe your soul and free your mind-set:

I have a family and loved ones galore.

I have these moments and do not need more.

I’ll cease to exist in the future ahead.



But when all is done and all has been said,

Yesterday’s moments have gone down the drain,

But friendship and human connection remain.

Tomorrow’s uncertain and not worth the woe.

Relax and let loose,

For this moment’s wholly aglow.



Laurel Mae Hislop ❦

Remembering

“In Flanders fields the poppies blow, between the crosses row on row…” 

John McCrae



Photograph by Monica Galentino

When I was a schoolgirl, November 11 was a monumental day in our household. My parents were both veterans of the Second World War, which shaped their lives and cut my father’s life short.

I can still see my dad, grand and handsome in his Legion blazer and beret—a captivating man with strong features, wide hands like paws, a barrel chest, and eyes that flash mischief. He steps into the kitchen, a poppy pinned to his lapel, a string of medals across his chest, unusually serious on this morning, a twitch bucking on his lower jaw.

I’m a Girl Guide and decked out in the standard blue uniform complete with red and white scarf. My brother wears the Boy Scout regalia, a jaunty cap, and Mom looks official in her blazer. But our costumes don’t transform us the way Dad’s does. We pile into the car, drive five blocks to the Legion, climb out, and hurry to the corner of Broadway and Third to join the parade.

Wheat fields, long, lonely gravel roads, and tumbleweed surround our town in southern Alberta. By November it’s cold, but sunny this day, the grass glazed with hoar frost.

We gather and march up the street on route to the Cenotaph. Our breath hits frigid air, forming steam clouds that stick to our lips like blank cartoon bubbles. We don’t say a word. Our shoes mutter in unison. It is a silent and solemn event—no marching bands, no drums, no clashing symbols. Even the babies are quiet.

Standing at attention in the hushed, frosty air, we watch town officials deploy wreathes against the gunmetal-grey Cenotaph, fresh blood splotches on a faded backdrop. My father stands beside us, but he is far away. I wonder what’s churning in his mind. Is this the only time he thinks about his leg? He never speaks of it, the one that’s shorter than the other and wears a built-up shoe. He still limps. When the bugle blasts out the Last Post, I feel an urge to cry. During the 21-gun salute, Dad looks up, closes his eyes, and clenches his fists. He’s in another world, or lifetime.

We parade through town, ending at the Legion. On this day only, they allow kids in the hall. Women volunteers pass hot chocolate in steaming mugs to the children, Rye and Coke, or Scotch to the adults. The volume rises. Within an hour, a piano is rolling out a line-up of wartime songs. My father is back with us and he sings off key in his great booming voice. He laughs in bursts, greets friends with a playful slap on the back and his gold-capped teeth sparkle more brightly than his medals.

Dad succumbed to cancer at fifty-five, after years of X-rays due to injuries suffered in combat. He was a teenager when he signed up with the Canadian army and they stationed him overseas. During the liberation of Holland, an enemy soldier lobbed a grenade into his tank’s hatch. The boys inside died, but Dad, as the gunner, stood half out at the rear and the blast only hit his legs. He never told this story, not even to Mom, until thirty years later. That’s when shrapnel began to appear under the skin on his chest, as if trying to expel the last remnants of war from his body and his mind.

Mom served at the War Office in Ottawa in the 1940s. While she was alive, she never missed a Remembrance Day commemoration. Even after dementia had taken over her mind, and she was oblivious to her surroundings, we made sure she got to the ceremony. On that final year, when the Last Post sounded, the moment struck her with clarity. She rose to her feet, stood soldier strait in front of her wheelchair, and saluted.

Growing up, I was taught respect for the November 11 observance, and I still attend annually. There are people who claim that Remembrance Day should be done away with—that it glorifies war. But glory has nothing to do with it. It’s a day to express our heartfelt thanks to my parents’ generation, who suffered to win the freedom and democracy we enjoy today in the Western World.

Tolstoy’s Thing

“The key to success in life is using the good thoughts of wise people.”

Leo Tolstoy



Painting of Leo Tolstoy by Nikolai Ge

My current bathroom book is “A Calendar of Wisdom” by Leo Tolstoy, translated from Russian by Peter Sekirin in Toronto.

I’m fascinated by the lives and whimsies of enlightened artists. Quirks of character are a common trait with this breed, and Leo was no exception. In his lifetime, he journeyed from the privileged youth of a Russian aristocrat, to an ageing maverick condemning war and rejecting the idea of private property.

