Lori Power's Blog, page 2
December 22, 2016
The love letter
There is young love in our house.
The sweet sincerity of romance and romantic thought.
In this day in age of mass media and social engagement, I have been reminded of the value of the hand written letter.
Without giving too much away and getting into trouble for telling tales out of school, this lovely couple do all of the things young couples are expected to do...they talk on the phone, they use their social media connections, they share and facetime, and spend time together..but then they also write letters. I'm talking hard copy, old-fashioned, put a stamp on it, and go to the mail box letters.
This practice first caught my attention a few months ago and I shrugged it off as a passing fancy. BUT NO, These letters are a part of their relationship. Almost weekly, a letter is sent and a letter is received. The envelop is treasured for its postmark and the fact that its contents are hand written-no computer print out pages.
Of course I am not privy to the contents, but I can tell by the dreamy look in the eye, and the high colour on the cheeks, the power of the love letter has not lost its everlasting impact.
I am reminded that a text on the phone, an e-mail in a saved account folder, or a voicemail is no match for the mighty pen to paper, crinkle of the sheet, worn and wrinkled from being read so often and charished for the words, love letter.
The sweet sincerity of romance and romantic thought.
In this day in age of mass media and social engagement, I have been reminded of the value of the hand written letter.
Without giving too much away and getting into trouble for telling tales out of school, this lovely couple do all of the things young couples are expected to do...they talk on the phone, they use their social media connections, they share and facetime, and spend time together..but then they also write letters. I'm talking hard copy, old-fashioned, put a stamp on it, and go to the mail box letters.
This practice first caught my attention a few months ago and I shrugged it off as a passing fancy. BUT NO, These letters are a part of their relationship. Almost weekly, a letter is sent and a letter is received. The envelop is treasured for its postmark and the fact that its contents are hand written-no computer print out pages.
Of course I am not privy to the contents, but I can tell by the dreamy look in the eye, and the high colour on the cheeks, the power of the love letter has not lost its everlasting impact.
I am reminded that a text on the phone, an e-mail in a saved account folder, or a voicemail is no match for the mighty pen to paper, crinkle of the sheet, worn and wrinkled from being read so often and charished for the words, love letter.
November 16, 2016
Paraprosdokians
Figures of speech in which the latter part of a sentence or phrase is surprisingly unexpected.
Where there's a will, I want to be in it.
Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
If I agreed with you, we'd both be wrong.
We never really grow up; we only learn how to act in public.
War does not determine who is right--only who is left.
Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit...wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.
I didn't say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.
In filling out an application, where it says, "in case of emergency, notify;" I put DOCTOR.
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think they are sexy.
You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.
I used to be indecisive. Now, I'm not so sure.
To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.
You're never too old to learn something stupid.
I'm supposed to respect my elders, but it's getting harder and harder for me to find one now.
Where there's a will, I want to be in it.
Since light travels faster than sound, some people appear bright until you hear them speak.
If I agreed with you, we'd both be wrong.
We never really grow up; we only learn how to act in public.
War does not determine who is right--only who is left.
Knowledge is knowing a tomato is a fruit...wisdom is not putting it in a fruit salad.
To steal ideas from one person is plagiarism. To steal from many is research.
I didn't say it was your fault, I said I was blaming you.
In filling out an application, where it says, "in case of emergency, notify;" I put DOCTOR.
Women will never be equal to men until they can walk down the street with a bald head and a beer gut and still think they are sexy.
You do not need a parachute to skydive. You only need a parachute to skydive twice.
I used to be indecisive. Now, I'm not so sure.
To be sure of hitting the target, shoot first and call whatever you hit the target.
You're never too old to learn something stupid.
I'm supposed to respect my elders, but it's getting harder and harder for me to find one now.
October 24, 2016
Meet Trip
An excerpt from Book Three in the "Gentle Surf" series entitled: "For a Song"
The light from the parted shades sliced through his lids like shards of glass. His hand groped to find his face and prevent further injury from the invasion.
“Shut the drapes . . .” He crocked, his voice dying with the effort of speaking.
A shadow crossed his lids. “Trip, baby, come on.” The wine of the voice jiggled the rocks inside his head so they smashed against his skull. “You promised at the club last night you’d take me out on the boat today.”
She moved, taking her shadow with her and the sun again assaulted him. He wasn’t surprised he couldn’t remember her name, but he was surprised he couldn’t remember being at the club. Typically he could at least recall arriving, if not leaving and with whom. This could be the start of something positive. Perhaps soon he would be able to forget everything.
