Barbara Warren's Blog, page 2

I Had A Dream And I Followed It

 
When I was six, my grandmother gave me a bookmark with a picture of the magnificent but mysterious Taj Mahal. On the other side of the bookmark was a description …The Taj Mahal is an ivory-white marble mausoleum in the Indian city of Agra. It was built in 1632 by the emperor, Shah Jahan, to house the tomb of his favorite wife, Mumtaz Maha.
 
I used that bookmark for many years and it was the last thing I used before I went to sleep at night. Many nights I dreamed about handsome Indian emperors and their beautiful wives. I longed to visit the Taj, not only when I was a child but throughout my life. It was a lifelong dream.
 
In 1998, when I was 58, I followed my dream. My husband and I joined group of six other Albertans on a tour of India and Nepal that took us to some of the cultural treasures of those two countries.
 
As our flight from Singapore descended towards the airport in Delhi we could see thousands of fireworks going off on the ground and the Air India flight attendants told us that it was the beginning of Divali, the Festival of Lights, a month long celebration that is the most important of all the many Hindu festivals.
 
Landing in Dehli was a tremendous culture shock for us all. It was dark when we arrived and there were very few streetlights in this teeming city of more than 20 million. Our group was ushered onto our private white bus and we headed for the hotel. As we got close to the airport’s exit we could see that it was protected by a high wire fence on which hung hundreds of men, like monkeys, just staring at the crowds arriving and leaving the airport. It was very intimidating.
As our bus wove through the dark streets it was engulfed in a maelstrom of cars, trucks, tuk-tuks, bicycles, camels and elephants. Cows, sacred to Hindus, strolled and defecated on the sidewalks, in the alleys and among the traffic. Because it was late at night, thousands and thousands of people were bedding down on the sidewalks simply because they had nowhere else to sleep. The smells of diesel, gasoline, burning garbage and human waste were overwhelming and our luxurious hotel was a welcome island in a sea of poverty and mystery.
 
We spent a few days in New Delhi, learning some of its 5,000 yearlong history and visiting the Red Fort, Humayun’s Tomb, India Gate and other important sights. Then we were off to the city of Agra, home of the Taj Mahal.
 
Shakti, our local guide in Agra, was knowledgeable and interesting and, on our first afternoon, took us to Agra Fort. It is the former imperial residence of the Mughal Dynasty and a UNESCO World Heritage site and Shakti held our group spellbound as he described the history, art and architecture of the fort. But I was getting closer and closer to the end of my patience. I knew that my first sight of my beloved Taj Mahal, after over fifty years of waiting was an hour, then thirty minutes and then a few steps away and I found it excruciating to wait patiently. Then, through a window in the rock walls of the fort I saw it glowing in the afternoon sun about a mile away across the River Yamuna.
 
The tears ran down my cheeks and I sobbed and sobbed with the joy of achieving this lifelong dream. Soon, my husband, the other six Albertans and even, Shakti, were caught up in the emotion of my moment and had tears in their eyes and on their cheeks. It was a breathtaking and beautiful moment.
 
Next morning we were up and on the bus an hour before dawn so that we could travel to see the sun rise on the Taj Mahal…but that’s another story.
 
 
My book, “Everlasting Lies”, tells the story of my maternal grandparents from the time they met and married in England in 1910 to the time they settled in India in 1920. My bookmark came home to England with them.

Wings and Wheels.

​Usually it’s best to look forward in this life to see the things that will be. But sometimes it’s just as good to look back and savour things that were. One of my favourite memories is the bike trip that John, my husband, and I took when we were in our mid-fifties. It combined a couple of things that he and I enjoyed. In his case it was the physical activity of pedaling along an open road and working up an appetite, while I went along for the wine-tasting, hot tubs and soft bathrobes at the end of the day.
 
Back in the spring of 1995 we joined a tour run by the outdoor-adventure company, Backroads, which was to take us on a five-day tour of the Californian wine country in the Sonoma and Napa Valleys. Forget the time we had cycled across Denmark together when we were twenty and stayed in youth hostels; this tour was first class.
 
During the first evening the group of twelve cyclists and three Backroads staff met and had a nice dinner together. Our bikes were fitted to each of us and we collected our cycling helmets and the all-important containers to hold all of the wine that we might purchase along the way. Next morning, after a breakfast of fruit, granola, eggs and coffee, we had the first of our morning lectures about how grapes are grown and wine is made. Then we were handed our map for the day that showed not only where we would be eating lunch and the day’s destination but, also, all of the wineries along our route.
 
