Nancy Jane's Blog
November 14, 2019
Coming in early 2020!
I am so excited to announce that I have just completed my second book 'The Last Bull at Raymond'. This one is a mystery involving some special people and it revolves around a murder and some possible human trafficking. The story takes place in Alberta, Canada. I hope you will watch for it!
November 23, 2016
Congratulations!
Congratulations to all the recent winners of the book 'Flying Kites'! Twenty five copies are winging there way across Canada, the US, GB and Australia. If you missed out on the contest the book is available on Amazon and the Grey Goose Press website.
All the best and thanks for the support!
All the best and thanks for the support!
November 16, 2016
Book Signing Event
I will be at Audrey's Books in downtown Edmonton, Alberta from 7:00p.m. to 8:30p.m. on Friday, December 9th, 2016 for a reading and book signing. Please plan to attend if you are in the Edmonton area!
Cheers!
Cheers!
October 21, 2016
April - 2000
When it got to the quote from Wayne’s father, I could hear the words in my head, ‘You’ve got to behave right. They’re going to be watching your every move for each little mistake on and off the ice. Remember that. You’re a gifted, special player and you’re on display. What you do reflects on me. They’re going to be out to get you.’
It wasn’t Walter Gretzky saying them, though. It was my father. He had my brother by the shoulders and he was staring at him as he repeated the words that I had heard over and over for most of my young life. My brother was staring back at our father, believing every word that came from his mouth. He was so trustful, so brainwashed, hopeful and willing to please. He was a hockey machine, a robot of sorts, with no emotional rights to anything but the pursuit of a little black hockey puck. Our father was the King and he was preparing him to go after the Holy Grail. Everything in his life and, through necessity our lives, was focused on him being drafted into the NHL. Each meal that he ate, any move that he made, all emotions he felt, the slightest breath that he took for every day of his life was designed and controlled by our father to make him a hockey super star. It was just that way. We all knew that he was special because we knew that we weren’t. We all knew that there was only one thing in his life and one person that our father couldn’t control and it led to deadly consequences for all of us.
Just then, a slight flash of light on top of the grandfather clock in the corner distracted me. There, sitting in all its glory, was that damn arrogant black cat with the amazing green eyes! Something like a charm was still sparkling under her chin and it dawned on me that a stray wouldn’t have a collar. She stared at me and I could have sworn it was with humoured contempt. I glanced away for a second to ring for Frederick and when I looked back, she was gone.
It wasn’t Walter Gretzky saying them, though. It was my father. He had my brother by the shoulders and he was staring at him as he repeated the words that I had heard over and over for most of my young life. My brother was staring back at our father, believing every word that came from his mouth. He was so trustful, so brainwashed, hopeful and willing to please. He was a hockey machine, a robot of sorts, with no emotional rights to anything but the pursuit of a little black hockey puck. Our father was the King and he was preparing him to go after the Holy Grail. Everything in his life and, through necessity our lives, was focused on him being drafted into the NHL. Each meal that he ate, any move that he made, all emotions he felt, the slightest breath that he took for every day of his life was designed and controlled by our father to make him a hockey super star. It was just that way. We all knew that he was special because we knew that we weren’t. We all knew that there was only one thing in his life and one person that our father couldn’t control and it led to deadly consequences for all of us.
Just then, a slight flash of light on top of the grandfather clock in the corner distracted me. There, sitting in all its glory, was that damn arrogant black cat with the amazing green eyes! Something like a charm was still sparkling under her chin and it dawned on me that a stray wouldn’t have a collar. She stared at me and I could have sworn it was with humoured contempt. I glanced away for a second to ring for Frederick and when I looked back, she was gone.
October 11, 2016
Christmas - 1970
When they knocked on the shack’s door, Logan Joseph opened it. The old man was squat and round with long white hair in two long neat braids on either side of his face. The ends of the braids, bound with deerskin and coloured beads, hung at his belt. He had dark piercing eyes and a face that exploded into a thousand sparkling wrinkles when he smiled or laughed, and Logan laughed often. He welcomed them inside where strips of gut, rawhide and wood hung from the ceiling. A large iron pot hung from a tripod over a fire burning in a huge brick fireplace and hickory sticks were boiling in the pot.