An image of Kurt fighting with the sails, bushy hair flying in his eyes, always smiling, wavered between the pounding in his temples. Fisting his hands, Trip screwed the cuffs of his hands tighter to his eyes to squeeze out the image. Just how much booze would it take to finally eradicate the memories?
The bed bounced and whatever he picked up last night settled too close, her fragrance overpowering, the floral scent too sweet. His stomach heaved and he swallowed to control the sensation. She brushed fingertips through his hair and he cringed, his skin prickled with resentment. With the effort of Hercules, he pushed up on his elbow and splayed his fingers apart to view the party gift from the night before. Typical. She looked like every other girl he brought home. Long limbed, fresh, and tanned, her hungry eyes were eager to have a chance to slay the dragon.
The light from the parted shades sliced through his lids like shards of glass. His hand groped to find his face and prevent further injury from the invasion.
“Shut the drapes . . .” He crocked, his voice dying with the effort of speaking.
A shadow crossed his lids. “Trip, baby, come on.” The wine of the voice jiggled the rocks inside his head so they smashed against his skull. “You promised at the club last night you’d take me out on the boat today.”
She moved, taking her shadow with her and the sun again assaulted him. He wasn’t surprised he couldn’t remember her name, but he was surprised he couldn’t remember being at the club. Typically he could at least recall arriving, if not leaving and with whom. This could be the start of something positive. Perhaps soon he would be able to forget everything.
An image of Kurt fighting with the sails, bushy hair flying in his eyes, always smiling, wavered between the pounding in his temples. Fisting his hands, Trip screwed the cuffs of his hands tighter to his eyes to squeeze out the image. Just how much booze would it take to finally eradicate the memories?
The bed bounced and whatever he picked up last night settled too close, her fragrance overpowering, the floral scent too sweet. His stomach heaved and he swallowed to control the sensation. She brushed fingertips through his hair and he cringed, his skin prickled with resentment. With the effort of Hercules, he pushed up on his elbow and splayed his fingers apart to view the party gift from the night before. Typical. She looked like every other girl he brought home. Long limbed, fresh, and tanned, her hungry eyes were eager to have a chance to slay the dragon.
August 30, 2016
Unappreciated
Imagine if you will...narrow roads, with next to no shoulder. To one side, the earth falls off, giving way to the ocean's incessant on-slaught. On the other is lush forest, so thick, mere feet inside cocoons against noise and the outside world. Travel down these twisting, turning roads - up and down as they trace the rugged coastline.
This is a vision of my home. This is where my imagine returns time and again for inspiration.
In these woods, I hide secrets for the reader to discover. Within the howling wind, you can hear cry of the sea gull carrying clues. Upon the ocean waves, the hero sails in to save the day. And when the summer sun shines, you can catch the romance of the gentle surf.
This is the place where homes are painted the bright colours of the sea: blue, green, grey-and always the red to welcome you back.
No matter where you've been, how long you've been away, first time visitor, or long-time friend...When people pass, they smile and a wave because even if they don't recognize you, they know you. You're here now. You're a friend. Within a short span of time, they will know, have you related to someone they know from somewhere, or make some connection to bind you to the area, so you too can call the place home too.
My home town, a dot on the map, is significant to me. From this inspiration, there's always a story to tell. History marks the area with Pirates, Sea Farers, people of commerce, fishermen, farmers, Olympic athletes, and World War II heroes of valour, now featured on the Canadian stamp, I am proud of my home town.
Thank you for always welcoming me home!
This is a vision of my home. This is where my imagine returns time and again for inspiration.
In these woods, I hide secrets for the reader to discover. Within the howling wind, you can hear cry of the sea gull carrying clues. Upon the ocean waves, the hero sails in to save the day. And when the summer sun shines, you can catch the romance of the gentle surf.
This is the place where homes are painted the bright colours of the sea: blue, green, grey-and always the red to welcome you back.
No matter where you've been, how long you've been away, first time visitor, or long-time friend...When people pass, they smile and a wave because even if they don't recognize you, they know you. You're here now. You're a friend. Within a short span of time, they will know, have you related to someone they know from somewhere, or make some connection to bind you to the area, so you too can call the place home too.
