Ruth E. Walker's Blog, page 2

A Town Legacy

In the spirit of All Hallow’s Eve, I give you a ghost story. About a decade ago, this tale won a ghost story competition at Trent University and was published in the Peterborough newspaper. Inspired by a tour of Owens-Thomas House, an antebellum mansion in Savannah, Georgia, the story refers to “Haint Blue” which is a blue colour, said to keep out ghosts (or haunts – haints).

The Owens-Thomas House is a stunning home. But it was the slave quarters discovered in the old carriage house during restoration work that fascinated me. The drywall was removed and revealed walls painted in “Haint Blue” that nearly 200 years later, was still there and visible on parts of the rough walls. Our tour guide told us that that particular colour of blue was painted on the wall and around windows and doorways to keep evil spirits out. And I wondered what else besides that paint still clung to that house and its history. And so it inspired my story.

A Town Legacy

I told ‘em. I told ‘em what they needed was a good coat of haint blue – at least on Miss Clarissa’s front door. Would they listen – not on your life, no sir, not to old Florrie. Superstition and foolishness, they said, dismissin’ me as if I were some kind of harbinger.

I like that – harbinger. Deputy Sheriff Sierra said that to me standin’ next to Miss Clarissa’s bench in the Square. Yessir, he lookit me with those bright eyes of his, and he smiled and said in front of half the town: Why Florrie, are you some kind of harbinger for the spirits? And I lookit him right back and I say, no sir, I aint no harbinger, I’m just tellin’ you all I know on this subject, and I know you better get yourselves a nice can of haint blue and at the least you paint that door , sir, you paint that door today.

Then I turned on my heel, and cross the street straight over to Miss Clarissa’s house. And I used the front door without so much as a ‘scuse me, and I closed it tight behind.

And then I went down the hall to the library and found her daddy’s dictionary – the one as big as a piece of fine furniture – and I lookit for that word, harbinger, and when I found it, I rolled it ’round on my tongue for some time and I decided that I liked being a harbinger, a  person heralding the future – like the heraldin’ angels, I suppose. And I’d rather think about angels and Heaven and all, but I’m lookin’ over at that door and listenin’ to Miss Clarissa’s granddaddy’s clock marking a quarter of the hour. And I know it’ll be just a matter of time.

So, I went downstairs to my room and pulled out my valise and my Mama’s carpet bag and I started into packin’ and didn’t stop until I had all I could fit inside my bags. I didn’t stop when the telephone rang, and I didn’t stop when the doorbell rang, and I didn’t stop when the knockin’ started on the door. I didn’t stop until I had each one of them bags set in the front hall, and even then I didn’t open that door right away, though I could see through the dining room window that there was at least thirty of this town’s finest citizens standin’ on Miss Clarissa’s front steps and on the walkway leading up from the street.

I slipped back into the parlour and made sure that all the flowers was just the way Miss Clarissa would expect, and that there weren’t a speck of dust on the mantel ’cause I know Tory Lennox would run her gloves to be sure. Then I checked that not one bit of lace was out of place at Miss Clarissa’s throat for surely her cousin Hattie would fuss all over the lace and then I went right for that door and opened it and one after the other, they all trooped in – not a one of ’em lookin’ at me other than Deputy Sheriff Sierra with them eyes and he says, real low and with a kind of hissy noise, Old Missy Harbinger, I see, but I keep my eyes down, even after he swings in behind me and kicks at my bags.

And I want to say to him, Deputy Sheriff Sierra, my Mama told me, and her Mama before her, and her Mama before her, and all the way back to before we was hauled on over here: A restless spirit can’t never cross over haint blue. But he wouldn’t listen, and I know that just as sure as I know they can bury Miss Clarissa six times six feet down, and it won’t make no difference.

So I stood at the door and I keep my eyes down. I know I might have looked up to the top of the stairs, and I know I might have seen Miss Clarissa’s Daddy and Granddaddy standing there like I’d seen time and time again – even after they had no earthly business bein’ seen. But I kept my eyes down – I didn’t want to see them no more.

