Ryshia Kennie's Blog, page 21

In An ABC World - It's Now Up To C

Yes, I'm blogging the alphabet this month.  Today it's the letter C.  Is this where Grover crops up with his shaggy head and says...  "I've Got Nothing."


Okay, I'm on my own.  Here goes...

C for craft sale.  I've attended a few this year as a vendor and I'm lining up for number three.  It's an
interesting mix of crafts and me in the middle with my books.  This time it's a bake sale but the organizers are excited to include me and I'm thrilled to be there.  More on the craft sale as that time approaches.

There's a lot of ways to meet readers and some of them are just a little more unique than others.

What's the most intriguing way you've discovered a new author?

Me - well my discovery was on a street corner in Scottsdale, Arizona where there was an entire table of books with the author manning the whole affair.  Turns out that not only were we both authors, but he also had a friend who'd just made a movie in Saskatchewan.  What are the odds?  Even without the Saskatchewan connection,  his books are now on my "to be read" list. 

Ryshia
www.ryshiakennie.com

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April 1 - The Prank's On You

I suppose I can get away with this as it was April Fool's.

It's blog the alphabet month and I'm one post late but I have April Fool's on my side.  Here's why:
A is for April 1 and I was supposed to post
but
A is also for April Fool's
and we all expected a post
I was ABCing away on my keyboard - that would be writing for all my non-writer friends
I even bemoaned the lack of an April Fool's joke
and then I remembered...

April Fool's and one day late.
 
So here it is April 2
And what follows A can only be B
B is for background
every story needs one
every character looks rather thin without one
with a background a story will bounce
because that background just adds a bit more beef
So it's off to romp with my bodacious crew

Just click the title to check out some other posts all on the alphabet theme.

Tomorrow let's check out C

Ryshia
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Book Blast - Patriot Priest

<!-- /* Font Definitions */ @font-face {font-family:Calibri; panose-1:2 15 5 2 2 2 4 3 2 4; mso-font-charset:0; mso-generic-font-family:auto; mso-font-pitch:variable; mso-font-signature:3 0 0 0 1 0;} /* Style Definitions */ p.MsoNormal, li.MsoNormal, div.MsoNormal {mso-style-parent:""; margin:0cm; margin-bottom:.0001pt; mso-pagination:widow-orphan; font-size:11.0pt; font-family:"Times New Roman"; mso-ascii-font-family:Calibri; mso-fareast-font-family:Calibri; mso-hansi-font-family:Calibri; mso-bidi-font-family:"Times New Roman";} @page Section1 {size:612.0pt 792.0pt; margin:72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt 72.0pt; mso-header-margin:36.0pt; mso-footer-margin:36.0pt; mso-paper-source:0;} div.Section1 {page:Section1;} </style> --> <div class="MsoNormal"><center></center></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://goddessfishpromotions.blogspot..." imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-1jHP2iX-kpU..." /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal"></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">This post is part of a virtual book tour organized by <a href="http://www.goddessfish.com/">... Fish Promotions</a>. Patricia will be awarding a $25 Amazon gift card to one randomly drawn commenter. Click on the tour banner to see the other stops on the tour. Remember, the more you comment, the better your chances to win.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><blockquote></blockquote></div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DGPP1q1Z8NI..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-DGPP1q1Z8NI..." /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Patriot Priest tells one man's personal experience over several epochs and areas of history. It is also, in part the story of one unique individual, author Patricia Daly-Lipe's great uncle, Msgr. William A Hemmick. Born in Pittsburgh, PA, and raised in Europe, he became fluent in five languages. When the First World War broke out, he felt committed to help the troops. After the war, he was proclaimed the Patriot Priest of Picardy by the Army and Navy. After years spent in Paris, William Hemmick was asked by the Vatican to come to Rome. Ultimately he became the only American Canon of St. Peter's representing the Knights of Malta to the Holy See.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">It was he who performed the nuptials of American film star Tyrone Power and Linda Christian. He also converted the future Queen Astrid of Belgium.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Enjoy this excerpt: </div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Only a few months after entering the American College, William became quite ill. Physicians were called. After checking the boy carefully, they proceeded to give him sad news. William had contracted tuberculosis of the most virulent sort and could not expect to live more than a couple of months. Of course, he wanted to leave for home immediately.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Rector, Dr. Kennedy, arranged, however, that he should have an audience with the Holy Father (Pope Pius X) before he left. Dr. Kennedy himself took young William to the Vatican and, having first told the Pope in private of the circumstances of the case, the student was ushered into the Pope's chambers.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The Pope smiled at him tenderly as the young man knelt to kiss the papal ring. Then he lifted his chin, looked him straight in the eye and, very reassuringly, advised the young man, "Don't worry at all now."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">William looked up at the Pope's smiling face in disbelief.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">"You are going to be all right. Go home and get rested and well."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Then the Pope placed his hand on William's head and said, "One day you will be back here."</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">The ailing young seminarian would not have dared to hope at that moment the Holy Father was speaking the truth. However, he was.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Soon after he returned to America, William's health improved. Although his convalescence was long, he was finally able to resume his priestly studies at Mt. St. Mary's College in Emmitsburg, Maryland, followed by six years at Catholic University in Washington, DC.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal"><b>About the Author:</b> </div><div class="MsoNormal"><div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;"></div></div><div class="MsoNormal"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ayy3DYxZJIc..." imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Ayy3DYxZJIc..." /></a></div><div class="MsoNormal">Dr. Patricia Daly-Lipe, is an Author and Artist. She has written six books, all different genres. She is winner of the San Diego Book Awards, Best Books Finalist, the JADA Novel Contest, USABookNews.com Finalist, 2009 2nd place in poetry by the Virginia Writers Club, Inc, and 2013 winner in historical fiction at the Annual Royal Dragonfly Book Awards for 'A CRUEL CALM, Paris Between the Wars and 2013 winner for her short story by the Virfginia Writers Assn.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Although born in La Jolla, California, Patricia spent equal time in Washington, D.C., home of several generations of her mother’s family.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">She has taught at colleges and writing centers, written for magazines and newspapers (including the Evening Star in Washington, DC, La Jolla Village News, The Georgetowner andUptowner), and her paintings have been accepted and sold in Juried shows, art galleries, and private homes. Two of her books feature her paintings on their covers.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Patricia served as President of both the La Jolla and DC Branches of the National League of American Pen Women.</div><div class="MsoNormal">Patricia now lives in Virginia with her husband, Dr. Steele Lipe, three dogs, three horses, and two cats. For years, Patricia raised, raced, and showed Thoroughbred horses. Now she rescues them. She is the mother of three and grandmother of six children.</div><div class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="MsoNormal">Buy the book at <a href="http://www.amazon.com/Patriot-Priest-... class="MsoNormal"><br /></div><div class="blogger-post-footer">http://ryshiakennie.com
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Rules Are Made to Be Broken...