My home town, a dot on the map, is significant to me. From this inspiration, there's always a story to tell. History marks the area with Pirates, Sea Farers, people of commerce, fishermen, farmers, Olympic athletes, and World War II heroes of valour, now featured on the Canadian stamp, I am proud of my home town.
Thank you for always welcoming me home!
July 25, 2016
Watching
Things are heating up in the sequel to "Hit 'n Run"
"The Tables Have Turned"
an "Under Suspicion" Novel
The double sinks were visible from the bedroom through an open arch. The toilet and shower further in the room were private, separated by a pocket door. Via the vanity, he could see Lorna sitting on the edge of the queen bed, loosening her hair out of the chignon. He chuckled remembering how he had first called the up-do her helmet head. Doing too much at once, he hiccupped and accidently swallowed some toothpaste.
“Blah.” He spit, rinsed the brush, and resumed the procedure. He rolled his eyes.
Watching her splayed fingers run through the thick mass made it hard to concentrate. The light brown strands swung about her shoulders. Head tilted back, eyes closed, all he wanted to do was drop the brush and kiss that long neck. He’d start at the base of her throat and work his way—slowly—into the sensitive area along her jaw bone, close to her ear lobe. His fingers tightened on the counter anticipating her throaty “ahh” when he hit all the right spots. Then he imagined working his way south in the same slow manner, taking his time to pay proper homage to pert—not too big—not to small—breasts along the way.
Mitch coughed when he realized he’d forgotten all about brushing his teeth. But he was reluctant to interrupt her motions. Seeing Lorna so unguarded and natural was a rarity. She lived a life of focus, surrounded by lists and goals. For a few moments, he wanted to enjoy the rare view into the woman who would be his wife soon.
She shifted the mass to one shoulder and kicked off her heels. Tracing her fingers up her leg, under the hemline of her somber skirt, she fit her thumb under the edge of the stocking and started to move it down the shapely leg. At the ankle, she pulled the nylon from the toe and tossed it to the floor. As she started to repeat the process on the other leg, Mitch had to step back from the edge of the sink. His blood was raging through his veins, engorging certain parts of his body.
"The Tables Have Turned"
an "Under Suspicion" Novel
The double sinks were visible from the bedroom through an open arch. The toilet and shower further in the room were private, separated by a pocket door. Via the vanity, he could see Lorna sitting on the edge of the queen bed, loosening her hair out of the chignon. He chuckled remembering how he had first called the up-do her helmet head. Doing too much at once, he hiccupped and accidently swallowed some toothpaste.
“Blah.” He spit, rinsed the brush, and resumed the procedure. He rolled his eyes.
Watching her splayed fingers run through the thick mass made it hard to concentrate. The light brown strands swung about her shoulders. Head tilted back, eyes closed, all he wanted to do was drop the brush and kiss that long neck. He’d start at the base of her throat and work his way—slowly—into the sensitive area along her jaw bone, close to her ear lobe. His fingers tightened on the counter anticipating her throaty “ahh” when he hit all the right spots. Then he imagined working his way south in the same slow manner, taking his time to pay proper homage to pert—not too big—not to small—breasts along the way.
Mitch coughed when he realized he’d forgotten all about brushing his teeth. But he was reluctant to interrupt her motions. Seeing Lorna so unguarded and natural was a rarity. She lived a life of focus, surrounded by lists and goals. For a few moments, he wanted to enjoy the rare view into the woman who would be his wife soon.
She shifted the mass to one shoulder and kicked off her heels. Tracing her fingers up her leg, under the hemline of her somber skirt, she fit her thumb under the edge of the stocking and started to move it down the shapely leg. At the ankle, she pulled the nylon from the toe and tossed it to the floor. As she started to repeat the process on the other leg, Mitch had to step back from the edge of the sink. His blood was raging through his veins, engorging certain parts of his body.
June 24, 2016
Book Two: The "Gentle Surf" Series
An excerpt from "From the Front Desk"
Wendee sat up, dropped his hand, and twisted to face him. “There is nothing soft about standing up for someone you love and standing by your integrity.”
Toby looked down at his legs, feet crossed at the ankles. He laced his fingers together and rested them on his lap. “There was no integrity in what I did.”
“Nor what they did to your sister.” Wendee shot back and her eyes flashed. “If you had it to do all over again…would you do anything differently?”
