Ida Linehan Young's Blog, page 3

Me at … A short Story

I am seven years old. My mother is making strange noises in the bathroom. I peer through the long triangle crack of amber light between the door and the frame. The door hasn’t sat right since the last time it had been rehung, the hinge loose and re-holed many times in the thin paneling.

I see her heaped over the olive green toilet, her long matted hair flipped back over her skull, and what she’s missed is hanging out of sight in the stain-ridden bowl.  Her jeans have smudged the mold streaks sweating down the porcelain and water and urine mix with the permanent dark ring that stains the canvas at the base.

Bobby bawls from his cot and Mom lifts a weary hand as if to brush the noise away. His cries wake the three men who lay strewn across the floor in the living room, and the one who comes from her bedroom jostles the last one awake. He is startled and jolts to sitting at the end of the couch. They all laugh as his hand sweeps a wide swath on the lopsided stool near his head and beer bottles scatter and break.

He curses loudly then shakes himself awake as the five pick up ball caps and coats and shuffle out behind me. My nose wrinkles at the stench as the stale air follows them before being cut off by the banging of the storm door.

My mother staggers from the bathroom and pushes me out of her way as she stumbles to the window. She pounds the glass with her fists and it shudders in its plastic tracks. She pushes me again as she makes her way to the living room.

“See to your brother,” she mumbles. She searches the ashtrays and then pulls the sagging cushions from the couch. “I said shut that baby up, Jenna,” she hollers as her movements become frantic.

I race toward our bedroom and Bobby is jostling the railing on the crib. He sees me and cries even harder. I reach for him. He lets go and falls back onto his sogging diaper. He scrambles to the bars and pulls himself up once more and I snag him over the railing, his body heavy when the full weight of him slides over me and onto the floor. My clothes are wet now. I get a better hold under his arms and pick him up, lay him on the end of our bed. I make cooing noises and funny faces as I pull off his wet diaper. He quietens some as I wrap the clean flannel around him and fasten the pins.

Barbie sits up and rubs her eyes hard with her knuckles. I pat her leg and she climbs out of bed. She grabs my shirt as I round the door with Bobby resting over my shoulder. He is whining and I know he is hungry. I glance to the living room and Mom is sitting on one of the couch cushions on the floor, smoking a cigarette. “What’s you lookin’ at?” she mumbles under her breath and a puff of smoke surrounds her words, hiding her pinched face.

Barbie scurries behind me to the seat out of sight of our mother and I struggle to get Bobby into his high chair. I grab the remains of a loaf of bread from the cupboard and butter from the fridge. “Want some toast, Barbie?” I say softly. She gestures assent and glances between me and the smoke coming from the other room. I nod and smile at her and set to work making toast on the clothes hanger that’s doubled over the only working burner on the stove. I pull off two pieces from the corner of the slice and lay in front of Bobby to keep him content until I’m ready.

I plug in the kettle and sparks fly from the socket as it makes contact. I turn over the bread and a crumb falls on the red ring, flashes, then smokes itself out of existence before I toast the other side. The water is boiled and I grab four mismatched mugs from the sink, rinse them under the tap, and collect the teabag I’d left hidden under the counter from the day before. I let it soak in the tallest mug that has World’s Greatest Mother etched in blue on its side, pour out the amber liquid between three mugs and run cold water from the tap to cool them off. I dip my finger in each one before refilling the first one that has the bag. The three lumps of sugar I beat from the bottom of the plastic bowl are divided among us. I continue to make toast, first for Bobby, then Barbie. I pull the next slice from the hanger, glaze it with butter, set it on a dishtowel. I reach for the full mug, dip out the teabag, and gingerly grab the handle.

With mug in one hand and toast in the other, I slide my feet across the floor, being careful not to slop the hot liquid over my fingers. I reach my mother and look down at her where she’s perched on the cushion. I offer the food. She reaches for the mug with trembling hands. She looks away for a moment. I stay rooted to the floor a little too long. The tips of her fingers land on the side of my ear, the sting vibrates to my toes.

“Don’t you be late for school,” she shouts behind me as I turn and run to the kitchen. “I won’t have anyone talking down about me.” I bite back the pain. Barbie’s tears are coming down her cheeks as she winces in her chair. I put my finger to my lips for her to be quiet and she nods. I go to the room and take the cleanest dirty outfit I have and get dressed. I pull my fingers through my hair. I spit on the tips and linger on the knots to settle them down.

I kiss Bobby on top of his head, then Barbie, take a slug of tea, and push the toast between my lips as I turn off the burner and unplug the kettle. I race out the door just as the bus stops at the end of the driveway.

“Good morning, Jenna.”

“Good morning, Mr. MacDonald.”

He smiles at me and watches me in the mirror until I sit. I smile in assurance that I’m ready. His eyes crinkle and we’re off.

*****

I am twelve. The night is cold and damp. I watch the house from beneath the overturned dory that sits on it’s scaffold on the lower side of the road. I had only seen two shadows pass the kitchen window in the last hour but the music still blares and travels on the night air.

Barbie is at Katelin’s house. She can’t signal for me to come home. I wish I had to have grabbed my coat when I snuck away just after dark. I can’t risk going back until I’m sure they are asleep or have left. There are still three in there.

I sigh and wish I was more like Barbie. She had a good friend in Katelin and Katelin’s mom had her over a lot, especially after the cheques came at the end of the month. But not her. Jenna was labeled a bully. As much as she tried, she couldn’t be like Barbie. Barbie didn’t listen to the others. Jenna couldn’t tolerate the taunting.

When she was younger they’d shout at her that she’d had cooties. That wasn’t so bad. But after Barbie and then Bobby started school, she’d pick up for them when the others tormented. She’d gotten into fights to protect them more often than to look out for herself.

She knocked out Sammy Daley’s teeth when she was ten. Sammy, who was two years older than her, called her mother a whore. She didn’t know what it was but knew it was bad by the way he spat it at her. She’d trembled when the principal called her in the office but only when he wasn’t looking. She was kept after school and the police came. She’d explained what had happened. She noticed the look that passed between the adults. They gave her a stern lecture. She walked home from school that day. Her mother didn’t notice and neither Barbie nor Bobby mentioned it. Barbie kept supper for her that she’d brought from Katelin’s house.

Today I’d had a run-in with Jimmy Roche. “You’re Tommy Jarret’s brother.”

“Am not,” I said.

“Are too, your mother is the community whore.”

“You take that back.”

“My mother said that Tommy Jarret’s father owned one of your crowd. Might as well be you.”

I didn’t want to be Tommy Jarret’s brother, so I punched Jimmy in the nose. He won’t be calling me Tommy Jarret’s brother again. But here I am, laying in the cold grass, waiting for Tommy Jarret’s father to leave. Not just his father, but his uncle and his cousin too. I don’t like his cousin. He had me sit on his lap one time when he was over. He was getting awful friendly with his hands and I didn’t like it. It was harder to steer clear of him now. Mom said not to worry about him. She told me not to make a fuss.

I pay attention again as a van pulls up. I recognize Tommy Jarret’s mother. I hear raised voices. His father staggers from the house and so does his cousin. The van roars off. I wait some more and keep to the shadows of the house, away from the street lights or passing vehicles. I glance through the window. My mother and the other man are still in the living room in a haze of smoke. I put my back against the clapboard and crouch down. I doze off sometime later and fall sideways into the grass. I pick myself up, peer through the window once again. The lights are still on, the music is playing, but they both are nowhere to be seen. I creep in, close the room door and shift the bed so that it will stay jammed closed.