 Rules are made to be broken...Or are they?Today I headed to the local rehabilitation hospital to deliver a couple of books for their donation book cart.  It's a quaint little setup that consists of a few carts against a wall in their spacious hallway.  It's basically self-serve with a note to put in a donation if you take a book and a few instructions about leaving books.
Today there was what appeared to be additional instruction, so I hung on to my donation books while I read the rules.  The usual suspects, no beaten or soiled books, large donations needed alternate arrangements and last but not least, deposit the books in the bottom basket where I assumed they'd be sorted out and arranged neatly on the carts later.  So, as instructed, I placed my two books in the bottom basket.
And that's when I realized I was no longer alone.
"I've been watching you."
Great, I think.  Why?
"Organizing the books is my job," the tall, middle-aged woman said.  "And no one puts the books anywhere but there."  She pointed to the second cart where books were organized in a row, spines neatly lined up and level with the next.  "No one reads the sign.  So I watched you standing there to see what you would do.  If you really read the sign."
I look to where she's pointing and glance at the sign.
"You're one of the few that put them where they're supposed to be."
Shall we have a collective sigh of relief? So a few minutes of chit chat later, I left feeling like I'd just gotten a huge pat on the back for being a rules girl.  But was I?
I never thought of being much of one before.  I mean I'll follow rules enough not to cause a ruckus.  If the meeting starts at 9, I'll be there in plenty of time.  The obvious moments when rules matter aside, I don't like following the crowd or the unwritten rules of the crowd.  Of course, sometimes I must out of necessity.  But if the majority are taking the escalator and doing the usual standing in place, I'll be the one walking the escalator, passing the non-walkers or taking the stairs.  I know, small example and there's probably a zillion that are the opposite like living a house, driving a car - having a dog.  But was I following some sort of unwritten rule or just exploring similar interests?