And then I left. Far as I know, nobody was puttin’ no haint blue on Miss Clarissa’s front door. And sweet Jesus I know – I just know – she’s gonna to stick to that town like slugs on a stone and I am most surely glad to be waitin’ on a bus. And it don’t matter a slice to me where that bus is headin’ – just so I’m somewheres else, come sundown.

Lucky For You – You Can Read This

My Marathon: No sweat!

On July 11, I hunker down with 39 other marathoners to raise money for a great cause. And no, I don’t need to invest in elite running gear. Heck, I probably won’t even need sunscreen. I understand I will need a hat and a cape but only for inspiration. Oh yeah, I also need to bring my laptop.

Yes. You’re right. It’s not that kind of marathon. It’s the annual Muskoka Novel Marathon held in Huntsville. I have 72 hours to write a novel, so maybe I’ll sweat just a bit. This is not my first novel-writing marathon but it is the first time I’ll join this venerable organization to help raise funds to support literacy services offered by the Simcoe/Muskoka YMCA.

For visitors, this part of Canada’s Cottage Country may look like the land of big boats, luxury cottages and endless summertime fun. But in a vast region of lakes, granite outcroppings, dense bush and towns and villages, there are Simcoe/Muskoka residents who struggle with different barriers to life’s full enjoyment. Low-level literacy is among them.

Literacy: A basic human right

According to the Canadian Literacy and Learning Network (CLLN), a non-profit research agency in Ottawa, “42% of Canadian adults between the ages of 16 and 65 have low literacy skills.”

Literacy is a basic need – I believe it is a basic human right, in fact. Imagine not being able to read the directions on allergy medicine. What if your daughter asked you to read her a bedtime story – and for you, that means deciphering the pictures?

How much fun would it be to fill out an application form if you can’t understand the questions? “Oh, I’ll take this home and drop it off tomorrow” doesn’t often work in a job interview.

Literacy programs are needed everywhere in Canada. And the CLLN suggests that any money put into literacy initiatives will have a significant impact. “A 1% increase in the literacy rate would generate $18 billion in economic growth every year…Investment in literacy programming has a 241% return on investment.” Read more about these statistics here.

My “financial literacy” is pretty basic but even I know that $18 billion is a whole pile of money. And I sure wish my RRSP had a 24% return, let alone a 241% payback.

How You Can Help: In Muskoka or Anywhere

So far, I’ve raised just over $800 in sponsorships – I’ve now set my sights on $1000 by July 11. I welcome your support but remind you that there are local agencies in your community that offer literacy programs. If you don’t want to support my marathon, look around your neighbourhood and make an investment closer to home. When literacy rates rise anywhere in Canada, we all benefit.

Next time you check the ingredients on a soup can or review the directions to your friends’ cottage, give a moment’s thought to those who cannot.

Sponsor me at Canada Helps online donation centre  or send me an email at walkwrite@sympatico.ca

Or

Drop by the Muskoka Novel Marathon at the Active Living Centre (Canada Summit Centre) 20 Park Drive, Huntsville, from July 11-14, 2014 and leave a donation in one of the donation jars (between 8 am – 11 pm July 12-13 and 8 am – 8 pm on July 14).

Or

Google “literacy programs in Canada” to find out where your closest literacy programs are offered and send them your support.

Farley Mowat: A Glimpse

Back in the early 70s, I worked at McClelland & Stewart Limited. It was a glorious time at M & S. Jack McClelland was at the helm. He could boast a list of iconic authors: Alice Munro. Margaret Laurence. Robertson Davies. W. O. Mitchell. Pierre Berton. Mordecai Richler. Margaret Atwood. And many, many other great Canadian writers called M & S their publishing home. And that included Farley Mowat, a supreme storyteller and author of more than 40 books in his lifetime including People of the Deer; The Boat Who Wouldn’t Float; The Dog that Wouldn’t Be, And No Birds Sang, Lost in the Barrens and Never Cry Wolf.

I started out picking and packing books in the warehouse of M & S and worked my way up to Author Royalty and Copyright Clerk in the VP’s office.  It was not unusual to see authors travelling the halls and meeting with editorial staff. Once, I nearly spilled a cup of coffee on Pierre Berton. He was in his usual off-white summer suit and strode into the hall just as I turned the corner. I had split second of decision. I wore the coffee instead. But that, as they say, is another story.