In his later years, Tolstoy collected what he considered the wisest thoughts from the greatest thinkers across numerous centuries and compiled them in this publication. The many contributors include: Greek philosophers like Epictetus and Socrates, Eastern sages such as Buddha and Lao-tzu, and more contemporary writers like Ralph Waldo Emerson and George Eliot. He constructed the book as a calendar, so I can count on an entire year of savouring this treasure.

I’m only a month in and delighted to discover that the quandaries humans face today have changed little over the ages.

“To love means to live within the lives of those whom you love.”

Lao-tzu (4th or 6th Century BC—depends on who you ask)

“The secret of happiness? Enjoy small pleasures.”

Samuel Smiles 1812-1904 (his masterpiece of 1859, titled “Self Help”)

Countless self-help books have come out since Mr. Smiles penned the original one, but the modern ones tend to focus on a single new-wave theme. My latest bathroom book lays out human thought and wisdom shared over hundreds of years.

It’s a daily reminder that wealth and success matter little, and to lead a good life we need to:

Work with purpose
Practise kindness to others and ourselves
Exercise humility and avoid big-headedness
And, most of all—to meet each day with love and a sense of awe


My novel “f-Holes of MELANCHOLIA” is now available. It was a labour of love.

A Book at Last

“Fiction is art and art is the triumph over chaos… to celebrate a world that lies spread out around us like a bewildering and stupendous dream.” 

John Cheever

Available for Pre-order

Coming September 24, 2019

Available at Ingram Spark, Apple Books, and Amazon.

I am super excited! My book, f-holes of MELANCHOLIA, comes out on September 24, 2019.

People often ask me where I get the ideas for my writing. The first thing I say is, “What I choose to write about needs to consume me, to gobble up every ounce of my attention, because a novel takes ages to finish.”

When I began this book, I knew I wanted to document my grandmother’s stories. A born storyteller, Grandma reminisced in her later years—talking our ears off, depicting her life on the Saskatchewan prairie in the 1920s and 30s. She described practical things: the hardship of surviving without electricity, indoor plumbing or refrigeration, how they churned butter, made cheese, built ice houses, and brought in the crops. I peppered her anecdotes throughout the narrative.

My other obsession, at the beginning, was classical music—in particular Niccolò Paganini (1782-1840). He was the rock star of his age and it occurred to me that humans have changed little in the past 200 years. Superstars existed in 1820, as they do now. Paganini was a sensation, touring Europe, performing to massive crowds of adoring fans. He’s remembered today because, along with the hype and showmanship, he was also a brilliant composer. What better person for my central character to identify with?

A friend once told me the story of her grandfather who fled Prussia to settle in Canada with his family. “He was a lunatic,” she said. Her candid tale initiated a multitude of ‘what ifs.’ What if you were insane in the early 1920s, a time when people had little tolerance for and a tremendous fear of mental issues? What if you were isolated from your culture? What if the people around you had no patience or inclination to help?

So, I made my protagonist a classical violinist who fixates on Niccolò Paganini and suffers from bipolar disorder. From that point, the original ideas seeded, sprouted and took on a tentacled life of their own as the story developed.

Tragic Quirks and Oddities

Three weeks ago, a woman who lives in our building asked if I’d recently seen my next-door neighbour, Sue, aka, “The Crazy Lady.” I hadn’t and no one else had either.

She whispered, “There’s a funny smell coming from her suite.”

“Oh no,” I said. I had noticed a certain mustiness, but we live in the hum of the city and it might have come from anywhere. Sue’s place is right beside ours, with only a wall between us.



Painting by Laurel Mae Hislop

Everyone in the complex presumed Sue suffered from psychiatric issues. She’d lived in our three-storey walk-up longer than any of us, but we knew her only by name. It was hard to even guess her age—anywhere between 55 and 70—fair, average height, average build, with no distinguishing features. If you passed her in the hallway, she kept her head low and scurried away from you as quickly as possible. She was always alone. No other person ever came or went from Sue’s flat except her, but occasional, heated shouting erupted through the walls—only her voice. A recluse, she stuck small hand-written notes outside her door, warning everybody to KEEP OUT. And, sadly, she had given nobody a key to the suite in case of emergency.

Someone phoned the police who arrived that evening and blasted the door with a battering ram. Once the apartment opened, the stench nearly forced us into the street. It still lingers in the corridor weeks later. Even now we’re not sure what happened or how long Sue had been dead on the kitchen floor. The coroner said, “For a while.” Such a sad, bleak ending to a tragic, troubled life.