Rules Girl?
I've been mislabeled and there's no better place to look then in a book and my reading habits.  My reading is eclectic and I don't tend to read to trends or what I think of as crowd rule.  And as a writer to be organized and efficient it is said that we should write an outline or at the least, a synopsis - and I try but in the end, the best I have ever written is a synopsis that I can guarantee will hold true for the first three chapters - after that all bets are off.  In the end I've had to tweak that synopsis here and there, and then here again.  Some people write better with an outline but forcing yourself to do something in a way that doesn't come naturally I suspect doesn't deliver the best product.  
Follow the rules, is it a good thing or does it just set us up for mediocrity?

Ryshia
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Cold Days, Hot Nights

It's that time - the first Wednesday of the month and time for:











And it all begins, kind of like this:

In the dying days of winter...
Hah!  Dying days?

She's fooled us again, at least out here on the prairie and yes, at this time of year it's all about the weather!

 -38 Celsius(-36 Fahrenheit) is an all-time record, at least it was on the day I began to draft this post.  Winter isn't about to die, crap out or expire any time soon.  I had to use that phrase, any time soon.  Why?  It's one of those radio announcer phrases that really should die right along with this year's winter.

So there you have it, the cold part of this post, but to get to the hot we have to work our way through a little weirdness.  Everywhere in life there are the seeds of a story and some weeks the ground is fairly littered with ideas. Here's a recent day as an example - the weirdness of it, there lies the story. 

The day began with a visit with my mother who is still getting used to her new condo.  I suspect she is pining for the house she left behind after living there since she was a bride.  And she's also made it known that she misses her stuff.  Although that one does puzzle me as we moved far more than her new place will hold and she's had to continue down-sizing after the move.

"What stuff?" I asked trying to get some kind of specifics.  The liquidation of stuff was ongoing from last years spring garage sale through to the online fall selling bonanza I organized in the fall and ending with a finale of charity donations and garbage dumps. 

"I can't find my evaporated milk.  I was sure I packed three cans."

Whoa... evaporated milk?  Moving into the third month and evaporated milk is the issue?  With sofas and chairs and excess lamps on my past agenda, the last thing I had time to consider was a measly can of evaporated milk. 

An update - The evaporated milk never did make an appearance and I have to admit my mind was on other things, the class a few nights ago for one - the Erotic Writing class at the Public Library - yes, didn't I promise hot nights?  But erotica aside, first I had to deal with the guinea pig.

Guinea pig?
You heard right.  My mother is in charge of my niece's pet while she's on vacation.  Only problem, she won't touch it!  Okay, there lies the rub.  Guinea pigs are fairly harmless critters but they do tend to have a very active elimination system that requires a good clean up every three days if you don't want a stinky cage and an unhappy critter.  Besides, everyone needs a little exercise.  And that was the cue for my entrance - an assist to a guinea pig.

I got home in time to discover mail from the public library.  Not sure what this could mean I opened the envelope and discovered I'd won a prize at the Erotic Writing class - a gift certificate to a sex shop!

Yes all of that was a days work and it left me with this dilemma:
Where to begin? 

What do I write about?

Oh the choices....

Evaporated milk
Guinea pigs
an upcoming trip to the sex shop?
There's ideas everywhere, just make sure you pick up your feet so you don't stumble on one or two.  What has you rushing to get to the keyboard?  Alternatively, what has you picking up one book over another?


This is a blog hop - check out other bloggers by clicking here.

Ryshia
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Banished Love

Today I'm hosting author, Ramona Fightner on her tour with her new book, Banished Love. I'm already intrigued by the peek I've seen of this book.  But not only is Ramona offering a great read, there are prizes throughout the tour, so comment here or at other stops and be entered to win a $50 Amazon/BN gift card.

Welcome Ramona!
Ramona Fightner is a native of Missoula, Montana.  After graduating from Tufts University with a B.A. in Spanish, she earned a Master's degree in Spanish Literature from the University of Montana.  Her Master's thesis, Chilean Testimonial Literature:  the collective suffering of a people, highlighted her continued interest in the stories of those who were at risk of being forgotten or silenced.

She studied nursing at the University of Pennsylvania and graduated with a Master's in Nursing as a Family Nurse Practitioner.  She has worked for ten years as a family nurse practitioner providing care to the poor and under insured at two community health centers, first in Wilmington, Delaware and now in Boston, Massachusetts.