I catch the bus the next morning before anyone gets up.

“Good morning, Jenna.” Mr. MacDonald smiles.

I grunt a good morning and take my seat in the back of the bus. I catch his eye in the mirror before we drive away.

****

I am sixteen. There are five of us now. It burns my soul to know that the other kids were right all along. My mother might not be like the high-heeled, makeup-wearing ladies I saw in a movie once. The ones that stand on the corner and proposition men, but she is the community whore. I despise the burnt-out drunk whose house is the favorite barroom in town. She’s an easy lay after three beers I hear often as I pull the pillow over my head and try to sleep.

The kids don’t taunt me now. I tell them their brothers, their fathers, and hell even some of their grandfathers, have been at my house. I have had to fend many of them off myself. My siblings undoubtedly are half-sisters and brothers to children of the respectable families in the place. The difference being, we are the ones who are disposable – trash in the eyes of everyone around.

My two youngest brothers are gone to reiterate the point. I don’t know where they are. Better off, everyone says. I’d tried my best to keep them fed and clothed but it wasn’t enough. The welfare people took them one day when I was in school. I was scared when I got home and they weren’t anywhere to be seen.

My mother was sitting on the couch sipping a beer and crying. I grabbed her arms, pulled her up, and shook her. “What did you do with Brian and Freddy?”

She cried harder and I let her go. I frantically searched the house, the shed, and the yard. She was blubbering something about being sorry. I grabbed her again. My own tears were coming. “Where are they?” I screamed.

She put her arms around me and sobbed. “They’re gone. They took them.”

“Who, Mom. Who?” I cry as I try to push her away. She clings on to me harder. Beer and cigarette breathe surrounded me as I hold her up. My contempt for her is so strong I want to strangle her.

She tells me then. I am mad and sad and glad all in one breath. Then I am sad again for feeling glad for them. At least they’ll have some kind of life. Poor Bobby is only twelve and he had been taken to juvenile detention twice already. He is on a bad road the respectable people say.

I miss Barbie the most though. Oh, I see her in school but she stays with Katelin’s family now. To my chagrin, I see a resemblance between her and Tommy Jarret. I don’t tell Barbie that. Katelin’s mom sends over clothes for me from time to time. Barbie brings me lunches. Hunger and shame do strange things to a girl.

But, I’ve learned to fix the doors, the shower, the anything that goes wrong in the house things. I keep my distance from my mother. I hide toiletries and sanitary supplies that are available to me through my Healthy Living class. From the whispers I know I’m the only girl in poverty in the entire school. Apparently, I’ll never make anything of myself. I’m trying my best not to believe that.

My Physical Education teacher tells me that I have talent as a volleyball player. She encourages me to join the team. My first tournament is coming up. All the girls are excited. I sell beer bottles so I can go. Turns out I don’t have to worry about it because the school pays for the trip.

“Good luck, Jenna,” Tommy Jarret says at the end of Phys Ed class. I blush. He is looking more and more like my sister.

I am bubbling with excitement as I step on the bus in the morning.

“Good morning, Jenna.”

“Good morning, Mr. MacDonald.”

He smiles at me and watches me in the mirror until I sit.

****

I am thirty-two. I stand in the graveyard on the hill overlooking the community. The wind blows my hair around my face. My back is straight and my head is held high. I survey the area and my eyes land on the spot where our house used to be. The last remnants of the old brick chimney was all that remained. I feel nothing.

“Sorry for your loss.”

I nod and smile as people who I once could have sworn despised me, now file past me. And maybe they did, but that didn’t matter to me now. I ponder on the words, “my loss”. Did I feel loss? Were the words sincere?

“Jenna, I wouldn’t know you, dear.”

“My, is that you Jenna?”

“Look at you, all grown up.”

“I wouldn’t recognize you, only for somebody said who you were.”

“Is that Bobby?”

“You did wonders for him.”

“He was such a hard ticket. We were all praying for him you know.”

I nod and grunt my appreciation to the ladies as it becomes difficult to swallow. My eyes find Bobby’s and he winks. The voices go on singing his praises about working with troubled youth as an addictions counsellor.

“And yourself, Jenna.” A hand touches my arm and brings me back. “You did good for yourself. A social worker is that right?” I nod again as the faces stare at me.

“Ten years,” I say. They make their way down the hill as I linger and look out over the town.

“Remember her playing volleyball?”

“Yes, that’s right. She was good.”

“Got a scholarship, that one. I remember now.”

I tune out the conversation as I have heard it at least four times already.

Bobby waves at me over his shoulder as he moves with the flow of the crowd. He beckons for me to come on but I shake my head and mouth “in a minute.” He nods and moves away in the flurry of heads.

I’d been so mad with him when he first reached out to Mom. I had so much bitterness in me then. My mother had been the same until liver disease ravaged her. She came to live with me in the city before going to the hospice. It was the only time I ever saw her sober. Bobby helped me and her mend, though what we mended I’m not sure.

“I can’t say I loved you and I’m not sure if I have forgiven you yet,” I whisper as my fingers graze the words “Mom” on the wreath from the funeral home.

Though Bobby helped me realize that she’d been sick and unable to help herself, and what I’m feeling is straight from a textbook, my heart is not cooperating with what I know to be true.

“Hello, Jenna.”

I blink and my heart races as Mr. MacDonald steps between me and the sun. I move my head. “Oh, Mr. MacDonald, you startled me.” I touch my throat and laugh distractedly. I give myself an internal shake as he steps back again. “How nice to see you. Thank you for coming.” My voice holds a fondness that seeps into my tone.

He shakes my hand. “I’m sorry.” He lays his other hand over mine. I feel the warmth as he gives a gentle squeeze. “I couldn’t believe you were Jenna. I had to come over and see for myself.”

“Yes, it’s me.”

“It’s been a long time. Must be fifteen years now.”

His eyes travel to something over my shoulder. The urge to look momentarily presses on me but I recognize the faraway stare and the impulse is gone. The moment draws long and taught like a bow. My mind searches for words to fill the empty, not yet awkward space.

“The bus.” I pause as his eyes return to mine. “You know, Mr. MacDonald, now that I think about it, I was really happy to see you every morning. You always had a smile for me.”

“You were always special, Jenna.” His words come quickly, falling in on each other. I glimpse a fleeting sensation of remorse on his features.

“Thank you, Mr. MacDonald.” A pang of emotion that I can’t quite name surfaces in me and dents my stoic veneer.

“I will always live with the regret that I didn’t do anything for you, to help you.”

“For me?” I am puzzled by his remark and tilt my head to look up at him. “But you did. You were kind when nobody else was.” My reassurance isn’t forced.

“I smiled at you, Jenna.” His brow furrows as he stares at me and rocks my hands back and forth between his. “I only smiled.”

I pull my hands from his and at the conducting of a foreign impulse, I wrap my arms around him. “It was more than a smile. You know how we were living. Sometimes that smile was all I had.” I let the words go without regret.

He hugs me tighter then steps back. “I should have done more.” He takes my hands in his again. His mouth opens and closes like a fish out of water. I see a war of emotions in his face. I’m about to thank him again when “Jenna, I’m your father,” rushes from his lips.

At first, I stare blankly at him. Then my eyes bulge and my jaw drops and a grunt escapes. I furrow my brow and search the air to see if the words are there or if I heard what he’d just said correctly. My stomach tumbles and I sense the bile of bitter betrayal bubbling in the back of my throat. I shake my head and stammer “my father” at him as I step backward. I put my hands to my eyes and massage my forehead with my fingertips. The pressure still builds.