Farley Mowat twice attended the annual Christmas party while I worked there. He’d regale listeners with tales, pipe in hand and all decked out in his (in)famous kilt. And yes, once, someone dared to ask him what he wore beneath and, typical Farley Mowat, he obliged and pulled a Braveheart right in centre of the large banquet room of Fantasy Farms nestled in the hills of the Don Valley in Toronto.

Braveheart “greeting” to British troops

Merry Cheeky Christmas.

But Farley showed a side of him that was much more than that irreverent, funny, opinionated and passionate man. In the fall of 1972, his book A Whale for the Killing was a bit late in the process of publishing. To make sure it got to the stores in time for Christmas sales, many people at M & S put in extra effort. For authors, (and publishers) pre-holiday sales can make a huge difference in sales.

1972 cover A Whale for the Killing

A few days before the M & S Christmas party, there was a snowstorm and by mid-afternoon, they were pulling the buses off the side roads. It was typical Toronto in a snowstorm: THE STORM OF THE DECADE had befallen us. Well, it really was nasty. The warehouse and front office were pretty much deserted with only a few of us workers left to manage things. Not much was happening and we were soon to be told to close up and head home.

I was in the hall when the side door from the parking lot opened. A mini-blizzard flew in — a swirling mass of snow flurries

Farley Mowat, photo by Fred Phipps

surrounding what I was certain could only be an Inuit visitor. Stamping his mukluks clear of snow and yanking back his parka hood, Farley Mowat grinned at me. It was surreal. He marched down the hall toward the editorial department. For a moment, I wondered what he was doing there. But soon turned to the challenge of walking out into the snow to find a bus, any bus, that might take me home.

A few days later, at the annual Christmas party, I learned the reason. Farley had come in on that crazy winter day to sign some of his books. Each one personalized. Each one for every M & S employee. “To Ruth” And, in a lovely gesture, a copy was signed even for each of the seasonal workers.

It was a class act and one that I have never forgotten. Thanks, Farley. For everything.

National Film Board offers a glimpse of the power of Farley’s writing in the short film, 10 Million Books, An Introduction to Farley Mowat.

More than Money: The value of conferences, workshops and networking

When I ask colleague writers if they plan to attend an upcoming writers’ workshop or conference, I’m sometimes surprised by the answers.

“I don’t have time.”

“I don’t have the money.”

“I don’t read the kind of stuff those guys write.”

Disclaimer here: I teach writing workshops and organize writing retreats through Writescape. I will be facilitating programs at both the Ontario Writers’ Conference in May and the Canadian Authors’ Association CanWrite! in June, for which I receive compensation. But I am also flying out to St. John’s, Newfoundland in May to attend OnWords! conference with The Writers’ Union of Canada and next weekend, I’ll be attending poet Daniel Scott Tysdal’s WCDR workshop The Work of Wonder.

Ruth, Gwynn, & friends with guest author Jonathan Bennett at Writescape’s “Turning Leaves” retreat at Fern Resort in Orillia, fall 2011.

I expect it will be worth my time and money to meet and spend time with writers who write completely different work than I do.

Oh my goodness. If I only attended workshops and conferences that feature “writers like me” I’d be a much less interesting person, let alone writer. Many of our most successful writers are a success because they go to new places in their work. They challenge themselves. They bend and blend genres. In short, they surprise and engage readers.

And yes, time is an issue for most of us. But not making time to learn and grow in my craft risks letting down my readers. So I make time. Not as much as I like but enough to keep asking myself, why not?

Delighted to have Michael Cross’s company at the CAA CanWrite conference

As for money, grants can help. Provincial arts organizations, like the Ontario Arts Council’s Works in Progress and Writers’ Reserve grants. Writing organizations like The Writers Community of Durham Region offer members scholarship opportunities.

When I attended Sage Hill Writing Experience in Saskatchewan, I applied for and received a bursary to help offset travel costs. And some writing programs and events offer full scholarships for writers in need.