Rather than travelling together as a large group, each individual or couple were able to travel at their own pace and distance (short, medium or long routes were available) and able to take in the sights and the wineries as we chose. Stopping for wine-tasting too often could be hazardous to one’s travel plans so John and I kept to just a couple in the morning and a couple in the afternoon. When we found a wine we liked we bought a bottle or two, put it away in a bag with our name on it on the counter and then the Backroads van would sweep past and pick up all the bottles and keep them for us until the end of the trip.
 
The inns that we stayed at were fabulous. One I remember was Villagio Inn and Spa with the most beautiful gardens bordering small canals. I still remember the sound of luggage being pulled along beside the waterways. The accommodation during the trip were all amazing and most evenings our group would eat together in restaurants where we were served wonderful Californian food and talk about the day’s adventures.
 
On the third night we had very luxurious accommodation at the Sonoma Mission Inn and, on the following morning, John and I ducked out of the obligatory wine lecture and rode our bikes over to grass field with a decrepit-looking hanger and a large sign offering “Glider Rides”.  We paid for our ride, buckled in behind the pilot and, before we had second thoughts, the tow-plane was revving its engine about fifty yards ahead of us at the other end of the towing cable. Then we were bumping along the grass on our skids and, almost immediately, we were airborne. The plane pulled us up and up, our pilot disconnected the cable and we were soaring the thermals like a bird over the vineyards, fields and rivers of the valley. We had expected it to be quiet, like hang-gliding, but that glider was just a long, aluminum can riveted together and the whole thing creaked and screeched its way across the countryside. To start with it was exciting and enchanting but, as I became more relaxed, I wondered how this tin can with no engine, wheels or brakes was going to land. I needn’t have worried because our pilot brought us safely back to earth with only a few hard bumps. Phew!
 
I was very worried about the ride on the following day because we had been told that it was the toughest of the trip, covering forty-seven miles through the steep hills lining the Californian coast and that we should expect headwinds for much of the ride. Even though Backroads took good care of us and provided a “sag wagon” for riders who found the going too tough, I was determined to push myself as hard as I could. A few miles from our destination, the Bodega Bay Lodge, when the van passed us for the last time and checked to see if I needed a ride the driver said, “You’re doing well, Barbara. You’ll make it. You’re such a stud muffin.” Although it had been a tough ride for me it was both rewarding and beautiful. We were both happy to relax in a hot tub with a glass of wine that evening and to sleep well that night.
 
Now, twenty-one years later, I look back at this as one of our more energetic holidays, and though I couldn’t do the cycling part of it today, I would like to repeat the pampering we enjoyed in the wonderful inns of the Napa and Sonoma valleys.
 

CHARLES…NASTY OR NICE?

​“Why did Charles Vernon, your grandfather and one of the two male characters in Everlasting Lies, turn from being such a despicable person for most of the book to a kind and loving father and husband right at the end?” That was the question that Ted, my son-in-law, asked me at lunch one day soon after he had finished reading the book. It’s a good question and needs some explanation.
 
To create a character that is interesting and believable to readers the person needs to have some tension within them. Nobody is totally good or totally bad and I had portrayed Charles as having no good traits at all until the time he arrived back in England. But, on the voyage to India, his family surrounded him, for the first time in four years, except for a leave of a day here and there.  It was then that I decided softened him.
 
I also had to consider the children, Lily, John and Edna. They had lost contact with Bill, Edina’s lover and a man with who they loved, and they were missing their maternal grandfather, Robert Paxton, who was also a kind man. Now Charles, who was their father, had returned into their lives and their mother’s in March 1920. They didn’t like seeing their mother unhappy so I think that the children would have taken on the responsibility of pulling Charles back into the family.
 
As an author, I wanted to show the joys of the voyage from England to India and I couldn’t do this unless Charles changed.
 
Charles also saw how happy his children were around their sailor friend on board the SS Mantua. He noticed, too, how polite the children were and that the other passengers and the crew admired this. But change didn’t happen overnight. At first, Charles was rude and dismissive of the children. Edina did everything possible to coach her children in their first meeting with their father. “Now, children, when you meet your Pa, you must be very polite. I know you remember little about him, but he is your Pa and he laid his life on the line for all of us. He is a war veteran” {p193}
 
But Charles was very frosty on the train journey to the boat.  When Edina was uncomfortable and asked to change seats Charles snarled back to her, “I am not prepared to look after the children. That is your responsibility. But if you must, I will give you an hour.” {p195} But when Charles snubbed the family on the boat Lily [the oldest child] protected her mother by saying, “We have managed for a long time without you, Pa. We are capable of looking after each other.” {p199} Charles realised how true that statement was and started to soften his attitude to them all.
 