I see his fear through my fingers. He nods as he reaches to steady me. I pull back farther.

“Don’t you touch me,” I grind out between my teeth. Heat floods through me. My cheeks burn. “Don’t you dare touch me.”

The pent-up hatred I had for my mother, her sickness, my struggles, all the times I went hungry, all the times I had to scrape and fight my way through school, flashed through my mind. Now that wick of a young girl's hope in the smile of a bus driver is violently clipped, its flame doused.

My father?

My father.

“Sorry for your loss” is on the wind. There it is.

Anger percolates. It’s blowing a new loss to stack on my decrepit childhood. It’s blowing betrayal. It’s blowing cowardice. It’s blowing lies.

I stumble backward trying to remove myself from his gaze, his smile, the rear-view mirror. His kindness storms me and stabs me until I feel. His reflection smiles. My insides crumble and I grapple to catch the pieces, to hold myself together.

My feet tangle on a stone and I’m falling backward. Bobby’s arms are around me, holding me as I slip toward the ground. He gathers me closer as I sob uncontrollably. My stomach, my heart, my head, all ache in unison. Fury and sadness ebb and flow. My tears soak his jacket and shirt.

“It’s my turn,” he says simply as he pulls me tighter.

I cry uncaring then. Me at seven, me at twelve, and me at sixteen are unleashed in my tears. Bobby stays with me until I’m spent.

I start again.

Me at thirty-two.

Tillie the Too-Tall Clover

Once upon a time, there was a shoot of clover named Tillie. She stood out right from sprout day. She was taller and thinner than all the other clover in her meadow.

The other clover laughed at her. “Too-Tall Tillie. Too-Tall Tillie,” they taunted.

Shy Tillie towered over them all. To make matters worse and to her chagrin, she had four buds on the top of her stalk while the rest of clover had three. How she wished to have but three. Tillie was different and that made her sad.

Tillie scrunched down to fit in, but her stem would get tired and ache. When she’d straighten again the jeers would grow louder and she would stand out more than if she had done nothing at all.

Spring rains sprinkled and tickled their tops. She joined the others as they drank through their roots. They beamed their three-leafed faces up at the sun to enhance their brilliant colour while Tillie squat low to blend in. But all her efforts were in vain. She grew taller and her face sprouted bigger and greener than the rest.

Excitement built in the clover patch as nature worked miracles over the land. Alas, even Tillie wasn’t immune to the anxiousness to bloom and she wondered what it would be like when she grew up.

Each night when the sun went down, the clover clustered and spoke of their hopes to attract the cows in the meadow. The cows would feast on the clover. The clover would go to sleep for a few weeks, turn into energy, and then come back as a family of clover in some other part of the meadow. They would have kept the cows happy and helped them to grow. And they could travel to the four corners of the meadow before laying down for the winter.

Anticipation brewed in the air as the cows drifted closer. It was nearing their time to bloom. Then the clover turned on her. Some of them blamed Tillie for being in their way. Tillie was sadder than she’d ever been. She didn’t want to be too big and too tall. She wanted to be like them. Overwhelmed by her circumstance, she drooped while the other clover reached for the sky. The sun coaxed them upward and the sparkling light reflected on their three leaves while the gentle breeze thrummed on their heads. The cows saw how brilliant their green was and came munching.

Tillie was terrified by the mooing and stomping going on around her and cringed low to the ground. By the time she looked up, the land was brown, the clover were gone, and she remained alone. Tillie’s forlorn wail was lost to the universe with nobody there to hear her. She wouldn’t become energy like the rest of the clover. She had failed at the one job she was fashioned to do.

Tillie sat in the sun for days. She no longer had to blend in. She would wilt all alone before summer was over. She drank from her roots at night. Her head was heavy on her long and stringy stalk. She stared longingly at the new patches of clover that were sprouting up in the distance. Their merriment drifted on the breeze. Because she was different than the rest, she had been left behind. Suddenly Tillie realized she would welcome even the cruel taunts of the others because she was lonely.

One day, Tillie heard a strange noise pounding toward her. It was hoof beats. She stood straight and tall, peering over the lower rung on the fence. The sun bounced off of her four leaves as she stretched with all her might so she could be seen. Surely the cows would pick her now.

But it wasn’t a cow, it was a horse. The horse stopped near where Tillie stood and a strange two-legged creature got off.

It was people.

She had heard of them before and saw them in the far distance once, near a big red barn. One clover, who had become energy and had travelled often, said it was a man.

The man sat on the grass on the other side of the fence. Tillie was nervous as the horse began to graze over the wood and tried to reach the pasture. Perhaps if she stuck her head out, the horse would munch on her and she’d become energy and go wherever horses went.

Tillie hesitated. She was afraid. What if she went far away and the other clover didn’t like her? She was too-tall after all. But maybe there were others like her where the horses went. Tillie didn’t want to remain alone so once more she pushed up her face to the sun.

The breeze blew under Tillie’s four leaves and she swayed and bent until she extended beyond the fence and tickled the hand of the man.

“Well, what have we here,” he said. “A four leafed clover. You’re a rare thing, aren’t you?”

He pulled her hard and she broke from her roots. She was terrified. “You will do nicely for the princess. She will marry the man who brings her something rare.”

The man was gentle and put her in his saddlebag. It was dark, but no darker than the meadow on a moonless night. Tillie would be brave rather than lonely.

The man brought her to a beautiful princess with sparkling rocks on her head. He bowed before her and extended his palm toward her.

The princess gently accepted Tillie and looked her all over. “She’s exquisite. I choose you.”

Tillie was taken to a room full of jewels where she was laid upon a white silken towel and covered by glass. Lots of people came to see her. They “oohed” and “awed” at her beauty. Tillie was so happy.

The princess put Tillie in a lovely bouquet of flowers and carried her down a long aisle while many people watched. She was laid on an altar while the princess and the man talked to the people.

The next day, Tillie was placed between paper pages and hugged tightly. It was dark except for when the princess came to see her. The princess rubbed Tillie’s four leaves and wished for things. Then others came and wished for things.

The princess returned often, sometimes with little faces around her. She told them stories of her wishes. Then the little faces got bigger and the princess grew older. Her hands now trembled when she stroked Tillie’s leaves.

It was one of the faces and not the princess that came for Tillie one day. He took her from the book and carried her to rest on the hands of the princess. She remained with the princess for three days. The princess didn’t move. Tillie grew tired and her leaves began to wither but she didn't think of herself. She stayed with the princess who had been nothing but kind to her.

Tillie was placed in a satin box with the princess and they were brought to a wondrous garden. Tillie fell asleep.

When she woke up, she was growing tall once more. She had gotten her energy from the princess. All around her were tiny little four-budded sprouts.

“You’re our momma,” they said. They grew tall and thin like Tillie. Brilliant flowers grew around them, but people came looking for the four-leafed clover.

She was no longer Too-Tall Tillie. She was sought by the people in order to bring them luck. She and her children had become lucky charms.

The things that made her different had made her stand out. The things that made her stand out had made all the difference.

What Colour are You?

It made me uncomfortable to say this, but I say it anyway. I’m too white to be orange. 

Today, May 31st, is Orange Day, at least in Canada, if you are paying attention. Orange Day was probably suggested by some white person who has no idea of the aboriginal culture in this country, that’s an assumption on my part and I assume it was with the best of intentions. The populous also follow with the best of intentions and in support of the big outrage. But not me, not this girl, not this time. I refuse to be orange today.