Silence sat between them like a wall. In his mind’s eye he saw his sister. Her normally clever features and quirky smile alight with teasing vanquished behind the pale features of a stranger who’s very essence was stolen away without permission. The raw impact of his rage struck like a blow to the gut. A white heat swept across his brow as he relived his complete ineptitude to help Carrie when she needed him most. Toby unlatched his fingers from his lap and curl them into fists. His shoulders tightened and he rubbed his knuckles along his upper leg curbing the urge to stand and run.
He couldn’t outrun what had been done to his sister, nor could he outrun his response. “No.” He pounded his bunched hands on the wood slats of the bench. “I’d do it again.”
“Despite what you know now?” Wendee’s voice probed, yet she retained the distance between them. “Being hunted down—on the run—facing the exile from your family?”
He forced his hands to open and curled his palms around the edge of the seat. “Why are you asking me this?” The words scratched like sandpaper across his throat. He leaned forward as though to encapsulate the hurt. “I opened myself to you. I have told you things I never told anyone before.”
“Because right or wrong, Toby, you’d do it again.” Her voice came closer. The hair on his airs stood up as if reaching to touch her. He heard her draw breath. “It’s not for me to judge you. I wasn’t there, I can’t possibly know.” Light fingers touched his hand. “But you’ve allowed me to get to know you now and I can tell you this…I’d want you there for me.”
Wendee sat up, dropped his hand, and twisted to face him. “There is nothing soft about standing up for someone you love and standing by your integrity.”
Toby looked down at his legs, feet crossed at the ankles. He laced his fingers together and rested them on his lap. “There was no integrity in what I did.”
“Nor what they did to your sister.” Wendee shot back and her eyes flashed. “If you had it to do all over again…would you do anything differently?”
Silence sat between them like a wall. In his mind’s eye he saw his sister. Her normally clever features and quirky smile alight with teasing vanquished behind the pale features of a stranger who’s very essence was stolen away without permission. The raw impact of his rage struck like a blow to the gut. A white heat swept across his brow as he relived his complete ineptitude to help Carrie when she needed him most. Toby unlatched his fingers from his lap and curl them into fists. His shoulders tightened and he rubbed his knuckles along his upper leg curbing the urge to stand and run.
He couldn’t outrun what had been done to his sister, nor could he outrun his response. “No.” He pounded his bunched hands on the wood slats of the bench. “I’d do it again.”
“Despite what you know now?” Wendee’s voice probed, yet she retained the distance between them. “Being hunted down—on the run—facing the exile from your family?”
He forced his hands to open and curled his palms around the edge of the seat. “Why are you asking me this?” The words scratched like sandpaper across his throat. He leaned forward as though to encapsulate the hurt. “I opened myself to you. I have told you things I never told anyone before.”
“Because right or wrong, Toby, you’d do it again.” Her voice came closer. The hair on his airs stood up as if reaching to touch her. He heard her draw breath. “It’s not for me to judge you. I wasn’t there, I can’t possibly know.” Light fingers touched his hand. “But you’ve allowed me to get to know you now and I can tell you this…I’d want you there for me.”
May 24, 2016
From the Front Desk
A excerpt from book two of the "Gentle Surf" series...
Toby’s curiously got the better of him. Taking the employee stairwell, he walked towards the hotel lobby. His step slowed on the carpeted hallway as he considered what he would say to her—this mystery woman who kissed like a long-lost lover on the beach. Certainly, he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it. Nor, would he say he didn’t want to enjoy a kiss like that again in the future, though his common-sense cautioned him against such thoughts.
Toby paused before turning the corner to where the front desk took up most of the facing wall. He’d walked these floors so many times, yet now, everything felt different. All of a sudden, there was a girl who had caused him to feel sensations he hadn’t allowed himself to even imagine in a long time. While he couldn’t afford exposure, since meeting this woman, he had begun to question whether existing was living?
Standing beside a large pillar, Toby leaned his shoulder against against the column and put a hand in his pocket. With a casual lean, he peered around the edge towards the front desk. Calvin was speaking to a guest, his hands flying around the air in illustration. The clerk’s round face was split with his easy smile and Toby could see why he was a beloved member of the staff at the Del.
Toby leaned further around the edge, but there was no sign of the girl.
“You’re not looking for me, are you?”
The voice from over his shoulder startled him. He lost his footing and would have landed on the floor had he not grabbed the corner of the column. He regained his stance and stood tall, squaring his shoulders, and adjusting his shirt back into place.
In her gold and sand-coloured vest uniform with the beige skirt and matching low heels, she was even more striking than in her runners and baggy sweat clothes. She had lifted a hand to hide her well-formed mouth, covering her snickers. Her eyes sparkled, the edges crinkled with mirth.