An avid reader, she began writing three years ago.  She enjoys the demands of research and relishes the small discoveries that give historical details to her books.

Ramona is an avid flyfisher and hiker who enjoys nothing better than spending a day on a remote Montana river, far from a city.  She enjoys research, travel, storytelling, learning about new cultures and discovering new ways of looking at the world.  Though she resides in Boston, Massachusetts, Ramona remains a Montanan at heart.

Her dreams are to see the plains of East Africa, marvel at the wonder of Petra, Jordan, soak in the seas of the South Pacific, and to continue to spend as much time as possible with her family.

Banished Love is her first novel and is the first in the forthcoming Banished Saga.



Free-Spirited...
Clarissa Sullivan dreams for more from life than sipping tepid in stifling parlors in Victorian Boston.  She defies her family's wishes, continuing to teach poor immigrant children in Boston's West End, finding a much-needed purpose to her life.

Radical...
As a suffragette, Clarissa is considered a firebrand radical no man would desire.  For why should
women want the vote when men have sheltered women from the distasteful aspects of politics and law?

Determined...
When love blossoms between Clarissa and Gabriel McLeod, a struggling cabinetmaker, her family objects.  Clarissa's love and determination will be tested as she faces class prejudices, manipulative family members and social convention in order to live the life she desires with the man she loves.

Will she succeed?  Or will she yield to expectations?

BANISHED LOVE follows Clarissa Sullivan on her journey of self-discovery as she learns what she cannot live without.




Banished Love (An Excerpt):
"You've known my beliefs for some time,"  I croaked out.

"A schoolgirl's idealism," she snapped.  "Nothing to be acted on.

Mrs. Chickering cleared her throat, as though to remind Mrs. Smythe she remained present.  "I think it takes a tremendous strength of character to have beliefs and then actually act on them," she said with her own fervor.  "I would hate for women to to lock away their desires for a better world once they leave school or marry.  They, as women, have lives, have hopes and dreams for the future, independent of what a man might want."

"How dare you come into my house and tell me that what I have is not sufficient?"  Mrs. Smythe gasped.

"I am saying no such thing, Mrs. Sullivan," Mrs. Chickering replied.  "I believe you need to understand that your stepdaughter has beliefs and aspirations that are different from your yours."

"Aspirations that include the vote?"  Mrs. Smythe scoffed.  "Men have voted in the past, they will continue to vote, and I have no desire of it.  I feel as my husband does on all things to do with politics, so it would only be giving the same politician two votes rather than one.  There's no purpose to women having the vote."  Her eyes flashed, true enmity in their depths as she glared at Mrs. Chickering.  "And didn't we women of Massachusetts show you suffragettes we didn't want the vote in '95?  No one voted for women to become enfranchised then, and they won't now."  She sighed loudly, as though trying to calm herself.

"An aspiration for independence?" Mrs. Smythe continued, unable to stop speaking.  "Are you telling me that someday it should be lauded, hoped for, that young women become independent and have no need for marriage?  No need for children?  How could that ever be a hoped-for future?  You and your group want too much for women.  Women should focus on their home, on creating a moral, upstanding environment in which to raise children.  She will want for nothing if she has such a home," Mrs. Smythe argued.

"So I suppose women should remain tied to the kitchen stove with children at their ankles, and a husband who might, or might not, come home with a paycheck as their only recourse?"  Mrs. Chickering countered.  "Relying on the benevolence of men to write the laws and enforce them without women having any involvement in the legislative process?  Sitting at home knitting, hoping that men will ensure that our rights are protected?  That is all you envision for women?  Nothing more?"

"It has been enough for generations.  I do not know why it should need to change now," Mrs. Smythe snapped, banging down her teacup with such force I thought she might crack it.

"Was that enough for you in your first marriage, Mrs. Sullivan?" Mrs. Chickering asked pinning her with an intense gaze.



http://www.rafflecopter.com/rafl/display/28e43459/">Enter to win a $50 Amazon/BN gift certificate--a Rafflecopter
More on this book and the author can be found at:
At her website:      www.ramonaflightner.comOn twitter:             twitter.com/ramonaflightnerOn facebook:        www.facebook.com/authorramonaflightnerAt Pininterest:      www.pininterest.com/ramonauthorhttp://ryshiakennie.com
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Expect the Unexpected

My first novel, From The Dust, is a historical romance set in Depression Era Saskatchewan.  As part of my research I interviewed a few people that had lived through the thirties.  Unfortunately, one of those I interviewed, my husband's uncle, recently passed away.   I've re-posted below, the blog post that was the result of that interview.