What colour were we when the 276 school girls were taken in Nigeria? We were all outraged. Did you know that more than 100 of them are still missing seven years later. I didn’t until I just looked it up. Not our country, not our problem. I can’t do anything about them. I can’t remember if they invoked us to have a colour on our walls or our persons.

What colour were we when the girls’ school was bombed a few weeks ago? We weren’t as outraged. I don’t think that had a colour. It was too small of an atrocity.

Why won’t I wear orange today? Simply because aboriginal people deserve more than orange. They deserve more than a nice totem pole symbol on social media. They deserve to be respected.

So we have to put our colour and our symbolism where our thoughts and best intentions are when we posted it. A mass grave with 215 children. Yes it is outrageous. Yes it is horrible. Yes it is unfathomable. But it didn’t just happen a hundred years ago, or fifty years ago, it is happening today. The same persecution, belligerence, disrespect, and entitlement that put them there still exists. It exists because we let it either by just being orange of Facebook but selfish or indifferent in everything else.

I don’t know how we got the idea that people exist in a hierarchy of betterment. Until we orange that, or green that, or purple that out within ourselves, these 215 children will be the colour of the day.

Remember the Butterbox babies, or the Dionne Quintuplets and Quintland? Most people will have to look them up. Someday the list will include the 215 children they found in a mass grave in BC.

I’m not suggesting the orange FBers are wrong, or ill-intentioned, or anything other than in a state of “What can I do to support?” mode. Good for you and I’m sure if you are friends with any aboriginal person or people, they would appreciate your thoughts or maybe roll their eyes at it.

Why? Because orange is not enough. We have to stop thinking that it is.

Two times I have been confronted with the ugly face of aboriginal lesserness. Each time I didn’t do enough so there is no orange for this girl.

One time I was on a plane and my seat was taken by this little girl who was probably nine or ten. Across the aisle was her Mom, her Dad, and a younger sibling. The little girl was supposed to sit somewhere in the back and she was obviously terrified, reaching for her Mom when she looked up at me from the seat.

I assessed the situation and realized quickly what was happening and I told the Mom and Dad that it was my seat and asked if they could tell me the one that the girl was supposed to sit in because I would simply go there.

The flight attendant came up behind me and asked what was happening. Before I had half the explanation finished that the girl was in my seat, and I needed to know her seat number so I could move, the attendant began to tell off the parents. I put up my hands and said, “Hey, hold on, I’ll move. It is not a problem.” But she didn’t seem satisfied with that and continued to berate the parents, talk about assigned seating. She didn’t see the girl with big round eyes spilling with tears. She saw lesser people. She didn’t see white who would have undoubtedly have gotten different treatment.

I told her again that I didn’t mind moving and it was no problem. I smiled at the parents and they thanked me but the flight attendant didn’t let up. I was mortified but imagine what those poor parents felt. The little girl was crying because she thought she had to move, the lineup was growing behind us, and people were blaming the aboriginals, and it was just an awful scene. I should have done more. That’s on me. I can’t be orange because of that.

The second time I was at the hospital visiting a friend and there was an older gentleman there from Labrador. He was getting ready to go home and his family was there – a woman, a man, and a few teenaged boys who were concerned for him and glad he was going home.

The nurse came in and began asking him all these questions about where he was going, did he drink, was there drinking in the home, how often did he go out, and many more very personal and loud questions in a non-private setting. I was embarrassed to be listening to it let alone to be answering them. I thought this was the new norm and was quite taken aback by the line of questions that the person I was visiting would have to answer.

But no, it was because he was aboriginal. His family had to listen to this. To this day I don’t know if this is the line of questioning that all hospitalized aboriginal people face, or if it was specific to this man because of whatever problem he faced. It was none of my business whether he was an alcoholic or not as the questions suggested, but do white alcoholic people face the same questions when they are discharged? Because I don’t know the answer to this, I can’t be orange today.

I can’t be orange if I don’t speak up. I can’t be orange if I think I’m better than an aboriginal person, a black person, a green person, a pink person, somebody with tattoos, somebody with purple hair, somebody who lives, loves, or speaks different. The list goes on. The trouble is, I don’t know what I don’t know. If I can’t recognize and speak up for anyone who is facing condemnation for just being who they are, then I don’t deserve to put orange on my Facebook page. That’s just me.

However, I challenge you all to check your blind spot. It would be impossible to walk a mile in everyone else’s shoes, but it is not impossible to get out of our comfort zone, smile, be kind. We can’t change what happened in the past but we can change the outcome and the future, one human being at a time.

Ignorance is not bliss, it is simply ignorance. Let’s radiate kindness. We have no business being intolerant. In fact, we have no business being tolerant. Tolerant suggests we are better. Kindness it is, folks. Kindness it is.

The Marsh Ones of Green Hill

Many years ago late into the fall, my great, great grandfather, Mr. Neddy Nash, left Branch, St. Mary’s Bay to set rabbit snares along Branch River. When he didn’t return that evening, a party of residents set out to find him. A shot was fired every thirty minutes as they combed the area into the night and by dawn, there was still no sign of the man.

The searchers reluctant to give up, returned home in the morning as a sudden and blinding wind moved into the area the likes of which had been seen nor heard tell of before.

The next day they set out and were again drove back by the wind. Mr. Neddy was given up for lost. On the sixth day, the storm settled. Like any small community, they worked together to repair the houses and barns before the winter set in. Mrs. Mary, Neddy’s wife for over forty years, had spent the week in solitude praying for her Neddy’s return.

It was now ten days since Neddy had disappeared, and with Mrs. Mary’s urgence and insistence that Neddy was still alive, men left once more intent on bringing back his body to settle the woman’s mind.

But there was no trace of Neddy to be seen. There were no snares on his usual rabbit path, no sign that he’d ever made it to the woods. Some figured he got turned around on the marsh but others negated that claim because there was nobody knew the country as well as Mr. Neddy.

The men figured they’d try one more day and then declare him dead. A group gathered in the morning and as they made their way out of the community in the general direction that Mr. Neddy had taken, a figure stumbled toward them in the distance. They couldn’t make him out at first and some were scared they were seeing Mr. Neddy’s fetch.

As the figure drew near and came into focus they realized it was, indeed, Mr. Neddy. They raced to the man who was now a thinner version of the one who’d left. He was carrying on with gibberish that put them ill at ease. Nevertheless, they brought him home to Mrs. Mary.

There was a sigh of relief because when he put his arms around his wife he came back to his senses. Mrs. Mary dressed him in warm clothes and after eating a hearty breakfast, as he sat by the stove with a cup of tea he had quite the tale to tell. It went like this.

Mr. Neddy set out on his usual route as haze was rising off the marshes. He was walking for about an hour when a strong wind came up all of a sudden and took his breath. He stopped and sat on a hummock as the ground trembled beneath him. In the distance, he saw a light coming toward him and he didn’t understand how it could be. Ahead of the light was an enormous black caribou charging toward him. Though he wasn’t quite sure it was a caribou as it got closer because he’d never seen anything like it before.

He thought of the story his father had told him of a black stag that was said to have killed men with its great horns and struck fear in the hearts of everyone from Beckford to Distress Cove on the other side of the Cape. He threw himself behind the hummock and willed the knocking of his heart to be quiet as they drew near.

The earth moved beneath him as he summoned the courage to peer over the rise. Through the tall and sparse blades of grass, he spied his axe and sack out in full view. He dared not reach for it now as it would give away his position.