Heat and desire mixed a bold concoction to fire through his veins. He stood at least a head taller and looked down on her consumed with the memory of her lips on his. His stomach clenched with the need for more, wondering what it would be like to be with someone so bold—someone so confident to know her own mind and be willing to chase it regardless of the fall out. Toby craved such freedom.
Without further thought, he scooped her free hand into his and pulled her through the corridors to a secluded spot he knew they wouldn’t be disturbed or overheard. This old building was as familiar to him as his houseboat and had been a second home since washing up on the shores a decade ago. He didn’t glance over his shoulder to check her reaction for he could feel it in her hand as she intertwined her fingers with his, her thumb tracing light circles on the sensitive side of his wrist.
Reaching a small alcove, he pulled her into the shadows and turned her so her back was against the wall. Her chest rose and fell with her rapid breath that matched his own. The rose on her cheeks resembled how she looked when she had been running and his need grew. Keeping his fingers laced with hers, he braced his other palm against the wall by her ear.
“I don’t do this,” he said with a voice he didn’t recognize as his own. He took his thumb and traced the line of her full lower lip.
Her teeth sneaked out to pull the lip into her mouth and he closed his eyes to quell his rising need.
Her eyes, big and full, gazed up at him with a mixture of innocence and seduction. “Do what?” A small dimple appeared to the right of her lips as she quirked a grin.
On a groan, he moved his hand to brace behind her neck and lowered his head to hers. Their noses touched and paused a moment. Then her teeth released her lips and her mouth parted. He tilted his head a fraction until his mouth could mould to hers. Electricity shot to the deepest part of his core and he pulled her close.
Her arm circled around his neck and she arched closer until her pelvis rubbed against his. She sighed and moved her lips along his jaw and bit the lobe of his ear. “Yum.”
A door slammed down the hall and the sound reminded him their private moment was fleeting. He pulled back and moved his hand to cup her cheek. “I don’t do this.”
“So, you said,” she replied with a smile. Her gaze travelled from his eyes to linger on his lips and back again. Then she ran her fingers through his hair. “I really wanted to do that.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant mess up his hair or kiss him. “Really?”
“Really.”
At a loss for conversation after such a kiss, needing—wanting more, he shrugged without a response.
She seemed to somehow understand him and not be offended by his lack of words. Her smile widened and she reached to pull his head closer to hers. The kiss was chaste. “I have to get back to work. Break’s over.”
“Mine too.”
“Quite a break for someone who doesn’t do this.”
Toby chuckled. What could he say?
She started to move away and he grabbed her arm with a light touch, enjoying the smoothness of her skin. “I don’t know your name.”
Her eyes fluttered before turning her gaze back on him. The seductress was back and she again bit her lip as though pondering her next words. After a prolonged pause, she finally spoke. “Why would you need to know?”
Toby’s curiously got the better of him. Taking the employee stairwell, he walked towards the hotel lobby. His step slowed on the carpeted hallway as he considered what he would say to her—this mystery woman who kissed like a long-lost lover on the beach. Certainly, he couldn’t say he didn’t enjoy it. Nor, would he say he didn’t want to enjoy a kiss like that again in the future, though his common-sense cautioned him against such thoughts.
Toby paused before turning the corner to where the front desk took up most of the facing wall. He’d walked these floors so many times, yet now, everything felt different. All of a sudden, there was a girl who had caused him to feel sensations he hadn’t allowed himself to even imagine in a long time. While he couldn’t afford exposure, since meeting this woman, he had begun to question whether existing was living?
Standing beside a large pillar, Toby leaned his shoulder against against the column and put a hand in his pocket. With a casual lean, he peered around the edge towards the front desk. Calvin was speaking to a guest, his hands flying around the air in illustration. The clerk’s round face was split with his easy smile and Toby could see why he was a beloved member of the staff at the Del.
Toby leaned further around the edge, but there was no sign of the girl.
“You’re not looking for me, are you?”
The voice from over his shoulder startled him. He lost his footing and would have landed on the floor had he not grabbed the corner of the column. He regained his stance and stood tall, squaring his shoulders, and adjusting his shirt back into place.
In her gold and sand-coloured vest uniform with the beige skirt and matching low heels, she was even more striking than in her runners and baggy sweat clothes. She had lifted a hand to hide her well-formed mouth, covering her snickers. Her eyes sparkled, the edges crinkled with mirth.