As I said to Ted, if I had continued to write negatively about Charles I risked losing my audience. I had to make Charles softer. So by page 204 he turns over a new leaf.  “The children looked at Charles with utter bewilderment as it was the first time that he had entered into conversation with his children.”
 
Interestingly, towards the end of the book, Charles shows kindness and love not only to his wife but to his four children as well. This new relationship sets up the question of whether or not Charles continues in his role as a loving parent and husband in the family’s new life in India or does he revert to the self-centred misogynist he was at the start of this book? So far, we don’t know.
 
 

Creating Characters for Everlasting Lies

​Many of the characters in Everlasting Lies were people I knew and some of them were imagined.
 
William (Bill) Charlton, who I described in the story to be the lover of my grandmother Vernon, really did exist, although I never met him. In the British Census of 1901 he and his family were living next door to Edina’s family. He was eight years old and Edina was 7. Through detailed research of various sources I found that Bill’s father was a coal miner, that Bill moved to live with an uncle who worked on the railway, and he fought in the British Army in WW1. Passenger records of ships leaving and arriving in England show him sailing for India in December of 1920 and returning from there in 1934, six years after the Vernon family had returned. A year after his return he married Clara and they lived in Brighton, Sussex, where he died at the age of 51 in 1944.
 
Charles Alfred Vernon was an enigma. For most of my life he was my grandfather - all the way up until I discovered, when I was 63, that he wasn’t. My grandmother was seven months pregnant when “Granddad” returned from WW1. But I’m pretty sure that his original name was not Charles Alfred Vernon because, after years of searching parish records, national records of births and census reports, I was unable to find any evidence of him being alive until the registration of his marriage to Edina June 1910. Some of the stories he told during my childhood mentioned that he had run away from his own family, he had a sister named Lily and a brother, who fought in WW1, named Abraham. The rest of his character and life is from my imagination.
 
The Fletcher family’s story, that is a prominent part of the beginning of the book, was written with the benefit of information taken from the British censuses of 1891 and 1901. A family with that name did live in Farnley North Yorkshire and consisted of John, the father, Ester the mother and children named Alfred b 1885, Abraham b1882 and Lily b1891. So I used that family as the one from which “Charles Alfred Vernon” ran away from, changed his name and started a new life. I have no conclusive evidence that this was my “grandfather’s” original family.
 
The facts surrounding Edina, my grandmother, are true. I have a copy of her birth certificate and marriage certificate and I can see from the censuses where she lived and who she lived with. I knew all of her children, Lily, John, Edna and, of course, my mother, Mantua. I also have the records of the family’s journey by ship from England to India on board the S.S. Mantua.
 
All of the book’s characters in India, including Sugata, are a figment of my imagination.
 
It seemed when I was writing Everlasting Lies that each one of the characters would be sitting on my shoulder as I wrote about them and dictating the words for me to put on the page. That was a very odd experience!
 
 

Mine Disaster 1883. 

​John and Esther now had three children Mary, Richard and Abraham. As much as he tried it was very difficult for John to spend more time at home as Wharncliffe Carlton mine had become his life!
 
On Thursday October 18 1883 Esther knew that John was working that morning with one of the deputies George. John was anxious to become a deputy, as this was a team leader underground, so he was getting training in the mornings before his shift. He was being taught the more technical side of mining and taught how to come up with solutions to technical difficulties. Once he completed the training he would be in charge of safety within the mine.  It would also be his job in an emergency event to get his team out of the mine.
 
John finished the afternoon shift and was walking home after a very long day. When suddenly the ground beneath him started to shake and immediately the Wharncliffe hooter started to blow. John was torn between running home to tell Esther he was okay or returning to the mine to help. But he knew the greater need was to get back to the mine.
 
Esther on hearing the howling of the hooter, clasped her chest in fear, was John up and out of the mine or was he still down there? She quickly ran next door asking for help with looking after the bairns. Grabbing her shawl she started to run to the mine. She was not alone as women and children were all running to the mine in the darkness and slight mist on this October night.
 
That night twenty-five men had gone down the pit, Including John’s friend and deputy Albert Button, a young man just a year younger than John with two bairns. Immediately after the explosion steps were taken to restore the ventilation that had been damaged. Of course there was the immediate attempt to recover bodies, but the heat drove the miners back.
 