The hooves beat off the spongy ground as the light gained on the caribou-like creature. What he presumed was a rope but really looked like a fiery lasso released somewhere below the light and snagged the hind leg of the animal. The beast went down in the marsh and its great head plowed toward him. When it came to rest, he was staring into the glowing eyes of the creature as it breathed upon him. Behind its massive rack of horns, a silver object a hundred times bigger than any house he’d ever seen appeared in a mist. The creature bellowed and thrashed as Mr. Neddy lay frozen in fear in the rank steam of its breath.

Another fiery strand of rope whipped out over the creature and circled its great neck. Its flanks writhed and white foam oozed through the black hide making it glisten in the light of the silver wall behind it.

Mr. Neddy believed it was the end of him as a door opened in the silver wall and green luminescent creatures moved out onto the marsh. They circled the beast as Mr. Neddy tried his best to sink into the damp ground, but, to his dismay, he was discovered.

The green men lifted him without touching him. Every inch of his body seized and he forgot how to breathe for a moment. They rolled him around and around a few feet of the ground several times as if inspecting him before one of them, with the wave of a finger, hovered him toward the opening in the wall. His ax and sack floated along on the air behind him.

As he got inside of whatever this thing was, he could see right through it. It was like he was behind a windowpane, enclosed in a glass bubble of sorts. There were more of these green watery-skinned things inside. They seemed to be talking to each other but Mr. Neddy couldn’t understand what they were saying. They weren’t interested in him but, as near as he could tell, were engaged in conversation about the great beast that was lashed down with fire on the other side of the pane.

As he floated there, his eyes went in the direction that the green men seemed to be looking now. He saw another light coming toward him. When it got closer, it lowered to the marsh and another silver house appeared and more green men got out. They made a second circle around the beast who, by now, was lying motionless on the ground.

They gazed out over the moor and then returned to the other silvern house. Within moments, it lifted and disappeared with all but the light to say it was even there.

He felt himself rise only because the land moved away from him. The other light rose too. The earth shook as the top of the hill lifted as if it were a cap and revealing a large hole. Another light appeared and another and he realized there were four. As they rose higher so did the top of the hill. He couldn’t believe his eyes. The green men some distance below now moved toward the opening underneath the hill. The great beast, in fiery straps, struggled to be released from the circle they formed. But, despite its efforts, as one, they slid across the ground and in under the raised hill.

His bubble moved toward the dark space as did the light directly across from him. Within moments the hill was atop them and the other silver house was now visible in this great cavern. He felt a sting in his leg and before he could turn to see what it was, a white-hot sensation travelled through him and his eyelids became heavy.

When he awoke he was laying on dark-packed earth. It was all around him except for a wall made from strings of fire. Green men were moving about a great cavern, going in and out of the two silver houses. Noise on his right, through the dirt-packed wall, made him believe the great beast was there.

His sack and ax were in the corner of the room. He felt hunger and thirst wash over him and foraged in his sack for the lunch and bottle of tea he had there. He ate and drank sparingly.

He didn’t know how long he was there. He’d sleep and wake and rationed what he had in the pack. He watched and listened but the green men paid him no mind. He sized up the area and decided his only way out was to dig. In the darkest corner and farthest from the great beast, he went to work with his ax. He chopped at the wall and moved the dirt away. He kept an eye out for the green men but no one bothered him. He continued to dig and dig until his ax broke through and he glimpsed daylight. For fear of being caught, he rested until darkness fell outside and he made the final chops and got through. He covered in the opening so the light wouldn’t give away his escape in the morning.

He set out toward home with nothing but the moon and stars for company. Once he thought he saw a light and crouched in the low brouse until he was certain there was nothing following him. He continued to make his way home until daylight broke and he came upon the men from the community who had come looking for him.

Mr. Neddy didn’t leave the house after that for fear the green men would find him. From time to time over a drink of rum, he would recount the tale of the green marsh ones. The encounter faded from memory after he died.

To this day, people in the area have reported seeing lights hovering across the land and disappearing out over the ocean near Cape St. Mary’s. However, sightings of the black stag are no more. This suggests the green marsh ones continue to live and hold the great beast captive below the marshes near what is now known as Green Hill. But they continue to search for Mr. Neddy Nash who escaped more than 100 years ago and lived to tell the tale.

Invincible me...

I marinated in glory, laud, and honour. My Catholic upbringing taught me not to be prideful, but that’s so hard when you are twelve and defending the World Cup of Soccer and you are amazing. Well that might be a bit of an exaggeration on the reach of the event, but I swear it was a big match, so maybe I can downgrade it to the North Harbour Cup and leave it at that, though I was still amazing.

Picture it! A bright sunny day. Little black birds are sitting on the wires waiting for the culmination of three weeks of soccer play to begin in the meadow next to our house. To be ready for the big day, Dad replaced the skeleton of the net with a new crossbar and post bones from the woodpile. He reused the old orange and green trawler net to stop the ball from either going in the gully at the back of the meadow or going across the road and out in the saltwater on the lower side.

Of course, there were fences on either end but with play such as ours, anything was possible. The net held fast for goals. It stopped hard kicked balls from taking that trajectory that could split a paling or a longer on the dried-out fence.

That day was my day. I was keeper on the saltwater side and I could not be scored upon. I kid you not. Scouts for any university or world team would have scooped me up in those few hours of play if there was such a thing as one of them getting lost and ending up in the harbour at that particular time on that particular day. Unfortunately, that star alignment was not for me but, fortunate for my team, I played like it was.

Around ten o’clock the sides were picked and I can’t say I was chosen close to first but I can say I wasn’t picked last. A few ten-year-olds were still waiting in the hopeful bunch when I was named, but I digress. By the end of the day, the other team captain was sorry my name hadn’t been the initial sound through his lips when he selected the first player.

There was no such thing as cleats, or dare I say sneakers, then. Some of us had the canvas shoes with the white rubber soles, and some had short rubbers, work boots, etc. You never knew what your shin would have to bear as the day went on.

I was sent to the goal because I wasn’t much in the way of size nor was I speedy. Generally, the players on the field just scored at every kick so being a goalie was a meaningless though semi courageous position for the lesser on the athletic spectrum, most of the time. But not that day. Ronnie Hellstrom would have been put to shame had we been compared.

About forty youngsters to young adults were halved at the whim of the two strongest among us and all hands played all the time. There were no positions but for the goalie. No out of bounds, no rules, no whistles, just stampedes of young and old following a genuine soccer ball back and forth, bordered by three fences and the house on Linehan’s meadow, with nothing but harmonized self-regulation to keep them honest.

The game began with the toss of a wood chip or a flat rock with an overzealous spit mark on one side. I couldn’t see who won but before too long, I eyed Charlie coming down along the house with the ball and breaking out ahead of the mass. He kicked it off to Albert who had made an “as the crow flies” dart toward the net and he quickly passed it back. I watched them both and my heart was thundering like the 80 feet that were full-on coming at me, with only 38 of them being on my side. Charlie gave a deke which threw off several of the players and continued to bolt down the right side. Albert was breathing down my neck as I stepped out to block Charlie. He passed it across to Albert knowing I had him cornered and Albert had the open net. Like lightning I was. My legs took me and my feet where I hadn’t thought possible. I intercepted the ball and booted it back up the meadow in such a fluid motion that you wouldn’t know but I’d been at it for years. Albert cursed under his breath and took off behind the pack.