“You can't help people like her unless they want to be helped. That's the first law of mental health. You know it, I know it.”
― Ray Bradbury, The October Country

After extensive reading on mental illness while researching for my novel, “f-Holes of MELANCHOLIA,” I wanted to do an article. But, no amount of study can help you describe what goes on in our brains. And even after creating a character who suffers from manic depressive disorder, the topic still puzzles me. The way these poor souls suffer and their symptoms are as distinct as fingerprints.

A pip-squeak voice inside my head wants to shout at people with afflictions of the mind, “Oh yeah! There’s nothing wrong with you. You’re just acting bonkers—seeking attention.” My liberal voice knows how cruel and unjustified that is. I realise that no one chooses a mental disease any more than they’d choose a faulty heart or cancer.

We understand the brain about as much as we understand the universe. The porridgy wad inside our skulls embodies a mass of uncharted territory. Theories abound, but scientists have yet to discover how this clump of grey matter, that we all own, takes in information and sends out signals to our bodies and then to the world.

Writing from the POV of a woman suffering bipolar disorder did not bestow me with expertise of mental health issues. But I created situations for my character and then had to imagine how others would react to her. By the time I finished the book, my protagonist’s quirks and odd behaviours had shaped her personality, and I came to delight in them.

I can’t help but wonder if the end of Sue’s story might have been brighter if she’d been able to let go and allow others a glimpse of her life.

Music and head banging

“Music is a moral law. It gives soul to the universe, wings to the mind, flight to the imagination, and charm and gaiety to life and to everything.” Plato

Painting by Laurel Mae Hislop

When I was four years old, my mother took me to our family doctor. I didn’t sleep much and used to sit cross-legged on the floor, banging my head against the wall. This troubled her. Lucky for me, the doctors were pragmatic back then. Our GP told Mom not to worry, that I would fall asleep when tired enough, and the head bumping simply signified a love of music.

So, my mom, bless her heart, bought me three vinyl 45 records and a yellow, plastic, toy record player with a cord that plugged in and a turntable that spun. I remember little from that time of life, but the words and tune of one song seared into my memory—“He flies through the air with the greatest of ease, that daring young man on the flying trapeze.” I listened to it over and over. The head banging stopped, and I began to sleep better.

Today, we get how much music shapes our existence. It’s even used by therapists to treat stress, insomnia, learning disorders, and a plethora of other maladies. Music is a vital part of every day, as important as waves lapping the shore or wind whistling through the trees. Our lives begin with sonic echoes in our mother’s womb and end with the jangly heartbeat of death.

“Music is enough for a lifetime, but a lifetime is not enough for music.”
Sergei Rachmaninov

Most people love one kind of music. It could be country, pop, gospel, rock, jazz, classical or hip-hop. Many of us listen to different styles depending on the time of day or what we’re doing. We might prefer classic rock on the morning drive to work and jazz or classical in the evening.

There’s no such thing as lousy taste in music according to Nolan Gasser, an American composer, pianist, musicologist and founding member of Pandora Media. In his book, “Why You Like It,” he says, “Everyone’s taste is in the end subjective, and thus arguing ‘right’ or ‘wrong’ is futile.”

While writing “f-Holes of MELANCHOLIA,” I thought about and researched two main topics—music and mental illness. The novel chronicles a short period in the life of a classical violinist with bipolar disorder. At one point, during my research, I read that music is the only art form with the power to create pleasure and pain in unison. I can attest to that after writing this book. Listening to violin concertos while burrowing under my character’s skin was both fun and frightening at times.

Bathroom Books

“The world seems never to offer anything worthwhile without also providing a dreadful opposite.”

No one has ever quoted this sentiment so well. It’s from Stephen Fry’s MYTHOS.

This is my current bathroom book, best absorbed in small excerpts. I scrutinize each part twice to devour the wisdom and language, reviewing what I read the previous day before starting a new section. It takes time to get through a book this way, but some titles are meant for the lavatory. Other books are not bathroom books, but flat-out page turners. For them, I read voraciously and delight in the experience, but I only capture the essence of those books, not the finer nuances.

I wonder what authors like Stephen Fry or Bill Gaston would think if they heard I read their novels in the loo. I expect they’d simply be pleased to have a reader, as I would be. If they asked, I’d tell them that these bathroom books are the ones I enjoy the most, the books that stay with me the longest. So, I suppose a dreadful opposite exists here—between the virtue of a phenomenal piece of writing and what happens on the toilet.

P.S. Bill Gaston’s―Sointula is an exceptional bathroom book