In Saskatchewan with other participants and staff of the 2010 Sage Hill Summer Experience and the Fiction Colloquiem. (Ruth, third from left, front row. Photo: Sage Hill)

And there are low-cost and even free events — library author readings and open mic reading series in many cities and towns, like east-end Toronto’s Hot Sauced Words .

So the next time your local library is hosting an author reading and/or interview, even if that author is writing Young Adult Fantasy novels and you are writing the Great Canadian Literary Novel, take the time to attend. It is free.

Toronto Star Report and author Robyn Doolittle at the Whitby Public Library

You never know what you might discover there to bring new life and energy to your work.

 

On Visiting Book Clubs

I recently read a Facebook post by an author I quite like about being told at a book club that her main character was “stupid.” She also noted that it is probably a good reason for not writing autobiographical fiction. There were a lot of supportive comments posted in response and some general good cheer sent her way.

 Going to book clubs is, indeed, nerve-wracking on one level. That’s your baby they are examining. What if someone goes on and on about a “rape scene” in your book when you didn’t think you’d actually written a “rape scene?” (And I didn’t think I had, as a matter of fact.) Or if they despised the creepiness of a ”predatory child abuser” when you felt you’d laid out all the necessary bits to support a different view of that character? (And yes, I thought I’d done that pretty well.)

All this “reader opinion” can mess with an author’s self-confidence. (Ha! I hear many of my colleagues rolling their eyes and chortling aloud “WHAT self-confidence?)

But here is where an author needs to step back, take a breath and recognize what changes. Once you have okayed that final proof with the publisher, once the layout and design is complete and the presses are rolling, that baby that took so incredibly long to bring to life is no longer yours. Sure, those are your words, your plot, your characters — but they now belong to your readers.

The fact that readers dislike a character and call her or him “stupid” or “predatory” or any number of negative attributes is a great thing. It means the reader has engaged with your writing so much so that they form an opinion about the individuals you’ve created. There is no greater thrill for me at a book club than to hear members debate and discuss my characters’ motivations. Somehow my imagined world has become their imagined world, albeit from their perspective.

Third Thursday Book Club

Reading is an individual event. Most of us recognize that when we open a book, we bring our life experience to the interpretation of the text. Our moral compass is part of that process. Our preferences for short snappy prose, or for lingering description-rich passages — all of that is part of reading. And enjoyment. Books are meant to engage, to entertain, to offer escapes. Often, they can teach us things about the world and about ourselves that we may not have recognized. But it is the engagement that matters most.

Visiting now with a dozen book clubs in Ottawa, Peterborough, Detroit, Courtice, Toronto, Whitby, Ajax, Oshawa and an international teleconference book club, it has been my great pleasure to hear what readers engaged with in the pages of Living Underground. I’ve been surprised, confused, lauded, taken to task, questioned and observed (there will always be one or two book club members who don’t say much. Do not assume they’ve not read the book; generally, they have and will ask the best questions privately.) 

Readers are a writers’ gift. From them, you learn to look at your words in print in new and intriguing ways. Book club visits are a privilege. Embrace every member’s comments as inspiring gold for when you work on the next book. And your ego? It has no place in the book club’s space. Leave it at the door and you will take a worthwhile and important journey of discovery.

Film Festivals and the Heidi Effect

I have seen the paparazzi and heard the screams of fans.

It was my annual TIFF treat with my friend Heidi. Years ago, she introduced me to the delights of the Toronto International Film Festival and while I can ever only manage to join her for one movie each year, it has always been a true experience. I’ve laughed. Cried. Puzzled. And generally been immersed in the fabulous result of artists from around the world collaborating in their craft. It always leaves me with so much to think about.

And, of course, there is Heidi. Funny, direct and with a sense of adventure that is put into overdrive during the festival. Together, we are two “mature women” out to be moved by the films we see. But I am also always waiting for the Heidi moments.

This year was no different. The film we saw, Violette, is a French film directed by Martin Provost and starring Emmanuelle Devos as Violette Leduc, the post-WWII French writer who was championed by Simone de Beauvoir. Great movie — a slow, sensuous tease that peels away the layers of a fierce and bold writer who discovers her author’s voice through life’s disappointments and dead ends.