Moments later a cheer and nineteen hands went up. Our team scored. As quick as a wink the play continued. Back toward me Harry came, his eyes bulging and his mouth watering to be the first to score for the other team. I made eye contact when he was passing the porch, several of his teammates were screaming “over here, over hear,” but Harry was not an “over here” type player. I knew he wouldn’t pass. He came in and pretended to kick off but I didn’t take the bait. I moved out on him, he booted with the force that equated to his nineteen years. My arm flew out before I knew what was happening and I deflected the ball up over the crossbar. Our side took control and, like blue-tailed flies to dead fish, the ball and the players swarmed away to the other end.

Scored!

This continued for about thirty minutes before the just kicking and scoring mentality changed to more strategic plays for the other team. I was flailing, kicking, jumping, and all but doing backflips and always in the path of the ball. It was like I had a sixth sense. Me and the ball were in tune with each other, connected somehow. My teammates began to congratulate me. Never in the history of North Harbour soccer had one been so great. We broke for lunch and the score was 32 to zero. I was invincible and smiling from ear to ear as I bit down on the jam sandwich. The other team had changed goalies at least eight times but my team would not hear of taking me out.

Around one o’clock the forty were back in the yard and rearing to go. Mom joined the other side shortly after play started. Bravery was bursting in my belly as player after player tried their luck. Mom came thundering toward me one time and kicked the ball, I stopped it and she clapped me on the back for the effort. I don’t know how many times some of the bigger players tried to bowl me over but I stood my ground and gave some vicious shin kicks to keep them back. Mom gave a scattered “boys” growl when it became blatant some of them could not take my skills as a part of the game. I don’t know how I didn’t break my toes but pain meant nothing.

Some parents came by and watched with Dad from the sawhorse and cheered us all on. The teams changed up because of the unfairness of the score and, really, I simply went to the other side. Now my team was trying to score on me but it was to no avail. I was unbeatable. I knew I was. There had never been the like before and I doubt there will ever be again.

By the time four o’clock came, everyone gave up the game for the day. I had not let in one single goal. Since the teams had changed, nobody knew who won because they stopped counting. Everyone had a good game, but mine was awesome.

Glory, laud, and honour, you marinate well but you do nothing for sore muscles that won’t let you out of bed for two days. Thankfully, my grin muscles weren’t affected. True story (names have been changed to protect the lesser players :)!

Do you remember when you were invincible?

 

Mothers’ Day is not a day...

With Mothers’ Day in the rearview mirror for the next 360 odd days, I got to thinking. Mothers’ Day was the brainchild of a card company or a flower company or a telephone company to make money. Simple as that and I’m sure Google would point that out if I bothered to look. And because the company(s) didn’t make enough money by it being one day, now the conspiracy has expanded beyond the 24-hour celebration to be a weekend thing. It starts sometime on Friday really and expands to midnight on Sunday. Now other companies can and do take advantage of the Mothers Day free for all spending spree. It will soon be a week, I bet.

However, to fifty or more percent of the world, we know that Mothers’ Day is every single day from the time we set our heart upon that little human until our death. Even then I think we carry on in a different way. It starts with loving too fiercely and too tightly but all with the best intentions of loving someone through life, and then slowly letting the child become their own person and then letting go. But never fully letting go with our heart or our love, no matter what. That’s motherhood. That can’t be just a one-day thing, or a one-weekend thing. Mothers know this. But we’ll take a special day and make the companies rich and bring our families together and talk to our children.

There’s also a tiered system to motherhood. I got to the grandmother level a few years ago and boy am I learning lots. Now I get to love somebody, through loving somebody through life. Its like a favourite cake with icing all the time.

No matter what tier of motherhood I’m in, I’m still part of the village where one mother can rightly have the expectation for another mother or mother by proxy to help her love fiercely when she thinks she can’t love enough. To enfold her when she stumbles, to enfold her entire family, and to love them all through circling, and comforting, and guiding and again always with the best intentions.

Being human, sometimes mothers stray the course because it is long and hard and sometimes unforgiving. It's a journey that she undertakes with fear but always with love to do the best she can. Sometimes that means letting go early and letting the village love.

A mother knows there is no right way to be a mother. There is only the right love.

For those who are just starting the journey, know you have a village. Take advantage of the village, they’ll do right by you. You are not alone. You are not on a path that nobody has trod before. You are a mom! You have a village of moms to accompany you even when you might think it's just you. Reach out early and don’t be afraid.

Not everyone chooses this path. Not everyone wants this path. Not everyone is up for the challenge of this motherhood path and not everyone has the same opportunities or ways to get on this path. Some may have been on the traditional path for mere minutes. Some may have given up hope of getting there. Some may take it on unexpectedly or have it taken from them unexpectedly. Some co-path (double the mothering what a wicked gift for a child).

Motherhood is about doing the best you can even when love is all you have. There is nothing greater than that and nobody does it better than a MOTHER all year long.

This year, I’m going to try to be a better village for my children, my grandchildren, my nieces and nieces-in-law, and to anyone I see. It takes nothing to be kind with words and deeds but gives so much.

Don’t get me wrong, there is nothing wrong with treating your mother finer than your finest on Mothers’ Day. If it makes you feel good, she will be all about that.

 

The Time John Denver Saved Me…

 I can’t recall the first time there was music around me because it seems to be a thing that was always present, like chickens in the yard, or the horse in the stable, or a crowd in the bed. Music was a norm growing up. Francis was six years older than me and had a guitar in his teens. He practiced and sang on the bed in his room and we could hear him from anywhere in the house and sometimes when we played outside. Larry sang himself to sleep every night as he rocked back and forth in the bed. Eddy had a record player and George Jones and Tammy Wynette were belting out tunes all the time.

When Mom’s cousins Thomas and Catherine Dalton came over to the house, Mom or Dad would wake Barry who was only six or seven at the time so he could sing for them. Mom was a singer too then, she had a lovely voice. Gatherings at the house always included song.

To my chagrin, I was not gifted with the vocal talent, and it has always been a regret that I wasn’t good at it. But it never stopped me from singing in a crowd nor when I was by myself. As young teenagers, my friends and I walked the harbour and sang to the top of our lungs on the nights when our voices carried on the calm molasses ocean.

There is something about God of all Power, Amazing Grace, and How Great Thou Art sang in church, especially at a funeral where tears can be traded for loud voices which makes things just seem to be better. It takes the sting out of sadness, at least for me. Like shouting out the words of a song is akin to hitting something bad with your voice and hugging something good.

Alas, there is no song that has ever in my lifetime brought me more peace than John Denver’s Some Days are Diamonds. I had this record on a 45 and if 45s could be tortured by being played, then this one spent time in a prison camp.

It was a year and two months after the fire that had devastated us and I was thrown into college simply because of my age. I was seventeen.

College was excruciating and I don’t think that is even a powerful enough word to describe what it did to me. Back in the 80s, the left side of the College of Trades and Technology was for girls – hairstylists, secretaries of all flavours (legal, medical, and administrative), nursing assistant, etc., and the right side was for boys – mechanics, bricklayers, and engineers – specifically civil, power, mechanical, and electronic engineers. 

I was going to be a civil engineer because that’s what Francis was when he died. That’s what Mom and Dad wanted me to be. I would never do anything to hurt them more than they already hurt so I went along. I figured surviving the fire the year before was as hard as things could get.