Here's to you, Uncle Jim.

A Whole Lot of Nothing In Saskatchewan
"No one had any money," the tall, handsome senior tells me. He was a teenager through much of the thirties. The thirties, not the depression, that's how many of the seniors I talk to refer to the depression, only as the thirties.

"What did you do for fun?" I ask.

"Nothing."

"No dances?" I prod.

"I played the fiddle my Dad bought."

"You didn't have any money," I remind him.

"We bought it before the thirties, when we still had some money."

"Did you play at dances?" I ask again.

"Wasn't that good," he says in his cryptic manner. "The neighour taught me. We had musicals at different homes. I played at them sometimes."


"And dances?" So give me credit - I'm persistent!

"Yeah. I played at a few. But usually we had a real orchestra come out."

"Orchestra?" Now I'm puzzled. What about the no money thing?

"Yeah, my cousin played banjo, his wife played fiddle and a friend played saxaphone. They came out every Saturday night."

Nothing is sure becoming an interesting term. There's a whole lot of nothing going on. But I press on.

"From the city?" I ask.

"No, from the farm." He looks puzzled at the question. "They came into town."

"So you danced every weekend?"

"When we didn't have money. Sometimes we had money you know."
He eyes me like everyone should know this fact and continues,"then we went to Disley and bought beer."
"Beer?"

"Yeah. But we got rid of the empties."
"So you returned the empties?" I ask assuming poverty stricken as they were they would want the cash on a bottle return.
"Oh no." He shakes his head. "That would mean we'd have to take the bottles home with us. We threw them away so our mothers wouldn't find out we'd been drinking beer!"

***

After "From the Dust" was published, I received this feedback from Uncle Jim:

 "I read your book," he said with his cane perched across his long legs.  He paused as if for effect.  "I liked it."

I let out a relieved breath.

"Except for one thing."

Silence resonated as I held my breath, almost afraid to think what might have been wrong.  It's a love story there were probably places where a man of his age might have wished I'd glossed over.  Yes, that must have been it.

He repositioned his cane, obviously loving the drama.  Then he looked at me with a smile and said, "Not enough sex."


 Uncle Jim1917 - 2014

Life is Unexpected - Safe travels
Ryshia
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Blue Monday

Today is officially the most depressing day of the year.  No, this is not something I made up.  I make up a lot of things but this one is official.  Documented even. 

But the good news, why I'm smiling, if this is the valley of winter, or it's deepest point, then soon we'll be coming out the other side.  So enjoy your day for tomorrow we will be climbing the hill to the other side, to warm weather and sun huts, barbeques and margaritas. 

Soon.

Meantime, exercise is walking the dog with fifty pounds of winter gear and shoveling snow off the drive.  But that's not a reason to be blue.  The snow and cold is actually rather refreshing.  No worries about sunburn or spending money on bug spray.  Winter does have its benefits.

Although that does lead to the question, do people in warmer parts of the world today get to participate in Blue Monday or is that just the privilege of those parts now covered in snow?

Geography aside, if you're feeling a little blue today, no worries, apparently it's normal. 

Meantime all this cold is good for one thing - upping that word count.  So it's back to Mulu, Malaysia and see how my characters are faring.

Ryshia
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Work And I Love It!

It's the first Wednesday of the month and following the tradition that Alex Cavanaugh has began, here it is, the Insecure Writer's post:

Tonight's post was the proverbial pulling teeth.  I almost shoved the computer away and said that's it - I cave. 

But I didn't.

Sometimes writing is like that.  Every morning I set my alarm early - before the lights in other houses are on, even here far away from home,  I'm in front of my computer beginning the word count for the day.  Although word count, that's probably, no is, a misnomer.  I don't go for word count.  I learned a long time ago, that for me that's not an effective way to write.  It means extensive revisions that can spin a story out long after I write the end. 

Sometimes it's tough.  There are few people that understand what you're doing, why you are doing it or why your "little hobby" should be called anything but that, never mind work.  But you have to swim through all of that and just keep writing.  It's the only way to eventually make it in this business.

Once I dreamed success would mean the publisher of my dreams would publish my book, market me and put me on every bookstore shelf.  Now times have changed and the dream, well it's there but it's adapted.  I still want that original dream but right now success means getting published by small presses and alternative publishing.  It means promoting myself and extra hours at the computer to do that.  Yes, the publishing industry has changed but the dream is the same - writing success.  And despite all the advise out there, it really only boils down to one word for success - readers.