The horror for those outside was unimaginable, many whose husbands or sons or both were in the mine. John found Esther and they clung to each other. There was nowt anyone could do.
 
Eventually several days later, on the evening of October 21st the gruesome job of recovering the bodies by other miners started. Only seventeen could be found one being the deputy Albert Button. George and Charles Phillips was father and son combo, James Flatney was the youngest at 14 and the eldest at 65 was George Egley, very sad times for all the miners and their families.
 
Eventually, when it was safe the Mine Manager John Slack asked John Fletcher and the two remaining deputies to investigate. Down in the mine this small group found a fire smouldering in the low south district of the mine, attempts were made to extinguish the fire un successfully so it continued to burn. Monday afternoon there was another explosion that slightly injured two other men. At that time the Inspector of Mines, Mr. Wardell made the decision to flood the mine. The pumps were immediately put in place and using a neighbouring stream, the mine was flooded. It was decided that the pumping would continue until the water level was at the top of the area known as Staple Pit. It was estimated that this would take some weeks and that the reopening of the pit and pumping out the water would take a longer period of time. So this would mean that the rest of the mine would go onto shared time.
 
There was to be a mass funeral for the men, the cortege started early in the afternoon at the mining village. The mining homes were on a small hill above the mine, but away from the village and churches.
 
The wagons stopped at each house where the miner had lived, a wreath that hung on the door signifying a death within, marked these houses. Inside the small miners home, the mirrors had be draped with cloth to prevent the deceased's spirit from becoming trapped in the looking glass, the clocks were stopped to signify death and all the curtains remained closed.
 
At each house the dead men both young and old. Some homes where two men had died would be carried out, one after the other, feet first in a simple coffin and placed on the horse drawn wagon, the horses crowned with black plumes. Slowly, the coffins were brought to the waiting wagons, as their family, mothers, fathers, wives and children of varying sizes, aunts, uncles, cousins and maybe grandparents slipped behind the wagon that carried their family member.
 
The drab procession meandered its way down the hill, led by the local village band, the solemn music, wafting on the wind, swirling ahead of the cavalcade. The miners that survived and had not lost a family member, stood with caps in hand as the long procession file passed the mine, and once all the wagons and horses passed, they silently fell in line with their own family members bringing up the rear of the cortege.
 
As the somber line passed the mine and into the village, everyone in the village was standing on the side of the road, bowing their heads as this large funeral procession past. Once again, the villages fell into line, showing their grief and support to all the families.
 
There were several churches of different denominations in the village; however, they shared a common graveyard, which appeared very drab on this grey day. There was no sunlight, just low dark threatening clouds. The gravestones already erected in the graveyard were surrounded by gaping holes with large mounds of black dirt, ready to receive the coffins.  This is where the procession finished, at each mans burial site.
 
The churchmen went to each individual family and repeated many times the words for each and every family.  Murmuring could be heard of “dust to dust” as there was a thud of the blacked soil hitting the wooden coffin below…again and again.
 
Once everyone was buried, the band started to play, “Onward Christian Soldiers.” The crowd singing so powerfully that it was almost impossible to hear the band playing, in fact, the band finished before the singers. Silence fell on the graveyard. Soft crying and some wailing from children could be heard from those whose lives had changed so radically. Still the miners stood stoic in support of the women, children and aged.
 
Unhurriedly, the shuffle started as the mourners left the graveyard, grim faced, quietly giving support to those whose family member had been killed, others helping those who needed to be led away.
 
Esther and John returned to their home, nary saying a word, but both counting their blessings and their luck.
 
 
 
 
 

Which is more difficult, artist or author?

​This is a difficult question. For me, being an artist makes me oblivious to my surroundings and takes me totally to the right side of my brain. But as an author, I am aware of my surroundings and react when spoken to.
 
I started to write my memoires after my husband got sick, as it was impossible to paint, because I needed to hear him when he needed me.
 
During his illness we moved from our house to a condo. We were unable to go away for the winter, as we had been doing for a number of years, so I gave a memoir writing class, in our condo. My husband, who was and is a great writer, was one of the participants. This was a great way for us to meet people within the condo complex.
 
Eventually, after two winters in Canada we returned to our winter home in Mexico. I could now choose to write or paint. That winter I started the novel Everlasting Lies.
 