But I underestimated hard and it wasn’t finished with me. You see I turned right every morning at top of the marble steps at the college and into a male’s world. So every day I was pushed and jostled and stopped and tripped and laughed at on the first corridor. But then at the end of that long corridor, I had to go through another more civilized course, the bricklayers and mechanics being more primitive in this case. The engineers were more sophisticated in their habits and did things like covering me with pencil lead. Here I was maligned by teachers and students because I was a woman trying to get into a man’s world. I hope the men who turned left into the “woman’s world” were not treated as unfairly.

If they only knew I was a frightened little girl without a family or home and was still struggling to grieve for that which I couldn’t believe was lost. Every single day after school every bit of me was clenched around my bones. Like a piece of clothing that didn’t feed out through the ringers on the washer but wound round and round the rubber until the washer seized. That was me. Every single day.

How did John Denver ease that? God love him for putting out Some Days are Diamonds. At night when my roommates were in bed, I lay on the moss green nylon piled carpet, my forehead to the red record player beside me, my cheek itching and scratching on the floor, and I’d lift the needle to the beginning. Curled in a fetal position, the bass pulsing through the cool plastic of the player in through my head was lulling and cooing and comforting. I’d sing along in my mind as I silently wept away the overflow of hard into the tentacles of the carpet. Drained, rendered and the coil unwound, tension released to something bearable, I’d stumble into bed to be reset into a new day.

Some nights I played the song ten times or more and some nights it was only three or four depending on how I’d weathered the day. But there was no going to bed without John Denver sang to me. He spoke to me, to my soul. His voice was a badly needed hug.

Some days are diamonds, some days are stones, sometimes the hard times won’t leave me alone. John Denver knew me. He certainly did. He wrote those words for me and helped me get through that first year of college. Even when I hear that song today, I’m conditioned to cry. I wish everyone had a John Denver to make their hard times easier.

Picking Out My Super Power

 I was asked a question today about a superpower. If I could choose any superpower ever invented or one I could just make up at that moment, what would it be?

My first thought went to granting wishes. I mulled that over for a moment and thought, no, not super enough. I can already grant wishes. I have that power.

Sometimes it is in the form of a monetary donation to get something somebody needs badly or that would make their life easier, like a Hippocamp so that Lyndon can go hiking with his mom. Or maybe it is giving somebody a few dollars as a hand up. It could be by being part of a birthday flash mob, I bet that’s somebody’s wish. Or taking somebody to a place they’d never been.

I recall one time walking out to The Tickles from Harricott. There was a crowd of us, including Marg and Dot. I remember quite clearly Dot remarking that she’d been to California and New York and other places but The Tickles were right next door and she hadn’t been there. So going somewhere like The Tickles could be somebody’s wish and I could grant that.

I could have a stronger superpower than granting wishes that’s for sure.

So then I thought about having the ability to heal. That would be something. But, when I thought about that for a few moments, I realized, darn, I already have that. I can heal people. Listening to a lonely man who has no family around and keeping him company, that’s healing. Letting a friend vent when they are having a particularly bad day, that’s healing. Not judging somebody when they want to relieve a burden, that’s healing.

Laughing frustration away with a friend. Just laughing, for no other reason than to laugh. Bringing a lightheartedness with me, being the first on the dance floor when everyone else would have waited for four more songs before making the move but will happily follow you because you went first. Dancing and enjoying oneself is healing, making it happen quicker, that’s a superpower.

I can dance, I can sing if I was cornered (not very good but I’d make a noise), and I can laugh, and I can make time for somebody and I can lend an ear. Surely healing wasn’t a big enough superpower.

So, I chewed on that for just a moment before I thought of the greatest superpower of all, I would be like Jesus. Now that would be something. Walking on water would be a challenge but I don’t need that part of it. I can swim well enough and there is always a boat. Turning water into wine, neat thing to do, but I could buy wine or go make it out to Daphne’s so I could do without that. Besides, I’m not that into wine.

Being kind and compassionate would be the greatest superpower, like Jesus. I can do that. I’m sure I could look for ways to be kinder and more compassionate, it’s not that hard. It really isn’t. I remember walking by a donut shop and this young man was huddled by the door. It was cold out. I offered him a coffee. He said, "I'd prefer a latte." So, I laughed to myself at the boldness and bought him the .... yes, the latte. I offered so why not? If he was homeless and cold, the latte might have given him hope for something better. If he was pulling the wool over my eyes, it cost me a latte. No big deal.

Then I realized that I’m just full of superpowers. I’m super enough.

The world has given us the ability to cross over the land and the water and the air, to soar into the sky, to make anything we put our minds to, but wish-granting, healing, kindness, and compassion, that’s something we do. Look out world. Superpowers are in the house! Show off your superpower today.

Who needs to walk through walls or leap buildings in a single bound when you can make such a difference just be being kind.

2020 and Beyond – Not A Write Off Year – an Author Perspective

It took me some time to discover that this truly was not a write-off year in my authoring world. I’m glad I looked back over this past twelve months. I honestly couldn’t believe what I’d accomplished - things I’d practically forgotten.

Pre-pandemic, in early January, I was looking forward to the launch of my third book, The Liars, in my historical fiction series – scheduled for April, the launch, the cluster signing weekend, and the multitude of signings that came with it. My favourite part would be meeting people at tables and listening to what they thought of my book. I’ve had some pretty neat conversations and encounters in the past.

I was also 20K words into a fourth and final in the series and was looking forward to writing four books in four years. I had set that milestone for myself. I’d have to complete it by November to make it possible for a 2021 Spring release. It was doable and I was excited as to where the characters would lead me next.

And then, there was COVID and The Liars was delayed.

So, with the shutdown, decisions had to be made about The Liars. It would be shipped and in St. John’s around the last of April – though this date was still a moving target. I was pestered by the questions: Should I hold on to it? Or should I Launch it? And what would that look like? Hundreds of people had been waiting for the book to come out and as an author, I struggled with the “is it about me or about readers” doubt.

Then again, we hadn’t had a pandemic in over 100 years, and if I wanted to turn a negative into a positive, how many people could say they launched a book in a pandemic? Probably nobody living. So I told the publishers at Flanker Press that I wanted to go for it.

I also decided to do online readings to stay connected with a readership and I scheduled eight between March and April. I spent an hour on Friday nights with a bunch of people and read from Being Mary Ro and The Promise. I had some regulars hang out with me, sometimes there’d be ten or fifteen people come along. There would be questions. I would get thank yous for bringing a bit of stress relief and normalcy in the craziness of those first weeks and months of shutdown. And I thought, I’m doing some good for others and for myself. I also recorded readings to be shared on the Flanker Press YouTube channel.

At the end of March, I released the full cover of The Liars and then a month later, the shipment of books arrived. I went to Flanker’s office on May 1st and held The Liars for the first time. I signed about 600 copies. Book stores weren’t open nor were stores taking book orders so many people contacted Flanker and my goal was to ensure they got a signed copy.

May 6th was Launch Day. My daughter Stacey was the camerawoman and we set up the house as if there were hundreds coming – decorations, flowers, wine, giveaways, the whole shebang. I dressed up for the first time in months and it felt good.

I joked with Stacey that she would be filming and I’d reach for a book, the chair would break, and I’d take a spill. The first COVID book launch in NL would go viral, not because of my book but because the host ended up in a pile on the floor. As soon as we sat and went on Facebook Live the chair creaked and Stacey laughed – we had a shaky camera start while she recovered. It was fun and felt good. Hundreds came – tuned in online.