But to find readers I must write well and then promote what I've written.  But even time to write is difficult in a world where success and what you  do is judged by how much money comes in.  Under a certain bar and it's not considered work.  Interesting term, work.  Because if you don't have work attached to what you do, quantifying it as a gainful means of employment, then what you're doing is a hobby and no one can figure out why you can't stop everything to answer the phone or go for coffee or take grandma to her church bazaar or whatever. And sometimes those interruptions are valid for I will admit that what my work is, is flexible.  But because of that flexibility, often, long after everyone has had supper and settled down for the nightly sitcom, I'm back at the computer for a few more hours.

Sorry everyone, it is work.  I am busy.  I'm writing a story.  It's work and I love it!

Now excuse me - after a good days work, I believe it's time to enjoy what's left of a cool desert evening.

Ryshia
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Stand Back - It's a Canuck

Been spending a few weeks south of the border, escaping at least part of the long winter I know is waiting for me.  Crossing one border usually isn't too much of a culture shock.  The States are similar to Canada in a large number of ways and in just as many, they're not.

So today I went to the UPS store to see if there was any way I could settle a mailing issue.  Note to self - you can't get mail if you don't have a mailbox.

Anyway, in the course of the discussion, one clerk looks at the other and says
"Well, that confirms it.  I knew the area code was somewhere in Canada but the accent, didn't you hear it?  Canuck."   She looks at the other clerk with satisfaction and then turns to smile at me.  I think I recoiled in horror, okay not quite but: 

A - no one has ever said I have an accent.  It's all of you I say - not me. 
And B - Canuck, no one has ever called me that either - ever. 

I was reminded that I'm a person of interest, a foreigner. I was one of those people, the ones I meet on planes, in other countries, in public transport - just everywhere.  People with stories that are different from mine.  They're fascinating and I'm their worst nightmare because I want to hear all about them. 

Now I'd become one of them.  One of the others - the one with the accent.  I mean it's easy to feel foreign when you're traveling in a country where your native tongue is not theirs and where the customs are radically different from yours.  But here the similarities run as close as the disparities.  So, no, I wanted to say - it's you, you have the funny little accent not me.  No, the look the clerk laid on me said it all - it was me.

Me?
A fraction of the price at home.
Sure I knew I was in a foreign country.  I'm reminded every day.  Retail shops alone are a good reminder.  Like the other day when I was gawking at the Canadian Whiskey disbelieving of the price.  Of course, I'm disbelieving of the price of any liquor south of the border but this one in particular.  Made in Canada, it sat here thousands of miles from its manufacture point marked at a price that can only be called extraordinarily cheap - possibly even giving it away, cheap.  And the day before that I scoured the dairy section looking for cream and only seeing artificial creamer.  At home, it's parked by the milk and it comes in a cardboard container, which I have since found it does here too but it's buried beneath a massive selection of creamers.  Anyway, maybe I should have taken those and any number of other clues that, not only was I foreign, but I just might just be the one with the accent.

So with that reality check I headed off down the road.  There we stumbled on the salsa lady, selling out of the back of her van by the side of the road.  Unemployed temporarily she said after greeting me with a cheery hello that she hurled at me long before we were in speaking distance.  After getting my salsa she offered her e-mail address in case I should like the salsa and she wasn't at her usual roadside haunt.  I did.  Will definitely be e-mailing her for more.  Fortunately, except for spelling issues - I think e-mail is relatively universal.  No accent there.  

So now it's off to the family selling tamales and fruit of all kinds at another roadside stand.  We left
with a bagful of fruit - 12 limes for a dollar!  Unheard of in Canada or at least the corner I'm from - not the limes, the price.  The tamales, well we'll be back for a roadside lunch one day soon.

It was a day of moments that would never have happened at home because, wait for it - I'd be shoveling snow and thinking of past trips and future stories.

And one last word on the accent thing - you will never, ever, hear me say that one dreaded word - eh.    Because well,  there was that classic Canadian throwback to the eighties, Bob and Doug McKenzie ... enough said.

Ryshia  Travel away to Borneo where murder and romance steam up the jungle - Fatal Intent on sale for .99 cents at most online retail book outlets. www.ryshiakennie.com
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