For me, being an artist is easier and brings a quicker return. Once I have an idea of what I want to paint I choose the medium, be it watercolours, pastels or acrylics, and then start immediately with a sketch. A painting takes me about four or five days from start to finish, the cost is low and the finished product is reasonably easy to sell if I place it in an art gallery on consignment.
 
By comparison to painting a picture, writing a novel requires more planning, research and commitment. It takes more time, more money and the ability to accept criticism in the form of editing.
I had to imagine and develop the characters, research the history of the period and the organizations that were important at that time and to make sure that the dialogue I used was appropriate for the time and the place.
 
Writing the story was fairly easy once started, however I had to learn to be patient with myself because the ideas ran ahead of my ability to type.
 

What would you ask Grandparents if you could?

​My novel, Everlasting Lies, is based on the early lives of my maternal grandparents. They both died before I could ask them these questions:
 
What happened in the years 1920 to 1928 when you lived in India?Would you say that you and Charles had a happy marriageWhy did you move south to Essex after you came back from India?At that time, were you running away from Charles’s family or from something else?Why did your only son John stay in the north? Why was there little communication between you both and John?Did Charles ever tell you about his life before he met you?Did you have any communication with the father of Manty after she was bornWhy didn’t any of the family, including my mother, ever talk about their childhood? Did they have something to be ashamed of? 
I always wondered as a child why these grandparents were so cold to me, their grandchild.
I remember at their fiftieth wedding anniversary celebration, when my aunt, their eldest child announced that she knew that she was a bastard child. However, her parents were married before her birth, so she was legitimate, so maybe she used this in a derogatory manner to show her parents what she thought of them.
 
My paternal grandparents were different; their lives were an open storybook. They had eight children and eventually fifteen grandchildren.
Every grandchild would tell stories about why we thought we were their favourite, even to this day!
 
I’d like to ask my father’s dad about his experiences in WW1 and how he became a head gardener on a large, country estate in England. He knew the common names of all the wildflowers that we saw in our walks together, as well as their Latin names, so I’d love to know where he got that level of education.
 
I am thankful to my paternal grandmother because she always took time to cook special favourites for me and taught me how to cook and told me stories of her childhood.
 
I often wonder if my grandparents would be proud of what I have done in my life. I know that my paternal grandparents would have celebrated every accomplishment, big and small.
 
I think that my maternal grandmother would have been pleased with me but I’m not so sure about her husband who was, after all, not my grandfather.
 
What was your relationship like with your grandparents?
Were they cold or affectionate to you?
Where did they go to school? 
How did they meet?
Were they immigrants to Canada?
 
Please share.
 
 

Edina’s Involvement with the Suffragette Movement.

​Earlier conversation between Sarah and Edina.
 
“Yoo-hoo, Sarah, it is me and little Edna.”  Edina called as she walked into her neighbours house without bothering to knock”
 
“Perfect timing, I need a cuppa!”
 
“ I’ll lay Edna down on the children’s bed, she can nap while we have our tea.”
 
By the time Edina returned tea was made and the ladies settled down to their chat at the kitchen table.
 
“ I am wondering if I could ask you if I could bring all the children over after school as I have a planning meeting with the local suffragettes?”
 
“I can’t imagine why you want to be involved with that militant group!”  Sarah scowled.
 
“What you mean?”
 
“ Well as you asked, I wouldn’t want my name attached to that organization!”
 
“So Sarah, you don’t think you are men’s equal, and should have the same rights as they do?”
 
“The suffragettes are fighters,”  Sarah crossed her arms and frowned. “Those women are violent in fact!”
 
“But I was only a little girl then, it is different now!” sighed Edina.
 
 Sarah really glaring now, raising her voice, “What about Emmeline Pankhurst? Burning down churches.”  There was a pause as Sarah searched for more. “Chaining themselves to Buckingham Palace? Bombs thrown in post boxes?”
 
“See, your talking about when I was young again and wasn’t involved. What about in 1914 when Emmeline called us all to support the government in the war effort?”
 
“What about that woman, I don’t remember her name! She threw herself in front of the King’s horse at the Derby?”
 
 Edina smiled at her friend. “ I love you Sarah, because you are willing to debate with me! You are talking about Emily Wilder Davidson. She hated the male dominant society we live in. Did you know she is a graduate of Oxford University? She obtained first class honours. She was angry that women don’t have the vote. These days that angers me.”
 
“She died, didn’t she Edina?”
 
“Yes.” The ladies looked at each other,
 
“Bring the children over after school, I will look after them. That’s easier than going to a meeting!”
 