It reminded me of screenwriter and story editor Sherry Coman‘s words at a recent writers’ workshop “allow for the slow moments, give them time to experience the emotion of a scene.” Provost must be a director of infinite patience and Devos, an actor who could dwell in those moments with just right amount of emotional weight. Bravo. Brava. It was a world premiere and once more, Heidi picked a film followed by an illuminating Q & A. To add to the pleasure, Piers Handling was our charming host.

But it was after the movie that the true Adventures with Heidi took flight.

We made our usual pit stop in the women’s washroom before the drive back from the lovely Elgin Theatre downtown to Whitby in the east. At our age, you don’t take a chance and hope the Parkway isn’t a parking lot again (it was, from Bloor to Lawrence.) In fact, it was almost as slow-moving as the long line at the washroom. As always, no line at the men’s. Clearly, a topic for later.

Anyway, we were among the last to leave the balcony area and were ushered toward the rear stairs. Heidi stopped the usher. “Is this the exit to the front of the building?” she asked.

“No, madam,” he replied.

“Oh. I need to go out the front. My husband is waiting for me there.” Her voice held concern and just the tiniest hint of panic waiting to rise. She had made arrangements with her husband and something serious – perhaps even fatal – might happen if we were sent off course.

A moment’s pause. Just enough time for the Heidi Effect to take hold. I’ve seen this before. Anyone else, and that usher would have said, ‘I’m sorry but that exit is blocked for the next show. You’ll have to leave by these stairs.’ Instead, three beats later and we are heading down the other stairs, the ones to the front lobby. The doors were closed at the foot of the stairs and guarded by two other ushers.

“Oh. I need to go out the front, my husband is waiting for me there.”

Before the ushers could shield themselves, the Heidi Effect did its magic and we were through the doors and smack dab into the midst of a red carpet set up. Clusters of sequins, clutch purses, silk suits, video cameras and bright lights. Velvet ropes defined where big money could tread and held a narrow aisle for lesser mortals. All I could think was Please God, don’t let me get caught on anyone’s TV camera and let’s get back out to Yonge Street to find Ross, Heidi’s husband.

We got some curious glances as we swam, salmon-like, against the trickle of suits and nice dresses strolling into the theatre. I wondered why so few were coming in, grateful we were making a quick getaway and I followed the determined steps of Heidi, the sidewalk and our ride waiting just beyond those outer doors.

I should have known.

You know those scenes from the Oscars, where limos pull up and fans scream every time they see Brad Pitt’s armpit or Angelina’s umbrella? The only thing missing were the limos. And we were trapped in the thick of it. Across the street, temporary barriers held back a massive crowd of camera flashes and craning necks. To our right, a similar barrier contained a slightly smaller crowd of fans but behind them and hugging the buildings, four people deep, were the TIFF ticket holders.

And Heidi and me, out in front of the lobby doors along with security guards, police officers, PR staffers, a corralled gaggle of official photographers, TV cameras, a smattering of very well dressed lucky ones and Jake Gyllenhaal.  Eventually, Hugh Jackman came and joined us but at this point, he was still out thrilling the block-long line up of fans. He took his time, signing occasional autographs.  He really was charming, by the way, stopping and twisting himself back into the crowd to accommodate group selfies. And what a smile. Jake’s smile was very nice too, but he probably had already done his walkabout and was engaged in some small talk with various thrilled VIP-types.

Heidi and me. Out front. Clutching our practical but large purse bags. Dressed in our office finery. There was no escaping until Jake had finished his one-on-ones and Hugh was done thrilling the throng. Yes. By then, they were Jake and Hugh. We’d spent so much time less than 10 feet away, how could they be anything else?

Ah me. The Visa Concierge – Visa being the official sponsor – official-looking with her headset and brass-like name badge, had eyed us a few times. Jake and Hugh had finally started their long trek up the lobby red carpet to give necessary sound bites to the waiting TV cameras. And there was nobody really famous to excite the crowd. Time for us to ease ourselves along the barrier and past the stalwart line of TIFF volunteers (yay! TIFF volunteers!!) and make our way to Queen Street and our eventual ride home.

But not before another roar and squeals of delight echoed off the surrounding buildings. We’d barely made our escape when the barrier at  Queen Street was opened to allow in a shiny black SUV followed by a white extended van, just as shiny. Who knows who was inside but I don’t think we’d be allowed back in to see.