Sheena’s fear of this place and her sense of witnessing poverty and oppression vanished on meeting Logan Joseph. She was suddenly aware of the immense sense of tradition, happiness and unique spirit that he, and this place, embodied. The sense that he was wise beyond anyone she had ever met but egoless and aware of those who were full of it.
Logan showed off his shack full of treasures with reverence and educated them on the value of the items he had stored in every nook and cranny and the works of pure art that they would become. He took them to a freezer where he had the body of an eagle that a friend had sent to him from the west coast. He pulled it out with gratitude and love and, when he put it back, he closed the lid as if saying goodnight to a cherished one. He showed them weasel and deer hides he was in the process of turning into ceremonial medicine pouches; deer, bison and elk skins he was preparing to make ceremonial drums from; ironwood, and cedar that he had cut to prep for drums, lacrosse sticks, flutes and ceremonial pipes. Lastly, he pulled out Kit’s new lacrosse stick, describing in minute detail how it came into being and how he had blessed it.
He was a master storyteller and not even the Dr., transfixed by his voice, wanted to interrupt him. There was no need to, entranced as they were by the stories he shared with them. He laughed often and they laughed with him. It was contagious. An hour passed, however, and the Dr. started to look anxious. Intuitive to his angst, Logan smiled and stopped his story telling, making the excuse that he had to go in and take a nap or his granddaughter would be mad at him. They left the shack then and as he turned to go in the direction of the house he winked at them and told Kit to run strong and hit hard.
“In the future, blue eyes, you will need to protect him from himself,” he said, pointing his knotty old stained finger at Sheena, “and those he mistakenly trusts.” She could see that he was deadly serious as he glanced toward the Dr., but then the second passed and he smiled a big warm smile, shattering his face into a thousand laugh lines as he added, “But I’m just an old Indian, what do I know?” He waved goodbye then and headed toward the house.
Sheena’s fear of this place and her sense of witnessing poverty and oppression vanished on meeting Logan Joseph. She was suddenly aware of the immense sense of tradition, happiness and unique spirit that he, and this place, embodied. The sense that he was wise beyond anyone she had ever met but egoless and aware of those who were full of it.
Logan showed off his shack full of treasures with reverence and educated them on the value of the items he had stored in every nook and cranny and the works of pure art that they would become. He took them to a freezer where he had the body of an eagle that a friend had sent to him from the west coast. He pulled it out with gratitude and love and, when he put it back, he closed the lid as if saying goodnight to a cherished one. He showed them weasel and deer hides he was in the process of turning into ceremonial medicine pouches; deer, bison and elk skins he was preparing to make ceremonial drums from; ironwood, and cedar that he had cut to prep for drums, lacrosse sticks, flutes and ceremonial pipes. Lastly, he pulled out Kit’s new lacrosse stick, describing in minute detail how it came into being and how he had blessed it.
He was a master storyteller and not even the Dr., transfixed by his voice, wanted to interrupt him. There was no need to, entranced as they were by the stories he shared with them. He laughed often and they laughed with him. It was contagious. An hour passed, however, and the Dr. started to look anxious. Intuitive to his angst, Logan smiled and stopped his story telling, making the excuse that he had to go in and take a nap or his granddaughter would be mad at him. They left the shack then and as he turned to go in the direction of the house he winked at them and told Kit to run strong and hit hard.
“In the future, blue eyes, you will need to protect him from himself,” he said, pointing his knotty old stained finger at Sheena, “and those he mistakenly trusts.” She could see that he was deadly serious as he glanced toward the Dr., but then the second passed and he smiled a big warm smile, shattering his face into a thousand laugh lines as he added, “But I’m just an old Indian, what do I know?” He waved goodbye then and headed toward the house.
August 29, 2016
Congratulations!
Congratulations to the winners and thank you to everyone who entered the contest to win a copy of 'Flying Kites'. I hope you enjoy!! Please spread the word and keep on reading.