Things got busy, I had to get a few boxes of books delivered to the house because a number of people wanted them for Mother’s Day – signed and personalized. I came up with a safe pickup routine. It was awesome.

Meanwhile, I had applied for a grant to add the three books in Audio format. The grant was denied but I decided to go ahead on my own – just a slower financial pace. I contracted a narrator and started on this new adventure with Being Mary Ro. Work was busy and doing quality assurance on this project was time-consuming but worth it. And what else was there to do? It came out in audiobook format in June.

Remember that novel I’d started, well, just about every week I’d take out the skeleton of the story, but I didn’t want to write. It wasn’t writer’s block, I don’t think. I just wasn’t interested or excited to be writing.

On July 4th came a bit of almost normal. I travelled to Washed Ashore Antiques and did my first in person book signing. Masks, sanitizing, etc.. It was odd and pushed my comfort level, but it felt good and several people came from around Centerville/Trinity/Wareham to get their copy.

By now reviews began to come in from newspapers and online bloggers. They were all pretty good and that was satisfying. But the one thing that made me most proud, was my finding a forgotten and murdered woman in my research and doing something about it. I gave her a chapter and went about getting her name added to the Missing and Murdered list in NL. In August, Ruth Taktos, a young woman from Labrador who died at the hands of her husband, was pulled into the light from her forgotten grave. Her name will be spoken every year and I did that.

In September I submitted The Promise to audible for publication. This one didn’t go so well from a process perspective (election and COVID in the US) and it would be December before it came out. I started some writing classes to see if I could get back to my 20k but instead, started a new project that now has about 30k and I racked up another one waiting to be finished.

October I began the four Friday’s again and did readings from The Liars on Facebook Live. They were fairly well attended. I received a grant for two of the readings from the Writer’s Union of Canada.

In early November, I was featured in an interview with Kathryn Taylor for Rogers Television series, Let’s get Writing. I also accepted an invite to The Avalon Page Turners book club in Dildo. I met the club for Lunch at an Indian Restaurant in the area. We had a wonderful discussion on all three books over delicious cuisine.

December was fairly busy. I recorded and released Christmas readings from two books. I got an early Christmas Present when the grant for my audiobooks got second-round approval. I was so excited. The Promise was released in audio format on December 10th and by the 15thI had The Liars submitted for evaluation. Just before Christmas, I was invited to do a seven-minute piece on the Let’s Get Writing Christmas Special which aired December 23rd.

With all the audio excitement over with, on December 26thI pulled out the dormant and dusty 20k words and asked myself the question – do you want to write this book? I slept on it, well for about three hours. I woke with this aha moment and started writing furiously. On January 11th, I finished the last line at 10:54 pm. The next morning, I had an offer to publish and it will be out in July. A few days later, The Liars was finalized and in audiobook format for sale.

On February 4th, I was the first in a WANL series of “Ask Me Anything” where I had an interview with Michael Smith. It was a great night for the launch of that series.

I did Four Friday’s readings for The Liars in March. I learned I won the Arts and Letters Competition for a short story called The Glitch. I read that on Facebook live in April. Now, I have several short stories for which I’m looking for homes as well.

I worked on fine-tuning of The Stolen Ones which I finally titled with a name I loved. Beta Readers are heralding it so I look forward to a new fingers crossed – post-pandemic launch in late summer.

So as you can see, this past year was not a write-off, not in any way. I’m happy to have looked back to the year that was to find out what it really was. I launched a book, finished a novel, published three audiobooks, started another novel, wrote several short stories, and worked full time besides.

Now I’ve started this blog and want to see where that takes me.

I got my vaccine yesterday and this morning I woke more hopeful than I’ve been in a long time. I didn’t realize I needed to put a shine on my hopefulness, but I guess the faded luster crept up on me. Reflecting on blessing can keep it shined.

I’m happy to say I accomplished my goal of having four books published in four years.  I’ll have my fingers crossed for a successful next offering. I’ll roll with whatever comes. The Liars would have been mor successful without the pandemic. But so would the world. I’ll look for the positive. I’ll focus on the things within my control and when I’m ready to write – mentally and physically, I’ll do that.

My hope is recharged, my family, thankfully is well, and the sun shines on this day. Reflecting on the positive allows me to see it. And, as my grandson just reminded me, there is no bad time for ice cream or pizza. It’s as simple as that or as complicated as I allow it. I choose ice cream.

Thank you for reading.

 

 

When Life Hands you Miley

 When life hands you lemons, the thought is that there is always lemonade to be made. So what do you do when life hands you Miley Cyrus? That was the conundrum I faced one bright spring day at the airport in Toronto. I made lemonade.

In order to set this up, I must state that my children were in their teens during a few years of busy travel with work. It became the norm that I was gone almost as often as I was home, it wasn’t a problem, just a fact. The girls didn’t question where I was going nor what I was doing, because when your mother is a “spy”, she just doesn’t disclose details. Their imaginations were very active when it came to my work, and they told everyone that their mother was, indeed, a spy. (I can assure you I’m not – said every spy ever lol)

So this particular day I was in Toronto. Just the week before, I had left Toronto airport and was telling the girls when I got home how my t-shirt had triggered this big event, I was like the Reitman’s commercial. I had to go through the scan and then go to be searched in a room – Reitman’s got it right, clothing can do that.

Because of that and being the spy thingy, when I called Shawna from Toronto the next week and said that I was in a high secure area at the airport it didn’t fizz on her. When I said that Miley C was there, she didn’t question that either. To be truthful, Shawna was the second child that I called. The first call had been to Stacey, but she ignored her mother’s call – though to this day and to her chagrin, she says she didn’t see my number come up – again I digress and it was her loss at that time.

So, I handed the phone to Shawna, and she had the big ole discussion with Miley about her new song – Wrecking Ball – and some of her other songs, her acting, her concerts, etc. The conversation went on for fifteen minutes or so before Miley said she had to go to catch her plane, she was getting ready for a concert.

I took the phone back and Shawna screamed and cried before I hung up. She told me I had made her life. “OMG Mom, I’m going to die. I just talked to Miley Cyrus.” When she told me to get a picture with Miley I told her I couldn’t because she was already gone.

When I got home that Friday they all asked me questions about how I knew it was her, what had happened, was I excited, and so on.

So there you have it. Or do you?

In truth, I believe Stacey would have been more suspicious, and Sharon would have been downright disbelieving, so perhaps it was good that the first call was with Shawna and that I left it there.

You see, when I hung up from Shawna, I thanked Rachel, the daughter of a co-worker, who had been not so eager to pull the prank at first. Apparently, it is not a thing you do anywhere else, or maybe I’m just a weird parent. Rachel sounded so much like Miley that she could be a voice double. Hearing her voice took me all of two minutes to come up with the scheme. It took about twenty minutes of convincing before Rachel reluctantly took the phone from me, but she got right into it when she was talking to Shawna.

We chuckled when I saw a Facebook post from Shawna saying she’d just talked to Miley, and the posts from her sisters asking why it couldn’t be them, etc. etc.

So you might think that I must have felt bad. But I didn’t. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. Needless to say I didn’t tell them the difference. Well, until about five years later. You know all those times people post “you know who is reading your posts”, so I posted, “you know if your daughters read your posts” and told of the prank I had played those years before.

Shawna was the first to be devastated over it. She had been fully convinced that one of the highlights of her life had been speaking to Miley. “Way to destroy me, Mom. LOL,” she replied.

Mean Momma, I know. But when life hands you Miley Cyrus, or the voice of Miley Cyrus, what else can you do?