Heat and desire mixed a bold concoction to fire through his veins. He stood at least a head taller and looked down on her consumed with the memory of her lips on his. His stomach clenched with the need for more, wondering what it would be like to be with someone so bold—someone so confident to know her own mind and be willing to chase it regardless of the fall out. Toby craved such freedom.
Without further thought, he scooped her free hand into his and pulled her through the corridors to a secluded spot he knew they wouldn’t be disturbed or overheard. This old building was as familiar to him as his houseboat and had been a second home since washing up on the shores a decade ago. He didn’t glance over his shoulder to check her reaction for he could feel it in her hand as she intertwined her fingers with his, her thumb tracing light circles on the sensitive side of his wrist.
Reaching a small alcove, he pulled her into the shadows and turned her so her back was against the wall. Her chest rose and fell with her rapid breath that matched his own. The rose on her cheeks resembled how she looked when she had been running and his need grew. Keeping his fingers laced with hers, he braced his other palm against the wall by her ear.
“I don’t do this,” he said with a voice he didn’t recognize as his own. He took his thumb and traced the line of her full lower lip.
Her teeth sneaked out to pull the lip into her mouth and he closed his eyes to quell his rising need.
Her eyes, big and full, gazed up at him with a mixture of innocence and seduction. “Do what?” A small dimple appeared to the right of her lips as she quirked a grin.
On a groan, he moved his hand to brace behind her neck and lowered his head to hers. Their noses touched and paused a moment. Then her teeth released her lips and her mouth parted. He tilted his head a fraction until his mouth could mould to hers. Electricity shot to the deepest part of his core and he pulled her close.
Her arm circled around his neck and she arched closer until her pelvis rubbed against his. She sighed and moved her lips along his jaw and bit the lobe of his ear. “Yum.”
A door slammed down the hall and the sound reminded him their private moment was fleeting. He pulled back and moved his hand to cup her cheek. “I don’t do this.”
“So, you said,” she replied with a smile. Her gaze travelled from his eyes to linger on his lips and back again. Then she ran her fingers through his hair. “I really wanted to do that.”
He wasn’t sure if she meant mess up his hair or kiss him. “Really?”
“Really.”
At a loss for conversation after such a kiss, needing—wanting more, he shrugged without a response.
She seemed to somehow understand him and not be offended by his lack of words. Her smile widened and she reached to pull his head closer to hers. The kiss was chaste. “I have to get back to work. Break’s over.”
“Mine too.”
“Quite a break for someone who doesn’t do this.”
Toby chuckled. What could he say?
She started to move away and he grabbed her arm with a light touch, enjoying the smoothness of her skin. “I don’t know your name.”
Her eyes fluttered before turning her gaze back on him. The seductress was back and she again bit her lip as though pondering her next words. After a prolonged pause, she finally spoke. “Why would you need to know?”
April 18, 2016
Sea Breeze
~A excerpt from Chapter One:
Elleah spanned her hand across her brow to massage her temples. Breathing through her nose, she struggled to maintain her calm as she faced her brother’s misguided indignation. In her quest for independence, she had chosen to use their mother’s maiden name as her own.
“Jaundoo,” Arthur barked and marched towards the hotel door. He paused, hand on the brass knob, turned, and trod back into the room to face her. “You’re a Mellon, Elleah, and should be proud of it.”
His temper reminded Elleah of when they were kids—arms overlapped across his barrel chest, nostrils flared. Red splotches colored his cheeks and her brother’s yellow-flecked, deep green eyes burned with passionate indignation. His golden irises—like a sun shining through the branches in the forest—bored into her, willing her to bend to his command. But she would not bend. Not this time.
Some things never changed, and a part of her was glad. Placing her hands on her hips, not bothering to mince words, she leaned towards her older sibling. “Mama was a Jaundoo. I am proud of my name.”
Arthur stood straight and dropped his arms. Hands fisted, he crossed the small suite, skirting the bed to pull the curtains aside and stare out the window to the expanse of golden beach beyond. The Mexican coastline was a shimmering mass, just visible on the horizon. The air simmered with heat and moisture, leaving everything the breeze touched with a tropical fragrance. Mid-morning sun blazed into the dim suite, casting a prism of color across the carpeted floor. His palm lay flat against the glass.