Not a limo in sight. But it was as close to the Oscars as I’m going to get. And frankly, much closer to Jake and Hugh than I will ever get in future.

Thanks TIFF for a fantastic experience. And Heidi, I can hardly wait for next year. Do you think we can get a couple of selfies with Brad? Next time, I’m bringing something with sequins. Camouflage is always a good thing at these events.

On Duck Patrol

Background: The worst flooding in over a century hit the Haliburton Highlands where our cottage is located on the Drag River. In late April and early May, the Drag was a raging torrent and up 5 feet above normal height. Fortunately, all we lost was an old dock which, compared to people whose basements became quagmires and could only canoe down their streets, that is pretty minor.  I write a regular article in the Haliburton Highlands Land Trust newsletter. The following is from my latest column.


Two weeks ago, I stood where our dock used to be.

Drag River where dock used to be

I ignored the swarm of blackflies as I watched a solitary male mallard duck skim the far side of Drag River. The flood was receding so he was not bumping his iridescent green head on overhanging branches. I was happy for him but I had to wonder: where was Mrs. Mallard? Guarding the nest?

Then I wondered: what nest?

Did the flood take out their ‘family home’? Were eggs or hatchlings swept away? Was Mrs. Mallard lost? Good grief, I thought. What are the effects of high water and flooding on waterfowl habitats?

I checked out the info on the Ontario Ministry of Natural Resources website and it was as I assumed. Mallards – along  with lots of other waterfowl - tend to nest in or near wetlands or close to riverbanks. Those same wetlands and  riverbanks were profoundly affected by the high waters so my concern about Mrs. Mallard and her nestlings was not misplaced.

I can only imagine how devastating the flood was to businesses, home owners and cottagers this spring. Our trips into Minden were constant reminders of how wide-ranging those effects were. But it isn’t just humans that have their daily lives upended by natural disaster. Changing the shoreline, flooding and erosion - through nature or human interference – all have consequences. Because our human world is so closely tied to our natural world, we would be wise to remember and value all the residents of the Haliburton Highlands.

In the weeks since I last saw my lone duck, there’s been no sign of Mrs. Mallard and her kids. But I’m hopeful. After all, nature can be both terrible and amazing – time and again, all of us animals have shown our resilience.

So I’m betting on amazing. How about you?

Photo Credits:

Drag River where Dock Used to be: Linda Morrison Jones, Whitby, Ontario

Mallard Duck: Alain Carpentier http://alaincarpentier.com/

Lights, Camera, Action…The Making of a Book Trailer

When my novel was heading for a second printing, I was excited and nervous. Excited to know that sales had been good enough to warrant another run 3 months after the book’s debut, yet nervous: what if the first run was the limit of sales? 

Just before Living Underground was published, my editor George Down of The Book Band said, “Your book has legs. It’s the kind that will be a steady seller and it will build.” While I relished hearing his words, like most writers I am filled with self-doubt and second guessing.

As part of my ‘second wave’ marketing plan, I thought a book trailer could generate some fresh interest in Living Underground. My novel is not easy to explain in an elevator pitch but a book trailer of 90 seconds or so – that could gather up the many threads and themes. I reasoned it just might do what my tongue-tied self could barely manage. My publisher Maureen Whyte of Seraphim Editions and I worked out a budget. And I knew exactly who I would ask to produce the video.

Studio shoot of La Traviata album cover

I admired the work of Carla Sinclair and Colin Burwell of Empty Cup Media from my artist-in-residence work with the Durham District School Board. They are risk-taking filmmakers with an eye for “the moment” and they live to capture emotion in film. A couple of meetings to chat about the central themes and plot, research and gathering of archival footage and staged filming, an outline or two and music selection – and they went to work. Llewellyn Jones provided the voice over. Several record albums from the 1960s, a 45-year old pipe and tobacco pouch and some special effects were part of the live filming.

Two proofs later, we had the finished product. I posted the book trailer for Living Underground and less than 2 days later, it garnered the highest viral level at facebook.com/LivingUndergroundbyRuthWalker.  The reactions have been amazing. A colleague told me that she kept meaning to get the book but, after she watched the trailer, she went to that night to Book City to buy it because “Now I had to read it.”