They smiled at one another. “One day you will be thanking me Sarah.”
 
“Why?”
 
“When you have the vote!  Your female children, grandchild will thank us every time they vote!”
 
“Gor-on Edina…leave Edna with me while you get ready for yer meeting!”
 

Judging Books by their cover.

​When I go into a bookstore I definitely judge any book by my first reaction to the cover. The cover speaks loudly to me, “pick me up,” it shouts!
 
Yet, when I buy a book for my e reader it is either an author I know and love.  Maybe a book recommended to me by friends. Or a research or technical book, so in these instances, the cover doesn’t matter to me!
 
If I had just looked at Janet Macleod Trotter covers, I probably would not have picked these books up.  Why?  Because, the book covers, on most of these books are not visually interesting to me. However, I love her stories, especially, The Jarrow Trilogy.
 
I recently have bought on my e reader a book that attracted me totally by the cover, though I have not read this yet.  Title of book is,  “419” by Will Ferguson. Why did I buy it? I liked the look on the woman’s face, because her eyes intrigue me, she has a caste mark on her forehead. The cover gave me the impression she is running from something. Because at the very bottom of the cover is a scene that is desolate. I do not know at this point anything else about the book!
 
It took three attempts to find what I was looking for in cover for my first novel. I wasn’t prepared to pay for copyright on a photo. This means I know that I could see a cover with the same picture that I have on Everlasting Lies. However, I wanted a picture was totally black and white. I already knew I wanted the word lies to be in red and the designers used that idea for the red lips.
 
I was very excited when I held the first book in my hands, for me the cover is perfect.
 
What about you? Does the cover enter into the reason you might buy a book in a bookstore? Please share, by telling me about your favourite book cover.
 
 

VIEW FROM A WHEELCHAIR!

​At 5' 1 1/2 I am used to being short, but having had a small accident in the garage of the condo I am now confined to a wheelchair for I hope only a few days.

Weird, how different our home is from this perspective. 
I can no longer read the thermostat. 
Cannot reach the counters.
Blinds, ummm definitely out of reach.
I can reach the light switches, believe me that is a bonus.
Even normally when standing, I have difficulty reaching in the upper cupboards in the kitchen, and have what I need to use on the lower shelves. But now! Even they are unreachable.
I am so glad that we have wood flooring, the couple of area rugs are far more difficult to move on.
Luckily, I have friends in wheelchairs and have no difficulty turning left or right in the wheelchair and can negotiate doorways easily. Though bathrooms are a challenge.

Major challenges, when I get left on my own though.
Because I am not set up to be able to reach any trays... and husband has a lunch date and places to go afterwards, he left me to cope. Kindly, he left crackers out, a plate, cheese slice, glass out,  understanding I couldn't reach into the pantry or the cupboards. But he thought I would be able to get the cheese or anything else out of the fridge!

Yes, though difficult I managed to get in the cheese drawer only after I had managed to reverse backwards to the fridge door, and like a contortionist I tried to swivel in my seat, I found the cheese. New package! Tried pulling it apart,nope ! Teeth, no they didn't work either! Damn. I need scissor! Get myself into a position to be able to close the fridge door. Wheel over to the draw with the scissors, that is now eye level.  I see a sharp knife, but I now realize how vulnerable I am. I really do not need to cut myself. Ah, I spy scissors, perfect. Safely cut open the package. No cutting board! Too high for me to reach. I am now standing and can feel my foot throbbing, so putting weight on other side of my body I make my lunch.

Everything on my plate, all I need is my water. We have water dispenser in the fridge and it is reachable! Darn, I can't carry the water or my lunch over to my chair, because I need my two hands to wheel my reclining chair! Eat my lunch sitting in wheel chair so I can run back and get a drink when I need it.

Dumping everything on the counter for spouse to clean up. This is hard for me as I am a neat freak. Hate untidiness!

Now I need to go to the bathroom, we discussed me using the main bathroom before he left as I didn't have to walk as far and could get the wheelchair into this bathroom.

Okay, I got it in okay! B U T  no room to turn around, no one here to help me! Too narrow to back out easily. So I hang onto the arms and try to use it like a walker. Searing pain in my foot , but what other alternative do I have? Once back into our hallway I put on the brakes and almost losing my balance, manage to sit back down.

Yep life is a challenge, fortunately for me just a short time.

Footnote [hahahah] Eleven days later.

Went from wheelchair for a week , to a walker, and now a cane, though stairs are still impossible.
I do know that our home works for a wheelchair.