Did independence mean isolation? Elleah cursed the tightness of remorse rising in her chest and tamped it down. She would be strong. But, frankly, she missed her family. The loss of her mother a year ago ached like an amputation.
To Elleah, who watched his rigid back, Arthur stood statue flawless—the ideal cosmopolitan man of 1950—tall, broad-shouldered, cultured, and precise. Picture perfect of a classic New Yorker. Groomed to be the man he’d become-fit and ready to take the reins of the Mellon family business.
She saw no future for herself in the banker’s life.
Finally, he huffed and turned to face her. Pain stretched his features and caused his wide-set eyes to turn down. “Jaundoo’s not your name. It’s not the name she gave you.”
Elleah, too, dropped her hands and changed tactics. Her affection for their proud heritage warred with her turmoil, the need for her own escape from the pain of loss. “What does the name Mellon mean to the likes of me? What did the mantle of Mellon ever do for Mother—God rest her soul—her whole life spent trying to fit in with a bunch of snobs who would never—will never— accept us for who we are?”
Elleah spanned her hand across her brow to massage her temples. Breathing through her nose, she struggled to maintain her calm as she faced her brother’s misguided indignation. In her quest for independence, she had chosen to use their mother’s maiden name as her own.
“Jaundoo,” Arthur barked and marched towards the hotel door. He paused, hand on the brass knob, turned, and trod back into the room to face her. “You’re a Mellon, Elleah, and should be proud of it.”
His temper reminded Elleah of when they were kids—arms overlapped across his barrel chest, nostrils flared. Red splotches colored his cheeks and her brother’s yellow-flecked, deep green eyes burned with passionate indignation. His golden irises—like a sun shining through the branches in the forest—bored into her, willing her to bend to his command. But she would not bend. Not this time.
Some things never changed, and a part of her was glad. Placing her hands on her hips, not bothering to mince words, she leaned towards her older sibling. “Mama was a Jaundoo. I am proud of my name.”
Arthur stood straight and dropped his arms. Hands fisted, he crossed the small suite, skirting the bed to pull the curtains aside and stare out the window to the expanse of golden beach beyond. The Mexican coastline was a shimmering mass, just visible on the horizon. The air simmered with heat and moisture, leaving everything the breeze touched with a tropical fragrance. Mid-morning sun blazed into the dim suite, casting a prism of color across the carpeted floor. His palm lay flat against the glass.
Did independence mean isolation? Elleah cursed the tightness of remorse rising in her chest and tamped it down. She would be strong. But, frankly, she missed her family. The loss of her mother a year ago ached like an amputation.
To Elleah, who watched his rigid back, Arthur stood statue flawless—the ideal cosmopolitan man of 1950—tall, broad-shouldered, cultured, and precise. Picture perfect of a classic New Yorker. Groomed to be the man he’d become-fit and ready to take the reins of the Mellon family business.
She saw no future for herself in the banker’s life.
Finally, he huffed and turned to face her. Pain stretched his features and caused his wide-set eyes to turn down. “Jaundoo’s not your name. It’s not the name she gave you.”
Elleah, too, dropped her hands and changed tactics. Her affection for their proud heritage warred with her turmoil, the need for her own escape from the pain of loss. “What does the name Mellon mean to the likes of me? What did the mantle of Mellon ever do for Mother—God rest her soul—her whole life spent trying to fit in with a bunch of snobs who would never—will never— accept us for who we are?”
March 15, 2016
Suffragette
Why won’t those women just shut up? When is enough, enough?
When equality is achieved!
But wouldn’t life be easier if we just let it go, stop harping and be satisfied.
No!
Suffragette is a word which brings to mind mad women rioting in the streets, being arrested, and causing general unrest amongst the accepted norm. Today, we are feminist. But to think that we are less than century since women were granted the opportunity to vote here in Canada, I am so eternally grateful to those women who were willing to endure hunger strikes, beatings, the loss of family and friends, and many their lives, so we can have the same opportunity as our male counterpart.
Let’s not forget though, even when women won the right to vote, this came with many provisions and limitations, leaving Quebec women out of the opportunity, provincially, until 1940, and indigenous women weren’t enfranchised federally until 1960! By today’s standards it’s outrageous to think we weren’t considered “Persons under the Law” until the Valiant Five launched the “Persons Case” in 1927.
As I write this, it is my hope that the next generation of women will look back on our history of struggles and value a pay cheque worthy of their skills. Because today we still have a long way to go to achieve equality.