Thanks Carla and Colin for finding the emotion in my words and conveying the sense of mystery and secrets. It was a grand adventure, I learned so much and – along the way – gained a greater understanding of the art and science of film.

 

Seeing The World — and Socks — with Fresh Eyes

I am at my keyboard but something is missing. My eyeglasses. I’ve worn them ever since my Grade 3 teacher noticed me squinting and my mom took me to get my eyes tested.

All through the years — at least 50 of them — I’ve continued to wear glasses. Vanity rarely kept them from my face (except at my wedding and a pounding headache for most of the evening was the miserable result.) They have been my pal, helping me see the world. They have been my barrier. Made me a bit different in grade school. My glasses have been my crutch–a mask, if you will. A barrier that kept some part of my face hidden. Safe.

Cataract surgery has changed all that. And how. It all started with socks. One black sock ‘matched’ to one blue sock. It took sunlight and that oh-so-familiar Grade 3 squint for me to notice my colour errors. My vision was deteriorating, and not just getting fuzzy. Cloudy, too.

Over the years, my natural lenses aged. Not only did they become cloudy, they also cast a yellow hue over the world. With crystal clear lenses, I have rediscovered colour. Never mind that I can watch television (imagine!) without glasses, I can see that red is not red-orange-ish. It is, indeed, red. Crimson. Ruby. Scarlet. Oh my. And I can see that blue socks are not black socks. And that fresh white snow is, really it is, white. Not a hint of yellow. Except where the dog has been.

I confess that the vision is not yet perfect. I’ll need glasses for reading. But my old glasses? I have another confession. Sometimes I put them back on because, well, it just feels odd not to wear them. The world is fuzzy now with my old friend perched on my nose, so I take them off. Yet I still reach up to adjust them when they aren’t there.

It’s a bit like smoking. I gave all that up in 1983, but every so often, I think maybe just if I held one in two fingers…just for a moment…raised the filtered end to my lips and…

Yup. Some habits, even when we give them up, remain part of us. So please say nothing if you see me reaching up to my face and then, blushing a bit, pretending I was just whisking an errant hair from my eyes. I am sure it has nothing to do with what used to be there.

The Art and Craft of Listening

Late September and the campfire was crackling at the cabin. Our wee haven in Haliburton is glorious: nestled between two little rivers, surrounded by fir, spruce and pine, it is two hours from home and a million miles from what keeps me from listening otherwise.

Our world is noisy and often noisome in the disagreeable sense of the word. Horns. Fire engines. Shouts. Diesel engines. Air brakes. Train whistles. Now, I can love urban life, take pleasure in the roar of a crowd or the blast of a great rock song on my car radio. And I sure enjoy some noisy aspects of being a published author: talking about the book, talking to publishers, talking to booksellers. Frankly, you have to be fairly noisy these days if you want to bring some attention to your work. So I, too, can be a noisemaker on the radio, at launches and readings and other appearances. But I do worry about how little time anyone has to take in silences. And the rewards that exist when you do take in silence are enormous.

Back to the campfire.

Around that campfire, I’ve heard spring peepers whistling froggy love songs into the night. Coyotes that yip and yelp, and at least once, wolves calling to the stars. I’ve heard the whip-poor-will at dusk and the hooting call of an owl. All of this flavoured by pine, woodsmoke, a mug steaming with coffee or tea and the quiet companionship of my love at my side. And when I listen and hold myself still, I’ve heard the sound of poetry tickle the back of my brain — though up there, it often takes time to simmer and move around in my thoughts, sometimes waiting weeks before falling out and onto the page.

Listening brings its own rewards. Listening to the world around you can, perhaps, help you sift out what is noise and discover what is worth listening to. And keeping.

It will be a long winter of no campfires. I’ll have to settle for the silences brought by heavy snowfalls and those two a.m. strolls through the house that sometimes, when the quiet is perfect and moon shafts some blue through the mini-blind cracks, take me to where I think I can hear something important, something worthwhile, something that longs to find its way from pen to page.