According to 2014 statistics, Canadian women’s incomes are 82% of men’s. Women are continually overlooked for managerial positions. This gap persists across age, education, labour markets, and family type. Where a man typically never has to choose between career and family, almost all professional women are asked to make that choice at some point.
So, today, make the choice. Stick with the fight. Be the soldier of change. Educate your sons and daughters on the importance of equality in all aspects of life: profession—family—governance. AND never forget the sacrifices of those who came before us.
When equality is achieved!
But wouldn’t life be easier if we just let it go, stop harping and be satisfied.
No!
Suffragette is a word which brings to mind mad women rioting in the streets, being arrested, and causing general unrest amongst the accepted norm. Today, we are feminist. But to think that we are less than century since women were granted the opportunity to vote here in Canada, I am so eternally grateful to those women who were willing to endure hunger strikes, beatings, the loss of family and friends, and many their lives, so we can have the same opportunity as our male counterpart.
Let’s not forget though, even when women won the right to vote, this came with many provisions and limitations, leaving Quebec women out of the opportunity, provincially, until 1940, and indigenous women weren’t enfranchised federally until 1960! By today’s standards it’s outrageous to think we weren’t considered “Persons under the Law” until the Valiant Five launched the “Persons Case” in 1927.
As I write this, it is my hope that the next generation of women will look back on our history of struggles and value a pay cheque worthy of their skills. Because today we still have a long way to go to achieve equality.
According to 2014 statistics, Canadian women’s incomes are 82% of men’s. Women are continually overlooked for managerial positions. This gap persists across age, education, labour markets, and family type. Where a man typically never has to choose between career and family, almost all professional women are asked to make that choice at some point.
So, today, make the choice. Stick with the fight. Be the soldier of change. Educate your sons and daughters on the importance of equality in all aspects of life: profession—family—governance. AND never forget the sacrifices of those who came before us.
February 19, 2016
Harper Lee
Is there a modern author out there who hasn’t been impacted by the writing of Harper Lee?
In the fall, I had the pleasure of sharing my love of her writing with my teenager who “had” to read “To Kill a Mocking Bird” for English class. I can only hope, he and others of his generation, will re-read the novel for the pleasure of being transported into a time and space, fortunately unfamiliar to many now.
With the potency of the words, the ability to ‘show’ us a life, and lead us down the path through the young eyes of Scout, is it any wonder the novel won a Pulitzer Prize in 1961. How original and thoughtful was the story through the innocent eyes of a child. Multi-layered and multi-faceted, she wove the plots of her relationship with her brother Jem, together with the secrecy of Boo Radley, and of course the trail of Tom Robinson, who had been accused of raping Mayella Ewell, as defended by her father Atticus Finch.
Powerful.
Though Lee, worked as a research assistant for Truman Capote for his classic non-fiction novel “In Cold Blood”, she never again published. Guarded and private, I wonder in her death will we be pleasantly surprised by a release of her secret writings, for I find it hard to believe someone as talented as she could never again put pen to paper—or perhaps, as admirer, that is merely hopeful.
Oh, to think what we could learn from her writings!
“Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”
In the fall, I had the pleasure of sharing my love of her writing with my teenager who “had” to read “To Kill a Mocking Bird” for English class. I can only hope, he and others of his generation, will re-read the novel for the pleasure of being transported into a time and space, fortunately unfamiliar to many now.
With the potency of the words, the ability to ‘show’ us a life, and lead us down the path through the young eyes of Scout, is it any wonder the novel won a Pulitzer Prize in 1961. How original and thoughtful was the story through the innocent eyes of a child. Multi-layered and multi-faceted, she wove the plots of her relationship with her brother Jem, together with the secrecy of Boo Radley, and of course the trail of Tom Robinson, who had been accused of raping Mayella Ewell, as defended by her father Atticus Finch.
Powerful.
Though Lee, worked as a research assistant for Truman Capote for his classic non-fiction novel “In Cold Blood”, she never again published. Guarded and private, I wonder in her death will we be pleasantly surprised by a release of her secret writings, for I find it hard to believe someone as talented as she could never again put pen to paper—or perhaps, as admirer, that is merely hopeful.
Oh, to think what we could learn from her writings!
“Mockingbirds don’t do one thing but make music for us to enjoy. They don’t eat up people’s gardens, don’t nest in corncribs, they don’t do one thing but sing their hearts out for us. That’s why it’s a sin to kill a mockingbird.”
